The first thing I register when consciousness drags me back is the dull throbbing ache behind my eyes, tea hangover and not the clean sharp kind that comes from too much ale. My ears twitch once flattening against my skull before flicking forward again. The room smells of old wood, yesterday’s smoke and him.
I’m already curled around him whilst my claws are still hooked gently into his shirt over his heart, right where they were when sleep finally took us both.
He stirs first, a slow shift of shoulders. My tail squeezes once, hard, instinctive before loosening to sway slow arcs against his side.
"Morning, Master", I send through the bond.
His thoughts brush mine, cool, steady and faintly amused "Morning, kitten. You’re loud even when you’re quiet."
I huff against his neck, soft yet spoiled, "You like it loud. You like me loud. You like me wrapped around you so tight you can’t breathe without asking permission first."
He doesn’t answer aloud. Just reaches back, fingers finding the base of my tail and stroking it once, firm, grounding.
We disentangle slowly. I crawl off him only to press against his side again the second he sits up.
Breakfast time it's. The common room is half full. The smell of baking bread and spiced porridge drifts from the kitchen. No one talks about raiders. No one talks about much of anything useful. Just gossip, late rains, pepper prices, someone’s cow got into the neighbor’s field again. rumours, nothing more. Whispers that dissolve when you try to grab them.
We take the same corner table we used last night. Master sits with his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room without moving his head. I drop into the chair opposite him, knees up on the seat, tail draped across the table and curled once around his mug like I own it. My eyes stay locked on him. Completely. Unblinking. Pupils still wide from last night’s tea, blue irises reduced to thin rings around black voids.
I don’t look away. Not even for the innkeeper bringing our plates, porridge with dried berries, thick slices of bread and a small pot of fresh embercrack tea.
Through the bond my thoughts spill out. "No one’s talking. Not really. Just noise. Just gossip. Rains late. Prices up. Cow in the field. Nothing about the eastern plots. Nothing about masked men. Nothing about berries disappearing like ghosts took them. They’re scared, Master. Scared enough to whisper, but not scared enough to say names. Not scared enough to look at us and beg."
His thoughts return, calm and steady as per normal. "They don’t need to say names. Fear talks louder than names. Fear makes them pay. Fear makes them hire outsiders. We’re the outsiders. We listen. We wait. Tonight we watch. Tomorrow we end it."
I lean forward across the table, elbows planted, chin resting on my interlaced fingers, eyes never leaving his face.
"You’re too calm," I send. "You sit here drinking tea like the world isn’t full of idiots who think they can buy silence with silver. You sit here while I’m burning up inside wanting to tear answers out of someone’s throat. You sit here and I can’t look away. I can’t stop watching you. I can’t stop wanting to wrap around you tighter until nothing else exists."
His thoughts brush mine, amused but warm. "You’re loud in my head, kitten. Drink your tea."
The fresh embercrack burns down my throat,"They’re watching us," I continue, eyes still locked on his.
His thoughts return cool and steady "Let them watch. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. We take their silver. We do the job. We walk away. And if they try to play games after…"
I finish it aloud yet for his ears only “…we remind them why guilds don’t double cross people like us. We remind them with silence. With empty fields. With names that never make it into ledgers because the people who knew them stopped breathing.”
The morning fog clings to Clear View as we leave the inn. We slip out of the Red Pod before the sun fully makes its way over the hills, Master's cloak draped low, my tail swaying high behind me as. The village wakes slow, shutters creaking open, a baker hauling sacks of flour, the faint clang of the blacksmith's hammer echoing like a distant heartbeat. No one meets our eyes. They know better.
Master doesn't speak aloud. Doesn't need to. His thoughts brush mine through the bond "Village rounds first. Eyes open. Mouths shut. We watch who watches back".
I squeeze his wrist with my tail, once, hard before then loosening it to sway in slow arcs that brush his leg. "You think they’re hiding something already ?" I send back, voice with possessive amusement. "Of course they are. Humans always hide. Always scheme. Always think they’re clever until we show them their own blood."
We circle the village methodically. Start at the manor hill, the Consortium gates are manned by the same blue tunics from last night, but their eyes are tired, postures slumped like men who pulled double shifts. One yawns, the other fidgets glancing east toward the fields like he’s waiting for bad news. No chatter. No gossip. Just quiet fear, the kind that festers in the gut.
Down the main street shops start to open and a Consortium overseer, by the look of it argues quietly with a farmhand outside a warehouse. “Three baskets gone again last night,” she says, voice low. “And you saw nothing ?” The farmhand shrugs, eyes darting away. “Dogs didn’t bark. Like always.”
