The walk to the Pepper Consortium manor takes twenty minutes. Clear View is small, everything is close. The main road climbs gently uphill. 

The manor looms at the top of the rise, a low, sprawling sandstone building with red tiled roofs and pepper vines trained up the walls. Iron gates stand open, guarded by two Consortium men. They nod once respectful yet wary as we pass.

Inside the gates is a small courtyard a fountain shaped like a pepper pod trickling water into a stone basin, a few benches under vines, a single guard post with a view of the street. The main doors are heavy oak banded with iron, flanked by more vines and lanterns. A servant in plain grey opens them before we knock, young, nervous, eyes flicking to my collar and spear before dropping to the floor.

“Consortium expects you,” he mutters. “This way.”

We follow him down a cool sandstone corridor lined with tapestries of pepper fields and trade ships. My tail lashes once, irritated at the faint scent of incense and parchment, too clean, too controlled. I press closer to Master, nuzzling hard into his shoulder.

The meeting room is at the end of the hall, long table of polished oak, high backed chairs, iron candle holders burning steady. Three people wait, the Consortium steward, a younger clerk and a woman in practical leathers who looks like she’s the one who actually handles problems.

The steward gestures to the chairs. Master takes one, slow, deliberate, leaning back just enough to look relaxed. I vault onto the table instead, boots thudding light on the polished oak, knees bent deep, tail curling high and arrogant behind me. My shield rests angled on my left forearm, spear tip pointed down and forward, not threatening, just close enough that everyone remembers it’s there. My blonde hair spills wild over my shoulders, I shake it back with an impatient flick and bare my fangs in a slow, lazy grin.

Master speaks first, voice even. “You’re paying double for quiet work. Raiding eastern fields. Ripe berries only. No bodies left for the dogs.”

The steward nods once, sharp.

“Correct. We’ve lost six harvests in three weeks. Always the same, night work, precise, no waste. They know the fields better than our own overseers. We need it stopped. Clean. No questions after. No bodies. Just proof the problem’s gone.”

I lean forward slightly, tail lashing once, slow, deliberate, brushing the table hard enough to make the candle flames dance. “Proof like heads ? or just silence?”

The woman in leathers answers before the steward can. “Silence is preferred,” she says. “But proof is acceptable if it’s discreet. We don’t need the village panicking. We need the berries safe.”

Master’s fingers brush my wrist under the table, brief, grounding, then he leans forward. “Double pay. Blind eyes. Who’s the client ?”

The steward hesitates, only half a heartbeat then slides a small leather pouch across the table. Silver glints inside. “Consortium funds. No single name. We all want this solved.”

I sniff the air once, sharp, nostrils flaring. The pouch smells of coin, wax seals, and the faint, nervous sweat of someone who’s already lost too much. 

"And if we take it ?” Master asks, voice flat.

The woman answers. “You get names. Locations. Patterns. We’ve tracked their movements, always from the east, always after midnight, always gone before dawn. We think they’re local. Or were. Someone who knows the fields. Someone who used to work them.”

The clerk finally speaks, voice quiet. “We can provide maps. Overseer schedules. Anything you need. Just… make it stop.”

I lean forward again, fangs peeking wider. “And if it’s messy ?” I purr. “If someone screams ? If someone talks ?”

The steward meets my gaze, steady, unafraid. “Then make sure they don’t talk long. And make sure no one finds them.”

Master nods once,small, unreadable. “We’ll consider it. Send the details to room five. No middlemen. No watchers.”

The steward nods back. “By nightfall.”

We stand and I vault off the table, boots thudding light beside Master, tail curling around his wrist again as we turn for the door. The room stays silent behind us. Outside, in the corridor, I press hard against his side, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“They’re desperate,” I whisper. “Double pay. Blind eyes. They’ll remember us when it’s done. Want to take it, Master ? Or want me to slip out tonight and see who’s dumb enough to steal from them ?”

After just a few seconds, Master heads back in. Two mugs wait on the table this time.

“Tea’s hot,” he says, voice flat.

Through the bond his thoughts brush mine. They’re scared. Scared enough to pay double. Scared enough to remember our names after.

I answer in the same silent space. Let them remember. Let them whisper. Let them wake up sweating when they hear us mentioned in the dark. They’ll pay. They’ll beg. And when they do, I’ll be right here, claws out, tail wrapped, making sure they never forget who they hired.

He lifts his mug, takes a slow swallow. The embercrack hits him. I finally take my own mug, cradling it between both hands. One sip and the mushroom bitterness blooms behind my eyes, sharp and electric, loosening every muscle I didn’t know was clenched. My pupils dilate wider, the room sharpening into hyper focus.

