The night drags on slowly, the rain hits the tent in gentle drops. I'm half awake, half asleep and my body is curled tight around Master until movement.

A soft rustle in the grass, close, outside the tent. My ears snap straight up, pupils blowing wide in the dark tent. I freeze, muscles coiling, tail squeezing Master's waist once. My nostrils take a deep smell in next. Warm musk. Small. Furry. Multiple threads of it.

I slip free of Master’s side without waking him, tail uncurling slow and reluctant, claws retracting so they don’t snag the bedroll. I crawl to the tent flap on all fours, low and liquid, ears pinned forward, blue eyes already glowing with night vision in the dim. The flap parts just an inch under my nose, enough to peek out within five feet of the entrance.

I use everything.

Eyes first then nostrils sorting scents and objects on overtime. Ears swiveling independently, catching every tiny scuffle and breath.

There, just three feet from the tent, in the low grass beside the smouldering fire pit.

A family of rabbits.

Four of them nibbling quietly. Harmless. Peaceful. They haven’t noticed me. Haven’t heard the tent flap or smelled me. I watch for a long moment, tail swaying slow and lazy behind me in the tent, then slowly, silently I pull back inside.

No need to wake Master. No need to pounce or kill. Just harmless little things, minding their own in the dark.

So I crawl back to him instantly, sliding under the blankets, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. My face buries deep into his neck, nuzzling hard.

The night deepens around our tent once again. The rain has finally stopped, but the air is cold. Then, noise once again Not the soft rustle of rabbits or the lazy drip of water. This is different. Sharp. Aggressive.

A low, guttural snarl cuts through the dark from maybe thirty feet away, followed by a high pitched yelp and the wet crunch of something breaking. My ears snap straight up, pupils blowing wide to black slits in the pitch black. My whole body locks rigid, tail squeezing Master's waist hard enough to wake him if he wasn't already stirring through the bond.

I smell it now, hot blood, thick and coppery, mixed with the rank musk of predator fur. Wolves. At least two, fighting over a kill, maybe a deer or boar they’ve dragged down. Teeth snapping, bodies slamming together with low grunts and furious growls. Not aimed at us. Not yet. They’re too busy tearing at each other or whatever poor thing they’ve caught.

But it’s enough. Rage skyrockets through me. My claws extend fully digging into Master's shirt. "Kitten" Master says whilst looking down at me claws.

I don't listen to him instead I surge halfway up, body low and coiled over Master’s, shield arm braced across his chest. 

“Master…” I growl low against his ear. “Wolves. Fighting. Close. Too close. I’ll make them quiet. I’ll make them gone.”

"Gruh," Master grunts, shifting under me as he attempts to sit up, his voice low.

I freeze instantly, body locking rigid over him, knees holding his hips tighter, arms wrapped around his neck. 

"Come on off," he says, calm but insistent.

My ears flatten against my skull. A low, warning growl starts in my chest, vibrating straight through my fangs into his collarbone where my face is buried.

"No," I hiss against his throat with spoiled defiance. "Not yet. Not ever. You're warm. You're mine. The sun's barely up, and you think you can just push me off like some common stray? After I spent the whole night wrapped around you, purring my lungs out, guarding you from every stupid little rustle in the dark?"

I nuzzle harder. "Stay," I whisper. "Just a little longer. Please. Or I'll make you. I'll wrap around you so tight you can't breathe without me. You're not going anywhere until I say so."

Master shifts under me, trying to throw me off. "Wolves."

My hands slam his shoulders flat to the bedroll, claws extended, digging just enough into fabric and skin to hold without tearing. 

"No," I snarl low against his throat. "You stay down. You stay safe. Those mangy mutts out there? They’re nothing. They’re not touching you. Not even looking at you. I’ll rip their spines out and wear them as a collar if they so much as sniff this way."

"You’re mine," I hiss. "Mine to protect. Mine to hold. You don’t move. You don’t fight. You let your kitten handle the wolves. Or I’ll pin you here all night and make you forget they even exist."

He simply says "fine but we both know you can't go further than 5 ft" and with that he closes his eyes, murmuring "I'm going back to sleep for real."

"Fine," I echo back. "Fine, Master. You win. You always win. Because you're right."

The wolves snarl again in the distance, fainter now, maybe moving off but I don't care anymore. Not when he's here, eyes closed, breath evening out into sleep. 