Master’s thoughts, "Dogs don’t bark. Means they know the raiders. Or the raiders know how to shut them up without teeth."
I nuzzle hard into his arm. "Or it’s inside. Someone feeding the dogs treats before they steal. Someone who smells like home."
We loop the eastern edge, the pepper fields stretch, workers already bent over bushes with baskets. No guards posted, odd for a guild bleeding stock. A foreman in blue barks orders, but his voice cracks on the wind. “Double count today ! And watch the edges !” Workers mutter low and resentful. “Watch for what ? Ghosts ?”.
We then round back to the stables behind the inn, horses and a groom brushing a bay mare. He glances up, sees us, drops the brush. “Consortium business ?” he stammers. Master just looks at him. The groom swallows. “Heard… heard the fields got hit again. Lost a wagon’s worth.” Then he shuts up, eyes on the ground.
The rounds then end at the village well where a group of women filling buckets, gossip. “Stealing ripe ones only,” one whispers. “Like they know the schedule.” Another, “Overseer’s brother went missing last month. Coincidence ?” Laughter, nervous, sharp. “Consortium’s rotting from the top. Always does.”
Master’s thoughts, "Rot from the top. Patterns. Schedules. Inside."
I purr low and satisfied. "Humans. Always eating their own tails."
We head back to the inn for breakfast. The common room is fuller now, farmhands shoveling porridge, the clerk from last night nursing a headache over his ledger. No useful talk, just rumors, gossip, whispers that circle. “Raiders from the coast.”“No, from the marshes.”“Consortium’s fault, overworking the fields.” Nothing solid. Nothing we can dig into.
I perch on the stool opposite Master, knees up, tail draped across the table. "Nothing" I send through the bond, voice frustrated. "Just noise. Just idiots talking in circles."
The innkeeper slides plates across the bar with a nod that says she knows more than she lets on. “Porridge hot. Bread fresh. Tea’s on the house.”
She leans on the bar, rag in hand, voice pitched low. “Thoughts ?”
Master’s bond brushes mine, "Inside."
I squeeze his wrist with my tail, "Bigwig rot. Like I said."
Aloud, Master, “Schedule. Who knows it ?”
She shrugs. “Overseers. Clerks. The steward himself. Field hands get told day of. But someone’s talking. Or watching. Or both.”
I lean forward, “Talking,” I purr. “Humans always talk. Always scheme. Always think they’re clever until they’re bleeding.”
Soon night falls over Clear View as we slip out of the inn just as the lanterns flicker on. The village is closed up tight, shutters closed, streets empty except for a few stragglers hurrying home with baskets of peppers. The air hangs heavy with that sweet sharp spice smell, mixed now with woodsmoke from chimneys and the faint tang of lanterns burning low.
We head east on foot, skirting the main road for the tree line where the shadows are thicker. The path is narrow, overgrown grass brushing my legs whilst sandstone pebbles crunch soft under my boots.
The eastern fields open up after half an hour, rows of pepper bushes are a single constant in the dark, ripe berries hanging black and heavy. We find a vantage in a low ridge of sandstone outcrops. Similar to the other night and Master settlles against a rock, crossbow across his lap whilst I am crouched low beside him, shield angled and spear ready. The bond hums quiet between us, his calm thoughts a constant in my own skull.
"Watch" he says and my tail lashes once irritated before then curling tighter around his wrist.
"Waiting" I send back, voice in the bond thick with frustration. "Always waiting. Like last night with the foxes. Like every job where humans think they can play games and we have to sit in the dark while they cheat."
Midnight creeps in slow. The fields stay quiet, too quiet. No dogs barking. No overseers patrolling. Just the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant hoot of an owl. Then eventual movement.
Three figures slip from the tree line opposite us, masked, dark cloaks. They hit the rows fast, quick, precise, baskets filling with ripe berries only. No waste. No noise. They know the fields, know which bushes are ready, which to skip. Pros. Or insiders.
"They're too good. Too clean. Like they have the schedule."
One figure pauses, looks back toward the village before they then signal the others. They finish fast, baskets full, and then disappear back into the trees.
We don't move.
Not yet.
An hour later, footsteps from the village side. A single figure, tall, thin and under a dark hood. Then the clerk heads back to the manor.
"Inside.", My tail lashes, vicious. "Bigwig rot. Clerk's in on it. Selling schedules. Taking cuts. Guild vs guild. Disgusting human greed. Selfish. Filthy. Let me end them now."
