Two hours of walking, or what passes for walking when every step feels like knives in my thigh and fire across my ribs. I push out of the thickest part of the forest just as the light begins to fade, limping hard on my injured leg, tail dragging low behind me like a broken thing. My blonde hair is plastered to my face with sweat and dried blood, ears twitching at every snap of a twig. The crude bandages I tied are dark and stiff, leaking fresh red whenever I move too fast. My dark blue tunic hangs in rags off one shoulder, light blue trousers torn open along the thigh and calf, leaving most of my skin exposed to the cooling air. The copper iron collar bounces against my throat with every limping step and I keep touching it with blood caked claws, tracing the words over and over because it is the only thing that still feels like him.

The bond is still gone. The emptiness sits in my chest like a physical weight, making my breath come short and ragged. I cannot feel his calm thoughts. I cannot hear him calling me his good girl through the link. Every second without that connection makes the yandere panic rise higher, unstable and dark, until I have to stop and press my forehead against a tree trunk, tail curling tight around my waist, claws digging into the bark while I whisper his name like a prayer. Master. Master. I am coming. I am still yours. I will find you even if I have to crawl the rest of the way on my belly.

I keep moving south because that is the direction that feels right, away from the elven horns I heard last night, away from the cave, toward open ground where travellers might be. My cat vision cuts through the growing dusk, silver and grey shapes sharp against the darker trees. Every root tries to trip me. Every low branch catches my tangled hair. My calf wound reopens twice and I have to stop, tear another strip from my already ruined trousers, and bind it tighter, hissing through my fangs as the cloth pulls the edges together. The pain is constant now, a deep sick throb that radiates up my leg and into my hip, but I do not stop. Stopping means the emptiness wins, and nothing is allowed to win except me getting back to Master.

The forest begins to thin after the first hour. The trees spread farther apart, the undergrowth changes from thick ferns to shorter grass and scattered bushes. My tail gives a weak hopeful flick when I catch the faint scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. People. Roads. Maybe. I push harder, limping faster, claws out for balance when my leg buckles. My breath comes in short pained gasps. The fever is still burning under my skin, making my thoughts slip sideways every few minutes. One moment I am here, dragging myself between two oaks, the next I am back in Masters lap by a campfire, purring while he cleans my wounds and scratches behind my ears and tells me I am his perfect reckless kitten.

I shake my head hard, ears flattening, and keep moving. I will be good when I find you, I mutter aloud, voice hoarse. I will not charge in next time. I will wait for your order. I will heel like you told me. Just let me feel you again. Just let the bond come back. I cannot breathe without it.

The second hour is worse. My legs start to shake badly. The raw meat from the boar sits heavy in my stomach, but it is not enough against the blood loss and the fever. I drop to all fours twice, crawling for short stretches when standing becomes impossible, tail dragging through the dirt, blonde hair hanging in my face. My claws leave long furrows in the soft earth. Every time I push back up the world spins and I have to lean against a tree until it stops. The collar chafes worse now, the metal warm from my fevered skin, but I keep tracing the engraved words with one claw, pressing hard enough to feel the bite. Masters property. Those three words are the only thing keeping the full yandere breakdown at bay.

The trees finally open up completely as true dusk settles. I stumble out onto the edge of a wide grassy slope that leads down toward open land. My ears perk forward. I can hear it now, the distant rumble of cart wheels on stone, the low murmur of voices, the occasional creak of harness leather. A road. Travellers. I stagger forward another twenty paces, tail lashing once in exhausted triumph, then the sky opens.

Rain.

It starts sudden and heavy, fat drops slapping against the leaves behind me and then onto my bare shoulders and head. I tilt my face up immediately, mouth open, tongue out like the desperate cat I am. Cold water runs down my cheeks, into my cracked lips, over my tongue. I drink greedily, swallowing again and again, letting the rain wash the blood and dirt from my face. My tail lifts higher, flicking happily as the water soaks through what is left of my clothes. I drop to my knees in the grass, hands cupped, catching what I can and bringing it to my mouth. The rain is clean and cold and it soothes the fevered heat in my throat. I stay there for long minutes, letting it drench me completely, blonde hair darkening as it gets wet, ears twitching with every heavy drop that lands on them.