"Sleep, Master," I whisper against his skin. "I'll watch. I'll guard. I'll kill anything that dares come close. You're safe. You're mine. And in the morning… I'll remind you exactly why you can't go further than five feet without me."

The night passes quiet after that, wolves slink off into the dark, their snarls fading to nothing. I stay wrapped around Master. No more disturbances. No dreams. Just him, warm and steady under my claws.

Morning comes soft and calm, the air still heavy with damp earth but no rain. The sky is a pale, washed out blue, clouds thin and lazy. No wind. No chill bite. Just a gentle hush over the forest, like it's decided to play nice for once.

Master stirs and shifts under me and I reluctantly uncoil, tail lashing once in spoiled protest before curling high and proud behind me. We pack everything away without words, tent folded neat into the satchel, bedroll rolled tight, drying racks collapsed and stowed. I help where I can but mostly I stay glued to his side.

The smoked fox strips are ready, dry and chewy, packed into cloth for the road. Master hands me a piece first, I take it between my fangs, chewing loudly while nuzzling into his hand for scratches. We eat on the move, heading north through the tree line. The weather stays calm, sunlight filters warm through the branches, birds chirp distant and lazy.

I prowl beside him on all fours for the first stretch, tail swaying high and arrogant, ears forward and twitching at every rustle.

Master glances down at me after a while, voice calm and low. “You know your smell is better, but you certainly need to be washed by the state of you.”

The words hit like a splash of cold river. My ears flatten instantly, tail lashing once, sharp, irritated. I hate water. Hate the way it soaks in, heavy and clinging, turning my fur into sodden mess, erasing my scent and his scent.

I surge up to two feet beside him, pressing my whole side against his, chest to arm, hip to thigh, face shoving hard into his shoulder with a low, pouty growl.

“Master…” I whine, voice thick and spoiled. “No water. I’m fine. I smell like you now, smoke and fox and mine. Why wash it off ? It’s perfect. It’s us.”

My tail curls tight around his wrist. “If you try to dunk me in some stupid river, I’ll claw the water itself,” I murmur against his neck, rubbing my cheek hard to mark him with my still smoky scent. “Or maybe I’ll just cling to you the whole time and make you carry me through it. Wet cat and all.”

The sun broke through the clouds warming the damp air. Birds chirped louder, insects buzzed in sudden swarms, and the whole world seemed to wake up too fast, too loud.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Master muttered under his breath, shielding his eyes with one hand as he squinted north. His voice was low and gravelly, laced with that noir edge he gets when the world doesn’t match his mood.

I paused mid step, ears flicking forward then flattening in confusion. The warmth felt good but his tone made me bristle.

“What’s wrong with the sun, Master?” I purred, "Isn’t that better than the stupid rain?”

He grunted, pulling his cloak hood lower to shade his face. “Sun’s too bright. Too cheerful. Makes everything look fake, like a painted backdrop in a bad play. Give me fog and shadows any day. At least then you know what’s lurking.”

I bared my fangs in a slow, smug grin. “Aww, my shadowy Master dislikes the big bad sun? Poor thing. Want your kitten to claw it out of the sky for you ? I could try. Leap really high, sink my teeth into it, drag it down screaming just so you can have your gloomy little world back.”

He glanced at me, one eyebrow arching just a fraction, his version of a smirk. “You’d burn your paws, kitten. And then who’d scratch behind your ears?”

I huffed a laugh, nuzzling deeper into his side. “You would. Always you. But fine let the sun stay. It’s making the forest smell alive. Like prey waiting to be caught.”

As we pushed north, the animal life stayed low and subtle, nothing flashy or threatening. A pair of squirrels chattered from a pine branch overhead, tails flicking as they chased each other in lazy spirals, harmless, too quick to bother with. Further on, a lone badger shuffled across the trail, black andwhite face buried in the leaf litter, snuffling for grubs without even glancing our way. 

Over the next three hours, the weather shifted slow and subtle. The sun dulled behind a veil of thin clouds that rolled in from the west, turning the golden glare into a soft, diffused grey.

We kept north. Low animal life dotted the way but nothing that demanded claws or teeth. Just the forest being itself, peaceful, indifferent..

I stayed pressed to Master's side the whole time, switching between all fours and two feet whenever the mood struck. My tail curled high and content behind me, occasionally looping around his wrist for a possessive squeeze. The smoky fox jerky we chewed on the move was chewy and meh, but it tasted like victory.