The clerk's footsteps fade back toward the manor, swallowed by the fog rolling off the river. No one follows him. No one comes to check the fields. Just silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant, lonely call of an owl that doesn't care about human greed.
I don't speak aloud. I don't need to. The bond hums between us, my thoughts spilling into his. "He walked straight from the manor. No hesitation. No fear. Like he owns the night. Like he knows no one will stop him."
Master's response brushes back, cool and measured. "He knows. Knows the dogs won't bark. Knows the overseers are asleep or paid off. Knows the schedule because he writes it."
"Then he's the rot. The bigwig's right hand. Or maybe the bigwig himself, playing both sides. Stealing from his own guild, selling to black market buyers downriver, pocketing the difference while the little farmers starve and the ledgers balance. Disgusting. Human. Typical."
"We could end it now," I send. "Slip down. Follow the clerk back. Drag him into the shadows. Make him talk. Make him scream. Make him bleed until he gives up the whole rotten chain, names, routes, buyers, everything. One night. One throat. Done."
Master's thoughts return. "Not tonight. Tonight we watch. Tonight we confirm. Tomorrow we cut. Clean. Quiet. No loose ends. No witnesses. No bodies the dogs can fight over."
Dawn comes grey and damp. The inn smells of yesterday’s stew and fresh bread. Master sits at the small table by the window, sharpening bolts with slow, deliberate strokes. I perch on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, tail wrapped twice around his ankle like I’m anchoring him to me. My ears flick toward every creak in the floorboards outside our door.
No one knocks. No one comes.
By mid morning we walk the village square like ordinary travellers. Master buys a small sack of peppers, legitimate ones from a farmer’s wife who looks too tired to smile. I stay close, cloak hood up, claws hidden but ready. My tail stays tucked under the hem but it twitches every time someone glances too long at him.
Then the afternoon bleeds into evening. We eat in silence. I feed him the first bite from my fingers, always from my fingers, then lick the spice from my thumb while watching his face. His thoughts stay calm. Mine are a storm.
Night falls again.
This time we don’t wait in the fields.
We slip out at the same hour but we circle wide, following the river path until it meets the manor’s back wall. Ivy chokes the stone. A single postern gate, half hidden stands ajar, just enough for a thin man to pass through without touching iron.
Master pauses. Listens. Nods once.
I move first.
Shield low, spear angled, tail low and still. My cat vision sees the dark, every leaf, every crack in the wall glows soft silver. Master follows, crossbow ready. Through the gate. Into the kitchen yard. No dogs. No guards. Only the stink of old grease and river mud.
We ghost along the wall until we reach the clerk’s private wing. A single window glows low candlelight. Voices murmur inside. Two. One familiar. One deeper. Richer.
My ears flatten. The bigwig.
Master’s thought brushes mine. Together.
I don’t wait for more.
I kick the door in, quiet, controlled, just enough force to snap the latch without splintering wood. The room beyond is small, cluttered with ledgers, coin sacks, maps pinned to walls. The clerk stands frozen mid sentence, mouth open. Beside him, some upper class, older, heavier, silk robe over a nightshirt reaches for a bell pull.
My spear point presses the clerk’s throat before his hand moves another inch. “Not a sound,” I hiss, voice low enough to stay in the room. My tail lashes once behind me, furious. “Not one.”
Master steps in behind me, crossbow levelled at the chest. Calm. Perfect.
The clerk’s eyes dart between us. Sweat beads on his upper lip. “You, you can’t, there are guards”
“No guards tonight,” Master says quietly. “They’re asleep. Paid to be asleep. Just like you paid them.”
I press the spear tip harder. A single ruby bead wells up. “Talk. Now. Names. Routes. Buyers. Everything. Or I open your throat and paint these pretty ledgers red.”
The clerk’s gaze flicks to the lord. The lord’s face goes grey.
Master speaks again, voice soft as a blade sliding from its sheath. “You’ve been skimming the top yield for. Selling to black market factors. Taking coin while the farmers starve. The ledgers upstairs balance because you rewrite them. Tonight ends that.”
The clerk starts to babble.
“Shut him up,” Master tells me.
My free hand clamps over the clerk’s mouth. Claws prick skin. He whimpers against my palm.
“Clean,” Master reminds me through the bond. No extra bodies.
I bare fangs at the lord. Spoilsport.
But I obey.