The water runs in rivulets down my neck, under the collar, over my small chest and the bruises along my ribs. It stings the open cuts but also cleans them, washing away the worst of the dried blood. I tear the stiff bandages off my thigh and let the rain pour directly onto the wound, hissing at the burn but forcing myself to keep it exposed until the water runs pink instead of red. My tail curls around my waist again, squeezing tight, possessive even now. Thank you, I whisper to the rain, voice cracking. Thank you for this. It is not his hands, but it is something. It is keeping me alive long enough to reach him.

I stay kneeling in the grass as the rain keeps falling, drinking until my stomach feels full and heavy, letting it soak every inch of me. The fever eases a fraction. The dizziness fades just enough that I can stand again. My legs still shake, but they hold. My tail gives a slow determined lash, flinging water droplets behind me. The road sounds are clearer now. I start down the slope, limping hard, one hand pressed to my ribs, the other trailing claws through the wet grass for balance. Rain streams down my face, mixing with fresh tears I refuse to acknowledge.

I am coming, Master, I mutter between clenched fangs, ears pinned forward against the downpour. Two hours of this forest and I am still yours. Still your kitten. Still your wife. Still your property. The rain gave me water but only you can give me the bond back. I will reach that road. I will find people. And then I will find you. No matter how long it takes. No matter how much it hurts.

The rain keeps falling harder as I reach the bottom of the slope, soaking me to the bone, but I keep walking. My tail lashes once more, wet and heavy. My collar gleams dark under the water. The emptiness in my chest is still there, raw and screaming, but the rain has given me one more hour of strength.

I will use it.

The rain is still pouring when I finally step onto the sandstone trade road. My bare feet hit the wet stone with a soft slap and I stop dead, swaying, tail hanging limp and dripping. The Oak Trade Road stretches wide and well kept, paved with pale sandstone slabs that connect every county in Alderias all the way to the Capital. It is busy even in the rain. Carts rumble past with canvas covers flapping, riders sit on sturdy horses, groups of travellers huddle under cloaks, merchants shout to each other over the downpour. Torches and lanterns bob along the road in both directions, hissing as rain hits the flames. The air smells of wet stone, horse sweat, oiled leather, and the faint metallic tang of the Redstone region.

I realise where I am the moment I see the first dwarf driving a wagon loaded with iron ingots. Redstone Hold. South west corner. Clan Redstone territory. The Redstone Clan is one of the oldest and most powerful in the autonomous region. I remember the scraps Master told me once while we travelled. Alderian and Dwarf blood mixed after the old wars, gnomes mostly gone now, the clan split into three classes. Iron Class workers and artisans, still superior but more open. Anvil Class guard captains and those with direct authority, egotistic and convinced they sit at the top of the natural order. Pure Class nobles and high officials, eyes permanently dyed red at birth, more diplomatic but just as arrogant.

The road is full of all three. Iron Class dwarves and humans in sturdy work clothes trudge beside carts. Anvil Class guards in heavier armour ride past with superior sneers, hands never far from sword hilts. A Pure Class carriage rolls by with crimson eyed children peering out from behind silk curtains, their parents sitting tall and aloof. Everyone moves with that Redstone certainty. This land is theirs, the road is theirs, the rain itself should know better than to fall without permission.

I stand at the edge of the road, drenched, bleeding, clothes in rags, collar glinting wetly around my neck. My blonde hair hangs in heavy wet strands, cat ears flat against my skull, tail dripping. The rain keeps pouring but I have already drunk my fill from it. My wounds sting under the water but the bleeding has slowed again. I sway on my feet, fever still burning, but I force myself to stay upright. People are staring. Of course they are. A half naked cat girl covered in blood and bruises standing in the rain on the Oak Trade Road is not something you see every day.