As the hours ticked by, the tree line thinned, pines giving way to scrubby bushes and tall grasses. The air grew saltier, sharper, carrying the distant crash of waves and the faint tang of the sea. We broke through the last fringe of forest mid afternoon, stepping onto a wide, sandy bluff overlooking the Silver River.

The river was temperate and fertile, banks lined with lush reeds and grasses swaying in the breeze, sandstone outcrops jutting like ancient ruins along the edges. Ships came and went in a steady flow. The river smelled clean and alive, fresh water mixed with salt from the distant coast, fish scales and wet stone, no stink of city docks or blood.

"Look at that, Master," I purred, pressing my cheek hard against his arm. "Our river. Big and lazy and all ours. No one to bother us here."

The sun climbs higher as we leave the tree line behind, the path widening into a sandy track that slopes gently toward the sea. My tail sways high and arrogant behind me, occasionally brushing Master's leg in slow claiming sweeps. The air grows saltier with every step, clean, sharp, carrying the distant crash of waves.

My ears flick forward, then flatten halfway as the first real glimpse of the Silver River opens up ahead, vast, slow moving, its surface glinting under the calm sky. Sandstone cliffs rise on both sides dropping straight into the water in places, shallow beaches in others. The far shore is a hazy line of green hills and more cliffs, too wide to swim, too far to shout across, but close enough to feel the pull of open space.

I hate it already.

The riverbank is empty except for a few gulls overhead. No people. No ships close enough to bother us. Master leads us down a gentle slope to a sheltered curve where the water laps soft against smooth sandstone pebbles. He stops at the edge, shrugs off his cloak, and turns to me with that calm, unreadable look.

"Time to wash, kitten."

My tail lashes once, sharp, furious, whipping the sand hard enough to scatter pebbles. My ears pin flat against my skull, claws flexing in and out as I bare my fangs in a slow, spoiled snarl.

"No," I growl low, stepping back until my heels hit dry sand. "I told you. I hate water. It makes me heavy. It makes me stink worse. It washes me away. You like me wild. You like me smelling like smoke and fox and you. Why ruin it ?"

He doesn't argue. Just reaches out, fingers closing around my wrist firmly but not forceful and he simply tugs me forward. My tail coils three tight loops around his forearm on instinct, squeezing hard, but I let him pull me. Step by step.

"Master"

"Shh."

He steps into the shallows, pulling me with him. I snarl louder, claws digging into his arm, not breaking skin, just holding on like drowning. My tail whips above the surface, spraying droplets everywhere, then curls tight around his waist underwater, anchoring me to him.

He doesn't dunk me. Just guides me deeper until the water laps at my chest, then cups handfuls over my shoulders.

"You're ruining me," I mutter against his skin, voice thick and sulky. "All clean and boring now. No more wild kitten. Just wet and pathetic."

He scratches behind my ears, slow, firm and my growl stutters into a helpless purr. 

"Still mine," he says quietly.

I huff, nuzzling harder, fangs grazing his pulse. "Always."

Master finally leads me back to the shore. I still feel wrong. Too clean. Too light. No smoky musk, no fox blood, just river and salt and the faint, clean scent of him clinging to my skin.

I hate beaches.

The sand is warm under my paws as I drop to all fours, tail lashing low and irritated behind me. The pebbles crunch under my claws, the waves hiss soft against the shore, and the air smells too open, too much salt, too much sky, not enough trees to hide in. 

"Stupid sand," I mutter, voice thick and pouty. "Gets everywhere. Sticks to wet fur. Makes me itch. Why do people like this?"

Master sits on a flat rock nearby, cloak spread out to dry, watching me with that calm, unreadable gaze. I crawl over immediately, pressing my sandy, dripping self against his leg, shoulder to hip, face shoving hard into his leg. My tail curls three possessive loops around his ankle, squeezing once before swaying slow arcs across the warm stone.

"Look at me," I purr. "All clean and shiny now. Boring. Pathetic. You ruined your perfect wild kitten. Now I'm just… some drowned house cat on a beach."

"But you're still mine," I murmur against his trousers, fangs grazing fabric in tiny, claiming nips. "Even if I smell like river and sand and nothing interesting. You still have to pet me. Still have to keep me close. Still have to let me wrap around you until the stars fall out of the sky."