The clerk spills everything in under five minutes, names, dates, barge schedules, false tallies, contacts who pays double for unrecorded peppers. Master listens without expression. I keep the spear steady, tail lashing in tight, angry circles.
When the clerk runs dry, Master nods once. “Ledgers,” he says.
I drag the clerk to the tall cabinet. He opens it with shaking hands. Stacks of books. False pages glued inside real ones. Master flips through, finds what he needs, tucks three slim volumes into his cloak.
The rain hasn’t stopped since we slipped back through the inn door last night. It hammers the roof. The single lantern on the table throws long shadows across the three stolen ledgers we hauled. Embercrack tea steams in two mugs between us, black and laced heavy with the village’s dried pepper, the kind that scorches your throat and makes your eyes water if you’re weak. I like the burn. It matches the rot we’re peeling apart page by page.
Master leans over the table, the first ledger opens. His thoughts slide into mine through the bond. Start at the top. Names first.
I don’t answer aloud. My claws click against the mug as I lift it. My tail gives his ankle a possessive squeeze. Names. Always names. Humans can’t help carving their greed into paper like they’re proud of it. My ears flick back once, irritated already. Why do they write this stuff down ? Every line, every crooked tally, every bribe logged neat as a shopkeeper’s receipt. Arrogant. Stupid. Like they think the ink will never talk back.
Section I – First Sweep
I slide the thickest ledger closer.
“First entry, dated last harvest: ‘Guild Master Harlan Voss, discretionary levy on Farmer T. Greave, twenty percent above standard. Reason: non-compliance.’ Non-compliance. That’s code for the poor soul complained when his daughter got sick and he asked for an extra day to pick.” My tail lashes once, hard, slapping the floorboards. “Why write it ? Why put your name next to the theft ? Do they think it makes it official ? Makes it clean ? Humans are cancer. They document their tumours so they can admire them later.”
Master doesn’t look up. His charcoal scratches: Voss, Greave, 20% skim. Then another name. I feel his pulse through the bond, steady, while mine races. I reach across, claws grazing his wrist, and he suddenly grabs me, fast and rough yanking me half into his lap by the collar. My ears pin flat. A snarl rips out of me before I can stop it, fangs bared an inch from his throat.
MINE, I send, thoughts boiling over like the tea. No one else gets to pull me. No one else touches what’s mine. My tail whips around his waist, claws digging into his shoulders just enough to prick through cloth. He holds me there a heartbeat, eyes locked on mine. Then he kisses the top of my head between my ears, calm as ever, and lets go. I stay draped across him another moment, purring low before sliding back to the ledger.
We keep going. Page after page. Tally marks stack up beside names: Magistrate Lorne, three farms “reassessed” into default last winter. Councilman Pike, taking cuts from the Rivermouth barge captains in pepper oil and silver. Even the innkeeper downstairs, listed here as “quiet contribution” for looking the other way when the guild wagons roll through at midnight.
I drain my mug, slam it down. “Look at this one. ‘Payment to Constable R. Hale for silence on missing stores, two barrels embercrack leaf.’They wrote the bribe. They dated it. They signed it like a love letter. Why ? Because they’re all in it together. Every human hand in this village is dipped in the same poison. They think writing it down makes it a game they can win.” My ears twitch forward again, listening to the stupid rain.
Master refills both mugs from the pot on the hearth. The room smells of scorched pepper and wet stone. His thoughts brush mine: Keep tallying. Connections next.
Section II – The Board Takes Shape
Time slips. The lantern burns lower. I don’t notice until my tail starts to cramp from lashing so much. We’ve cleared half the first ledger. Master stands, stretches, then suddenly hauls me up by the hips, possessive and wordless. He simply pins me against the wall for three heartbeats. My shield and spear lean forgotten in the corner. I go feral in his arms, claws raking down his back, fangs grazing his jaw. No one else. Ever. I’ll gut anyone who looks at you sideways while we’re drowning in this filth. I melt instantly, tail curling around his thigh, ears perked soft. Lovestruck idiot. His idiot.
We turn to the wall. Master nails up blank sheets with the inn’s spare tacks. I sketch lines in charcoal, thick, angry strokes. Names go up in columns like wanted posters. Voss at the top, circled twice. Arrows spider out, Voss to Pike to Lorne. Below them, the farmers, Greave, Mallow, the widow Thorne whose husband “fell” off a barge after he threatened to talk. Red circles for the dead ones. Black for the ones still paying.