A dwarf in Iron Class leathers slows his cart and calls out, voice rough but not unkind. You alright, lass ? You look like you lost a fight with a bear and the bear won.

I bare my fangs in what might be a smile or a snarl. I am too out of it to tell. My voice comes out hoarse and cracked. I need to find my Master. He was taken. Elves. Cave. Bond is gone. I cannot feel him. The words tumble out too fast, unstable and possessive. My tail lashes once, spraying water. Have you seen a human with dark hair, calm eyes, redstone steel sword? He is mine. No one else is allowed to have him.

The dwarf frowns, glances at the Anvil Class guards riding past, then shakes his head. No one like that on this stretch today. You need healing, girl. There is a waystation two miles east. Redstone Guard post. They might help.

Help. The word tastes wrong. I do not want help. I want Master. But my legs are shaking again and the fever is making the road tilt. I nod once, ears twitching, and start limping east along the edge of the sandstone slabs, staying out of the main traffic. Carts rumble past. Riders stare. A Pure Class lady in a carriage lifts a perfumed handkerchief to her nose as she passes, red dyed eyes narrowing in distaste at the sight of a bleeding cat girl in rags.

My tail curls tight around my waist, possessive and insecure. Every stranger that looks at me too long makes the yandere surge hotter. None of you touch what is mine. None of you even think about him. I keep walking, one limping step after another, rain streaming down my face, claws clicking softly on the wet stone when I have to steady myself. The collar bounces with every movement. I trace the words again with one claw, pressing hard. Masters property. The feel of the metal grounds me.

The waystation appears after what feels like forever, a solid stone building with Redstone banners hanging limp in the rain, lanterns glowing warm in the windows. Guards in Anvil Class armour stand under the overhang, watching the road with bored superiority. One of them spots me and straightens, hand dropping to his sword hilt.

Oi. You. Cat. State your business.

I stop ten paces away, swaying, tail lashing slow and exhausted. Rain drips from my ears. I am looking for my Master. Taken by elves two nights ago. Bond is severed. I need information. Or passage. Or anything that gets me closer to him. My voice cracks on the last word. The emptiness in my chest flares again and I have to dig my claws into my own palms to keep from screaming.

The guard sneers, typical Anvil Class ego dripping from every word. Elves? In Redstone Hold? Unlikely. You look half dead, girl. We do not run a charity for stray animals. Move along or we will move you.

My ears pin flat. My tail lashes harder, spraying water across the stone. The yandere rises fast and dark. Claws itching, fangs aching, the need to rip and tear and claim what is mine flooding my veins. But I am too weak. Too hurt. I sway harder and have to drop to one knee, hand pressed to my bleeding thigh. Please, I whisper, the word tasting like ash. He is mine. I am his. The bond… it hurts when it is gone. I just need to find him.

Another guard steps forward, older, Iron Class maybe, softer around the eyes. Easy, girl. You are bleeding all over the road. Come inside out of the rain. We will get you bandaged and some food. Then we can talk about this Master of yours.

I let them help me up. Not because I trust them. I trust no one except Master. But because my legs will not hold me any longer. Two guards half carry me under the overhang and into the warm, lantern lit waystation. The smell of stew and wet wool hits me and my stomach twists with hunger again. They sit me on a bench near the fire. Someone brings a blanket. Someone else starts unwrapping my crude bandages with careful hands.

I sit there dripping, tail curled tight around my waist, ears flat, blue eyes glassy with fever and pain and desperate need. The rain keeps hammering on the roof outside. The road keeps rumbling with carts and horses. Redstone Hold stretches around me. Iron, Anvil, Pure. All of them convinced they sit at the top of the world while I sit here bleeding and empty without the only person who matters.

The first night in the pound was hell.

I lay curled in the corner of the small pen, straw sticking to my wet bandages, tail wrapped so tight around my waist it hurt. The rain kept drumming on the roof, leaking through in steady drips that landed on my shoulder and ran down my back. Every drop reminded me of the rain on the road that had given me water, but now it felt like the world itself was mocking me. My fever burned hotter. The new bandages the waystation had given me were already dark with fresh blood and pus starting at the edges. My thigh wound especially felt hot and tight, the cut from the boars tusk swollen and angry.