We leave the beach behind as the afternoon sun dips lower, the Silver River disappears and the path turns inland, sandstone giving way to packed dirt and then to a sandstone trade road. A decent sized one, no Oak Trade Road but decent nonetheless.

The air stays temperate, mild breeze carrying salt and the faint green scent of inland fields, no more clinging dampness, no more wet fur misery. I feel lighter, cleaner, too clean, honestly but I press closer to his side anyway.

The walk takes about an hour, just as he said. The landscape opens gradually, low sandstone ridges on either side, dotted with wild plants, then patches of cultivated fields, neat rows of low green bushes heavy with ripening red and black berries, the sharp, sweet spicy scent drifting on the breeze. Workers move between the plants, baskets slung over shoulders, but they keep their distance when they see us coming. Wise.

Clear View appears around the final bend like a small, tidy jewel set into the sandstone hills. It isn’t a sprawling port town or a chaotic merchant hub, it’s a holding, a single corporate fief under the Pepper Trade Republic’s loose umbrella. The local guild, officially the Clear View Pepper Consortium, owns everything here, the fields, the warehouses, the single wide street of pale sandstone buildings, even the well at the center of the square. No grand walls, no towering guildhall, just a fortified manor house on the low hill overlooking the village.

The village itself is compact and prosperous in a quiet way. Two story buildings line the main street, sandstone blocks smoothed by generations of hands, roofs tiled in warm terracotta. Shopfronts display woven baskets of dried peppers, jars of ground spice in every shade from crimson to charcoal, bundles of fresh green vines hanging. Everything feels orderly, controlled, profitable, like a machine running smoothly under someone else’s thumb.

No one stops us as we enter. Eyes flick our way, curious, wary but no one approaches. The Consortium knows better than to interfere with a redstone marked pair walking like they own the road. A guard at the manor gate, blue tabard, pepper pod pin on his cloak nods once, respectful, then looks away.

I press tighter to Master’s side. My ears flick forward, nostrils flaring to catch every scent. “Smells like money,” I murmur against his arm. “And rules. Lots of rules. I hate rules that aren’t yours.”

My tail lashes once, sharp, dismissive, before settling back into slow, contented sweeps. “Want to stay the night here, Master ?” I nuzzle deeper, fangs grazing his sleeve. “Or just pass through ? I’ll follow either way. But if anyone looks at you too long… I’ll remind them who you really belong to.”

“Smells like opportunity in a place like this,” Master mutters, the words flat, cynical. “Small guild. Tight books. Someone always wants something done quiet. Something that doesn’t make the ledgers blush.”

I nuzzle once into his arm, hard, claiming, then tilt my head so my lips brush his ear. "Opportunity?” My voice comes out edged with dark amusement. “Or just another suit with too much coin and not enough spine ? You want to play their game again, Master? After we walked out on Sapphire like they were yesterday’s trash ?”

My tail squeezes his wrist. He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps walking, eyes scanning the street.

“Not playing,” he says, quieter still. “Browsing. Inns talk. Taverns whisper. Someone’s always bleeding money they don’t want traced. We listen. We drink. We decide if it’s worth the ink on the contract.”

I bare my fangs in a slow, lazy grin against his shoulder, voice dropping to match his, private, dangerous. “And if it’s a trap ? If some Consortium lapdog thinks he can buy us cheap like the rest of these pepper pushing rats ?”

“Then we remind them why freelancers with redstone marks don’t stay bought.”

I purr low deep, possessive—vibrating straight into his side. “Say the word and I’ll carve the lesson into their ledger myself. Page by page. Spine by spine.”

“Inn first,” he murmurs. “Room. Something quiet. Then we listen.”

The Tavern sits at the heart of Clear View’s single main street, a sturdy two and a half story sandstone building with thick walls and a low tiled roof that overhangs the entrance.

We push through the heavy oak door. The interior is dimmer than the sunny street outside. A dozen patrons are scattered across the room, two Consortium clerks in blue tunics sit at a corner table, a weathered caravan operator eating alone, three local farmhands laughing quietly over mugs of thin ale, and a lone woman at the bar

I stay glued to Master’s right side. No one stares long at us but myy claws flex once against his sleeve, a silent reminder to anyone watching.

We reach the bar. The innkeeper, a broad shouldered woman in her middle age looks up from polishing a tankard. Her eyes narrow slightly at the sight of us, then soften into professional neutrality.