I pace while I drink, tail dragging across the floorboards, ears swiveling to catch every creak from the hallway outside. “Why do they keep records ? Look, here’s the exact weight of pepper skimmed off each wagon. Here’s the false ledger entry to balance it. They’re proud of it. They sit in their guild hall with their fat bellies and their fat lies and they write it down so they can jerk each other off later about how clever they are. Cancer. All of them. Spreading. Documenting every metastasis.” My voice drops to a snarl. “If I had my way I’d burn the lot of them. But you want clean. So we map it. We tally it. We make their own words hang them.”
Master’s hand brushes my lower back as he adds another name. I lean into it, purring. The second ledger opens with a crack like breaking bone. More names. More arrows. I tally aloud, claws tapping each entry. “Seventeen farmers this season alone rerouted to black-market buyers. That’s three hundred gold in guild pockets that should’ve fed children. Three hundred. Written here like grocery lists.” Embercrack tea burns my tongue again. Good. Keeps me sharp.
Hours blend. The rain eases to a quiet. My eyes ache but I don’t stop. The bond hums constant between us, his cool focus feeding my storm. We build the board until the wall looks like a web of corruption. Every thread leads back to Voss. Every thread ends in coin and corpses.
Section III – Deeper Rot
Midnight comes and goes. The third ledger is the worst, personal notes, coded but not coded well enough. I read one entry twice, ears flattening hard. “‘Adjustment for family of J. Reed, remove eldest son from rolls after inquiry. Payment received from cousin in Rivermouth.’They killed a boy for asking questions. Wrote it down. Dated it. Signed it with a little flourish.” My tail slams the table so hard the mugs rattle. “Why ? Why put your name on a child’s death ? Humans don’t just steal. They brag about it in ink. They immortalise their rot so future cancers can study the technique.”
Master suddenly grabs me from behind, arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest so fast my breath catches. I twist in his grip, dominant and wild.
We return to the table like nothing happened. The trance pulls us under again. Pages turn. Tea refills. Names stack, a baker who poisoned his own loaves to drive up pepper demand, a healer who took guild bribes to misdiagnose “uncooperative” farmers. Every line another tumour. Every signature another reason to hate them all.
I lean over the board, charcoal in my claws, drawing one final thick line from Voss straight to the Rivermouth cartel. “They think they’re untouchable because they wrote it neat. Because the ink dried and no one burned the book. Stupid. Arrogant. Cancer that keeps records so it can grow bigger next year.” My ears twitch forward, listening to the village sleeping below us, innocent or complicit, doesn’t matter. They’re all hosts.
Section IV – The Trance Deepens
Dawn is a grey smear at the window but we don’t stop. My tail has gone from lashing to slow, hypnotic flicks, curling around Master’s calf every few minutes like I need the reminder he’s still here. The bond is a live wire now, his thoughts mixing with mine until I can’t tell which fury is whose. We’ve tallied forty three names. Twenty seven connections. Eight “adjustments” that mean graves. The wall is covered. The table is buried under open ledgers and empty mugs. Embercrack dregs stain the wood like dried blood.
I read the last page aloud, voice hoarse but steady. “Final entry: ‘Projection for next harvest – thirty percent increase in discretionary levies. Recommend removal of three non-compliant holdings.’ They’re already planning the next season’s slaughter. Wrote it down like a shopping list. Why do they do it ? Why not just steal in the dark like normal vermin ? Because they’re proud. Because they think the system protects them. Because humans are the disease that keeps receipts.”
“Every name. Every line. Proof they’re all the same rot.” My ears stay forward now, alert, tail wrapped twice around Master’s wrist so tight I feel his pulse hammer against mine. “They wrote their own noose. Page by page. We just have to tighten it.”
Master leans back in the chair, charcoal stick set aside. His voice cuts through the trance, low and flat. “Now two choices. Go back to the hirer, hand it in and get paid or hunt everyone and slaughter them all but this is a guild and slaughtering corruption is bad for business after all.”
My ears snap flat to my skull. The mug in my claws cracks under the pressure. I whip around on him, tail lashing vicious circles. “Slaughter them ?” I hiss, voice thick with embercrack and pure venom. “Every last name on that wall deserves my spear through their guts. I’d start with the innkeeper downstairs, ‘quiet contribution’ is written right there in black and white, the slimy little rat taking coin to look away while farmers starve. Let me paint the walls. Let me drag the whole guild out into the rain and make them choke on their own ledgers. Business ? Their business is bleeding people dry and writing it down like poetry. I want to end the poem. I want to own the silence after.” My tail coils tight around his wrist, claws pricking just enough to remind him who I belong to. “But you decide, Master. Always you. I’ll gut them all or hand the books over clean, whatever keeps you breathing next to me.”