“They’re on the back foot already,” I murmur aloud. “You saw the steward’s jaw. The way the woman in leathers kept her hand near her knife but never touched it. They know the stories. They know what happens when guilds hire freelancers with redstone marks and then try to lowball them.”

Master sets his mug down. The sound is soft, deliberate “And if we take it ?” Master asks again, voice flat whilst cutting through the room before I can open my mouth again.

I snort, loud and sharp, and the sound bounces off the stone walls. “Local ? Ha! Local cowards, more like. Sneaking in after dark like rats, taking only the ripe ones, leaving the green to rot. They know exactly when the berries peak. They’ve got eyes inside or they used to have eyes inside and now they’re laughing somewhere with full baskets while you lot count losses. Pathetic. I could smell them from a mile away if the wind wasn’t so fickle and if someone..” I shoot Master a pointed glare, pupils blown wide and jittery “hadn’t told me I’m a good kitten right when I was tracking and now everything smells like tea and him and stupid rain and..”

Master’s hand settles on the back of my neck. Not hard. Just firm. Thumb presses once behind my ear, slow circle. The growl dies in my throat before it can fully form. 

“and anyway they’re probably some ex worker with a grudge and sticky fingers and if you’d let me scout the eastern plots myself last night instead of making me sit in a dip like a good little guard cat I’d have brought you heads already, or at least a nice pelt to line the bedroll, and”

The steward blinks. The clerks at the table actually leans forward, like they're trying to understand what just happened.

Master doesn’t look at me. He keeps his eyes on the steward. “Have you never seen a cat high on Embercrack tea before ?” His voice is level, almost bored. “Weak tolerance. Hits them hard. Makes them… talkative.”

I growl low, vibrating against his palm, but the sound comes out more pouty than threatening. “I’m not talkative. I’m expressive. There’s a difference.”

The steward’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, quickly smothered. “I… see.”

“She’s right about one thing,” he continues, unruffled. “You’re bleeding. Small guild, tight margins, berries only taken when ripe. Inside knowledge. Someone who knows the harvest cycle better than your own pickers. You want it quiet, clean, no bodies left for the dogs to fight over. Double pay. Blind eyes. That’s the offer.”

The steward nods once, slow. “That’s the offer.”

Master leans back slightly. His hand stays on my neck. “We’ll take it.”

I freeze. My ears snap forward. Pupils blow even wider.

He glances down at me then, corner of his mouth twitching the tiniest amount. “You wanted to hunt, kitten. You’ll hunt.”

A ragged purr tears out of me before I can stop it. My tail squeezes his wrist hard, once, twice, then loops three times and holds. “Finally,” I whisper. “Finally something worth clawing.”

The steward exhales through her nose, almost relieved. “Names and patterns by morning. Meet here, same time. We’ll have what you need.”

The embercrack hits the back of my throat. Heat blooms behind my eyes and it sharpens every edge in the room. My pupils dilate to pure black coins. The mug clatters onto the table, empty, steaming and I rise in one fluid motion.

Master stands too, calm, downing the last of his tea in a single measured swallow. He sets the mug down without sound.

“Sure,” he says, voice flat and final.“Then we’ll take our leave.”

He turns toward the door. I don’t move, not yet, my tail snaps straight up, rigid, tip trembling. My ears pin razor flat against my skull as a low rattling growl starts deep in my chest whilst my lips peel back from my fangs snarling. My blue eyes lock on the steward first, then the clerk, then other.

“You think you can buy us,” I hiss, voice low. “You think silver and blind eyes and a few maps will make us your little problem solvers ? Cute. Adorable. Really. Honestly. Like you don’t know what marks mean in the dark.”

I step forward, one deliberate pace, boots thudding soft on the oak. My tail lashes once whipping the air. The clerk flinches. The woman’s hand twitches toward her knife but freezes halfway. The steward’s jaw tightens so hard I can hear the grind of teeth.

“You’re scared,” I continue, voice dropping to a snarl. “Scared enough to pay double. Scared enough to whisper quiet like it’s a prayer. Scared enough to hire us.” I bare my fangs wider, stepping closer still. “You should be. Because when we’re done when the berries stop disappearing and your ledgers balance again, you’ll remember exactly who you invited into your nice little village. You’ll remember the teeth behind the silver. You’ll remember that some problems don’t go away when you pay them. Some problems come back. And when they do, they don’t ask nicely.”