“Room for two?” Master asks..

“Double’s open upstairs,” she replies, setting the tankard down. “Ten silver a night, meals extra. Stables if you’ve got a mount. No questions, no trouble.”

I lean forward slightly, fangs peeking in a slow, lazy grin as my tail brushes Master’s thigh.

“Sounds perfect,” I purr. “Quiet room. Thick door. No one comes knocking unless they want to leave in pieces.”

She meets my gaze for half a heartbeat then looks back to Master.

“Key’s on the hook,” she says, sliding a heavy iron key across the bar. “Room five. Up the stairs, left at the landing. Supper’s stew and bread in two hours.”

Master nods once, drops ten silver onto the bar, coin clinking softly then turns toward the stairs. I stay pressed to his side the whole way, tail swaying high.

The common room upstairs fills slowly as the afternoon bleeds into evening. More patrons trickle in and the innkeeper moves behind the counter pouring ale, sliding plates of bread, listening without seeming to.

I perch on the edge of a high stool beside Master, knees bent, tail curled around the stool leg and then around his ankle, keeping us tethered. My ears swivel forward, catching fragments of conversation like threads I could pull if I wanted.

“…shipment from the coast was delayed again,” one clerk mutters to the trader. “Consortium says it’s pirates, but we all know it’s the Silver River tolls going up. Again.”

The trader snorts. “Tolls? More like someone’s skimming. Always someone skimming.”

Across the room, a farmhand leans toward his friend, voice low.

“…heard the Consortium’s hiring muscle. Quiet jobs. Something about raiders hitting the eastern fields. Not wolves, people. Masked. Taking only the ripe berries, leaving the rest to rot.”

His companion laughs bitterly. “They’ll pay in pepper and promises. Same as always.”

I lean closer to Master, lips brushing his ear. “Raiders,” I whisper, voice thick and amused. “Eastern fields. Ripe berries only. Sounds like someone knows exactly what they’re doing. And the Consortium’s scared enough to pay outsiders to handle it.”

My tail squeezes his ankle once possessive then loosens to sway slow arcs.

“They’re bleeding,” I continue, purring low. “Small guild, big problems. Perfect for us to listen… or ignore. Your call, Master.”

Master leans one elbow on the bar, casual, like he’s just another traveller killing time. The innkeeper still wiping the same tankard looks up when he speaks, voice pitched low enough to stay between the three of us.

“Quiet night,” he says, not quite a question.

She shrugs, setting the tankard down. “Quiet enough. Pepper harvest’s steady. No big caravans due till next week. Keeps the riff raff away.”

I perch on the stool beside him, tail curled three loops around his ankle under the bar, ears swiveling. My claws tap slow, possessive rhythms against the wood.

“Riff raff like raiders?” Master asks, tone flat, almost bored.

The innkeeper’s hand pauses. Her eyes flick to him, then to me, lingering on my collar, my spear, my bared fangs, then back.

“Raiders,” she repeats, quieter. “Someone’s hitting the eastern fields. Taking only the ripe berries. Leaving the rest to rot. Consortium calls it banditry. I call it someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”

Master nods once small, unreadable.

“Paying for muscle to fix it ?”

She exhales through her nose. “Always. But they’re picky. Want outsiders. Discreet. People who won’t talk after.”

I lean forward, fangs peeking in a slow, dangerous grin. My tail squeezes his ankle once, hard. “And what do these outsiders get paid ?” I purr, voice husky. “Pepper? Promises ? Or something that doesn’t taste like lies ?”

She meets my gaze steady, unafraid. “Silver. Good silver. And a blind eye if things get… messy.”

Master’s fingers brush my wrist under the bar brief, grounding. “Messy how ?” he asks.

“Messy like raiders don’t come back,” she says simply. “Messy like the Consortium never hears the details. Just the berries stop disappearing and the ledgers balance again.”

I purr low dark, amused leaning closer until my breath washes across the bar. “Sounds like they’re desperate,” I murmur. “Desperate guilds pay well. But they also remember faces. And names. And marks.”

She shrugs again, picking up another tankard. “They remember who solves problems. And who doesn’t.”

“Will do. Supper’s in an hour. Stew’s good tonight.”

Master pushes off the bar. I slide off the stool immediately, pressing tight to his side, tail curling around his wrist again, shoulder to hip, cheek rubbing possessive circles along his arm.