He doesn’t flinch. His thoughts stay measured through the bond, but I feel the flicker. “Not our problem I suppose.” With that he reaches for the pot, pours the last of the embercrack tea, black and steaming and downs it completely in one long swallow. He shakes his head hard at the bitterness, jaw tight, eyes narrowing like the burn matches something deeper.
I slip deeper into the bond then, searching his thoughts. He’s wearing a mask even around me, cool steel on the surface, the calm hunter who always chooses the clean cut but I see him clearly underneath. He wants to gut them all. Every name, every arrow on that wall. I feel the black urge flash hot behind his eyes: Voss first, throat opened ear to ear while the ledgers burn; the magistrate next, pinned to his own desk with a bolt through the tongue; the whole guild hall painted red until the river runs thick with their filth. He wants it feral and final, wants to watch the cancer scream as it dies. But beneath that hunger sits the fatalism, cold and heavy as wet stone. The system will protect the economy over everything else. Guilds keep the barges moving, the coin flowing, the farmers just alive enough to keep harvesting. Slaughter the rot and the whole machine grinds to a halt. prices spike, trade dies, bigger powers roll in and the same game starts again with different faces. He knows it. Accepts it. Humans are the disease and the disease pays the bills. Fatalism at its finest, the quiet shrug of a man who’s seen too many towns rot the same way.
It unsettles me. My ears flatten hard against my skull, tail going rigid then whipping wild behind me in tight furious arcs that knock the empty mugs off the table. They shatter loud on the floorboards but I don’t care. My claws dig into the edge of the ledger until the paper tears. “No,” I send through the bond, thoughts boiling over, unstable and dark. “No, no, no, you don’t get to wear that mask with me. I see you. You want their blood as much as I do. Don’t shrug it away like it’s rain. Don’t leave the cancer breathing just because the coin keeps moving.” My chest heaves, it surges hot and possessive as I grab his shoulders suddenly, claws pricking through cloth, pulling him nose to nose with me. “You’re mine. Your rage is mine. Let me take it. Let me go downstairs and start with the innkeeper, name’s on the board, cut’s written in the same filthy hand. One throat. One scream. Then the rest. I’ll make it clean for you. I’ll make it ours.”
Master’s command slices back through the bond, firm and final. Stay.
I don’t. I can’t. The unsettled feeling twists into something sharper, manic, spoilt and controlling. My tail lashes once more, hard enough to sting my own thigh, and I shove away from him, ears pinned, fangs bared, cloak snapping as I pounce for the door. My boots hit the floorboards in a rush. The spear’s in my hand before I even think, shield angled, claws out. The innkeeper’s down there right now, probably counting bribes by the hearth, and I’ll drag them into the rain and open them up until the ledgers stop lying. Humans don’t deserve the luxury of breathing while their names sit on our wall.
Then it hits.
The bond stretches, five feet and snaps like a cut thread. Silence. Empty, screaming silence where Master’s thoughts should be. My ears shoot straight up, then flatten in pure panic. My tail freezes mid lash, curling tight around my own waist instead. A choked snarl rips out of me as the mass panic floods in, terror that he’s gone, that I’m gone, that the world has ripped us apart. I spin back toward him so fast my cloak flares, spear clattering against the wall as I throw myself across the room and crash into his chest. Claws dig into his back, tail wrapping twice around his waist in a death grip, face buried in his neck while my ears tremble against his jaw.
MINE MINE MINE. The thoughts spill frantic and broken through the bond the second it reconnects, thick with tears I refuse to shed. “Don’t send me away. Don’t make me leave you. I can’t, I won’t, please, Master, I’ll stay, I’ll be good, I’ll burn the ledgers myself if you want but don’t let the bond break again.” My body shakes against him, dominant and shattered all at once, fangs grazing his collarbone in desperate little nips. I cling harder, knees buckling until he’s holding most of my weight, blonde hair falling wild across his shoulder. The room spins. The board blurs. All I feel is the terror of that empty space where he should be, the knowledge that without him I’m just claws and rage with nowhere to put it. My tail squeezes tighter, ears flicking frantic against his skin. “I saw it. I saw what you really want. We’ll do it your way. We’ll hand the books in. We’ll take the coin and walk. But never make me leave your side. Never. I’ll gut the whole village if you order it, or I’ll sit here purring while the cancer keeps breathing, just don’t let go.”