“And if you ever think about stiffing us,” I whisper, voice cracking on the edge of mania, “if you ever think about sending someone to follow, to watch, to touch what’s mine… I’ll carve your name into every pepper field from here to the coast. I’ll make sure every berry that ripens tastes like blood. I’ll make sure you wake up every night hearing my purr in the dark. Because he’s mine. And nothing, nothing gets between us.”

Master doesn’t react. Not a flinch. Not a blink. He simply reaches out, fingers closing around the base of my tail, firm, possessive and pulls. Once. Hard.

My whole body jerks backward and a startled yelp escapes me, half growl, half whine, before my tail coils instinctively around his wrist, squeezing tightly. My claws scrape the table as I’m tugged back against his side.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. Master speaks before turning towards the door. “Nightfall,” he says, voice flat and final. “Eastern fields. We’ll handle it. Clean. Quiet. No bodies. No questions.”

The steward finally finds his voice, unsteady.

“Twenty more silver when it’s done. Proof. Discreet.”

Master nods once, small, unreadable. The door opens and we step through.

“They’re scared,” I whisper. “Scared of me. Scared of you. Scared of what we’ll do if they breathe wrong.” My claws knead slow circles into his shirt. “They’ll pay,” I continue, purring low. “They’ll pay because they know the stories. They know what happens when guilds hire us and then try to play games.”

“And when it’s done,” I murmur, “when the berries stop disappearing and their ledgers balance… they’ll remember. They’ll remember the cat who bared her fangs and the man who didn’t blink. They’ll remember why they should never have looked at you like you were for sale.”

The door to the meeting room closes behind us with a soft click. The corridor cancels the sound instantly, leaving only the faint echo of our footsteps on sandstone and the low rolling purr vibrating in my chest.

Master walks ahead, pace unhurried as we head back to the inn, cloak swaying with each step. I stay glued to his right side the entire time and we soon reach the stairs. He starts climbing up without a word and of course I follow, half a step behind yet half pressed to him.

Room five waits at the end of the upper hall and I don’t wait. I surge, pushing him back against the wall with my whole body.

“Another stakeout ?” I growl low, voice stinking of that mushroom tea heat. “We did that last night. We watched foxes sleep. We watched wolves fight over scraps. We watched the forest breathe and bleed and do nothing worth our time. And now they want us to sit in the dark again ? Watching berries ripen ? Watching shadows move ? Pointless. Waste of a night. Waste of us.”

“We could end this tonight,” I continue, voice dropping to a snarl. “Slip east. Find their trail. Find their camp. Find their throats. One night. One hunt. No waiting. No watching. Just blood and silence and silver in our hands by dawn.”

“Or are you going soft on me, Master ? mhm are you ?” I hiss, fangs grazing his lower lip.

Through the bond his thoughts slide in "Patience, kitten. Stakeouts aren’t pointless. They’re information. We watch. We learn. We see who moves, who doesn’t. We see the pattern before we break it. You want clean ? You want quiet ? You get it by knowing exactly where to cut."

I snarl aloud with that, low and frustrated whilst my tail starts lashing wild overhead before snapping back to tighten its coils.

“I want fast,” I counter. “I want them screaming before the moon sets. I want proof in my claws. I want to drag their heads back here and drop them at the steward’s feet so he knows exactly what happens when guilds hire people like us and then waste our nights.”

He doesn’t speak aloud. Just lets the bond carry it calmly. "We do it my way. We watch tonight. We learn tonight. We end it tomorrow night. Clean. Quiet. No loose ends. No mistakes. No bodies the dogs can fight over."

I growl again, low and frustrated but the fight bleeds out of me the second his thumb strokes once behind my ear and my ears instantly soften.

“Fine,” I mutter against his throat, nuzzling hard, fangs grazing skin in tiny nips. “Your way. Always your way. But when we end it tomorrow… I get to make it hurt. I get to make them remember. I get to make them bleed for wasting our time.”

He exhales once, soft, almost fond before he then guides me down onto the bed. I go willingly, curling around him the moment his back hits the wool.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow night we watch.”

“Tomorrow night I watch with you,” I whisper, voice thick with dark promise. “And the night after… I hunt for you. I kill for you. I make them quiet for you.”

My claws knead slow circles over his heart.

“And when it’s done,” I continue, purring deeper, “when the berries are safe and their ledgers balance… we walk north. Silver River. Deep forest. No more guilds. No more waiting. Just us.”

“Sleep, Master,” I murmur against his skin. “Your kitten’s got you. No wolves. No raiders. No nothing. Just me.”