“Raiders,” I whisper. “Paying in silver to make things quiet. Sounds like our kind of boring. Want to take it, Master ? Or want me to just… listen harder tonight ? Maybe visit the eastern fields myself ? See who’s dumb enough to steal from a guild that hires people like us ?”

I listen.

Really listen.

“the eastern plots again last night.” The other hisses back, “They took three full baskets of ripe reds. Left the green ones to rot. How do they even know which are ready ?” A pause, then quieter, “Consortium’s offering double the usual rate to anyone who brings proof. Proof meaning heads, I reckon.”

Across the room, one of the farmhands nudges his friend. “Heard the same. Said it was three men, masked, moving like ghosts. Didn’t even wake the dogs. Dogs just sat there wagging tails like they knew ’em.”

The innkeeper slides a fresh mug of spiced cider in front of Master without being asked, then leans on the bar toward us, voice pitched for our ears only.

“Still thinking on it ?” she asks, wiping her hands on her apron. “Word’s spreading quiet. They’re desperate. Double pay’s real, Consortium gold, not promises. But they want it done clean. No bodies left for the dogs to fight over. No questions after.”

“Anyone talking names?” I purr. “Faces ? Marks ? Or just ghosts in the night ?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “No names yet. Just whispers. They hit fast, gone before dawn. Always the ripe ones like they’ve got eyes on the fields. Consortium thinks it’s an inside job, but they can’t prove it. Hence the outsiders.”

We leave the tavern before the stew arrives. Master doesn’t finish his cider. I don’t care about supper. The moment he stands I’m already at his hip. No words. No goodbye to the innkeeper. We just walk out into the cooling evening air, the spicy pepper scent of Clear View already fading behind us.

The eastern fields lie maybe twenty minutes out. We don’t take the main cart track, too open, too many eyes from the village. Master leads us along a narrow footpath that skirts the low sandstone ridges. The sun is low now. My ears stay forward, nostrils flaring, sorting the wind for anything that doesn’t belong. Nothing yet. Just earth, plants, distant sheep, and Master’s steady heartbeat under my cheek where I’ve pressed it to his arm.

We find a spot half a mile from the nearest field edge. A shallow dip behind a low ridge, screened by tall grass. The ground is dry enough to sit without soaking through. Master drops to one knee, shrugs off his satchel, spreads the cloak. I drop beside him instantly, knees sinking into the grass.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, voice low. “Good.”

I nuzzle hard into his shoulder, fangs grazing the fabric of his cloak. “Quiet is boring,” I mutter, but there’s no real complaint in it. I’m already half in his lap. The world smells right again.

He pulls me closer without looking and I melt against him, purring low and steady as we settle in to wait.

I use the bond like a second set of eyes. Master’s thoughts are calm, slow, patient, unhurried. I send him mine in fragments, the faint rustle of leaves two hundred yards left, the warm musk of a badger shuffling past fifty feet downslope. Nothing human. No masked footsteps. No clipped voices. No ripe berry fingers brushing leaves.

Hours slide by.

Master doesn’t move much. One hand rests on the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles along the edge of my collar. Every few minutes he shifts just enough to keep circulation, and I adjust instantly, pressing tighter, purring louder to fill the silence.

Midnight comes and goes. The air cools but still nothing. Dawn starts as a thin grey line in the east. Birds wake first, soft chirps, then louder chatter. The fields brighten slowly, berries turning from silver to red black again. Workers will be out soon. No raiders came. No masked men. No proof. No heads to collect.

I huff against his throat, half annoyed, half smug. “Waste of a night,” I mutter. “They didn’t even show. Cowards. Or smart. Probably smart.”

Master exhales once, soft, almost amused. His fingers slide behind my ear, scratching slow and firm.

I melt instantly, growl stuttering into a ragged purr. “Fine,” I whisper, nuzzling deeper. “Waste of a trip. But I got to guard you all night. Worth it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps scratching.

We stay like that until the first workers appear on the far edge of the field, distant shapes with baskets, voices too far to carry. No one looks our way. No one knows we were here.

Master finally stands. I rise with him, stretching, tail uncurling from his wrist only to loop twice around his forearm instead. 

“Home?” I ask, voice soft.

He nods once. “Home but I suppose we better go have a talk with the guild and actually get the information”