I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Masters face, calm, steady, the small dark smile he gave only to me. Then the image twisted into the elves dragging him away, the bond stretching and snapping, the terrible silence that followed. I woke myself up snarling, claws raking the straw, tail lashing against the iron bars until they rang. Master… Master… The words came out broken and hoarse. The emptiness in my chest was a living thing now, clawing at my ribs from the inside, making me shake with unstable yandere panic.

Other animals in the pound stirred at my noises. A big mastiff in the next pen whined. A horse stamped nervously. I bared my fangs at the dark and hissed until they quieted. No one was allowed to make noise except me. No one was allowed to exist except in relation to getting me back to Master.

Morning came grey and damp. Guards in Redstone livery walked the rows of pens, checking locks, tossing scraps of food into troughs. An Anvil Class overseer with a clipboard and a superior sneer stopped in front of my pen. He looked me over like I was livestock.

Feral cat girl, impounded yesterday. No papers, no brand, claims some ghost Master took her. Standard thirty day hold. If no claimant with proper Redstone documentation by then, she goes to the labour pool or the arena. Feed her twice a day. Water always. If she bites anyone, muzzle and chain her to the post.

I lunged at the bars, claws slashing, tail whipping. I am not feral! I belong to my Master! He will come! He will carve your clan apart for putting me in a cage! My voice cracked halfway through. The fever made the words slur. The overseer just laughed and walked on.

They slid a wooden bowl of thin porridge and a bucket of water under the gate. I ignored the porridge at first. My stomach twisted at the thought of eating without Master watching, without his hand on my head. But the hunger and fever won. I ate with my claws, scooping the bland mush into my mouth, tail lashing angrily with every swallow. It tasted of nothing. It felt like betrayal. Master always made sure my food was warm, seasoned, shared from his fingers when I was good. This was slop for animals. I was not an animal. I was his wife. His kitten. His property.

The day dragged. The pound was busy. Farmers bringing in stray dogs, merchants dropping off lame horses, guards dragging in feral creatures from the steppe. I stayed curled in the back corner, ears flat, blue eyes glassy, watching everything through the bars. Every time the gate at the front opened my heart lurched, hoping it was Master coming to claim me. Every time it was not, the yandere despair crashed harder. My tail never stopped moving, slow restless lashes that stirred the straw. I traced the collar until my claw left a faint groove in the metal.

Afternoon brought more rain. I crawled to the driest spot and let the leaks from the roof wash over my bandages again, trying to clean the wounds. The fever made me shiver and burn at the same time. I whispered to the empty bond even though nothing answered. Master… I am in a pound. They think I am stray. They want to keep me thirty days then sell me like livestock. But I am yours. I will wait. I will heal. I will not let them break me. When you come I will climb straight into your lap and purr so loud the whole village hears it. I will cling so tight they will have to cut my tail off to separate us.

Evening feeding came. More porridge. I ate it mechanically, claws shaking. The Anvil overseer walked past again and smirked. Still talking to your imaginary owner, cat? Thirty days. Then we will see how feral you really are.

I did not answer. I curled tighter, tail over my nose, eyes half closed. The pain in my thigh had settled into a constant deep throb. My ribs hurt less when I stayed still. The emptiness in my chest never eased.

Night fell. The pound quieted except for the occasional whine or stamp. I lay on my side in the straw, blonde hair spread around me, collar cool against my fevered neck. My tail curled around my injured leg, protective even in sleep. The rain kept falling softly on the roof.

I whispered one last time before the fever pulled me under.

Master… I am still here. Still waiting. Still yours. Come find your kitten. Please.

The pound slept around me. Iron bars. Straw. The distant sound of the minor sandstone trade route. Advantage village nestled against the hills in the south west of Redstone Hold.

And in the middle of it all, a broken, bleeding, yandere cat girl curled tight in her pen, collar glinting faintly in the lantern light, waiting for the only person in the world who made the emptiness go away.

The iron gate of my pen clanged again in the late afternoon, but this time it was not for me. I stayed curled in the back corner, tail wrapped tight around my bruised ribs, blonde hair matted and still damp from the morning rain. My ears twitched forward despite the fever haze. New voices drifted down the aisle, high chittering angry goblin voices mixed with the deeper shouts of Redstone guards.

Move, you green filth! Into the pens! Clan Bogclutch strays get no special treatment here!

Boots and bare clawed feet splashed through the mud outside. Chains rattled. I lifted my head just enough to peer through the bars. Six goblins, small wiry green skinned with ragged leather and bone ornaments, were being herded down the central aisle of the pound by four Anvil Class soldiers. The goblins snarled and spat, but their wrists were bound with heavy rope and one had a fresh bruise swelling over his left eye. Their leader, a scarred female with a notched ear and a crude iron torque around her neck, walked with her chin high even as a guard prodded her forward with the butt of a spear.

Bogclutch does not bow to Redstone dogs! she hissed in heavily accented common. We follow the Silent Emperor and the Fang Shadow! You will regret this when our Lord Protector hears of it!

The lead guard, the same broad dwarf who had brought me in yesterday, laughed that ugly Anvil Class laugh. Lord Protector? That old story about the human who took Maw Rest? Clan Bogclutch has been nothing but swamp rats since they lost their lands to the mire beasts. You are feral goblins without papers, caught raiding a Redstone supply wagon on the minor route. Impound protocol. Thirty days or until someone pays the fine. Move.

They shoved the goblins into the large communal pen directly across from mine. The gate slammed shut. The goblins immediately started testing the bars, chittering fast in their own tongue, claws scraping iron. One young male tried to climb the fence and got a spear haft across the knuckles for his trouble. The scarred female, their current warrior leader I guessed, spat on the ground and turned in a slow circle, taking in the pound.

Her eyes landed on me. She froze. Her nostrils flared. Then her gaze dropped to the copper iron collar around my neck, still glinting despite the mud and blood. Recognition hit her like a crossbow bolt.

The Fang Shadow… she whispered, voice cracking with sudden reverence. The other goblins whipped around. Five pairs of yellow eyes locked onto me. The chittering stopped dead.

I stayed curled up, tail tight, ears flat, but my blue eyes met hers through the bars. My voice came out hoarse and raw from screaming Masters name all night. Do not call me that. I am Aliza. I am Masters property. The bond is gone. They took him. Elves. Cave. Now they have put me in this cage like a stray dog.

The female goblin dropped to one knee in the mud of her pen, pressing her bound hands to her chest in the old Bogclutch gesture. The others followed instantly, even the young male nursing his bruised knuckles.

Fang Shadow, the leader breathed, voice trembling with awe and fury. The living boundary. The sacred terror at the Silent Emperors side. We heard the stories from Mire Point. You and the Lord Protector carved order from the swamp. You cleared the Embercrack Tower. You took Maw Rest when the guards betrayed the bounty. You are the price the world pays for threatening what is ours.

My tail lashed once, weak but sharp, slapping the straw. Fresh pain flared in my thigh but the yandere heat in my chest burned hotter than the fever. Then you know I am not stray. I belong to him. The bond is severed and it feels like my chest is being ripped open. These Redstone pigs think I am feral because I have no Redstone papers. They will keep me thirty days then sell me to labour or the arena.

The goblins snarled in unison. The leader, Griza, descendant of Griznaras line, pressed her face closer to the bars separating our pens. We are Bogclutch. Warrior clan. Our leader is chosen by strength until defeated. We remember the Silent Emperors justice. We remember the Cat who fought beside him. If you are here, the Emperor will come. He always comes for what is his.

A guard walked past and rapped his spear on the bars. Quiet, greenskins! No talking to the cat! She is Redstone property now until claimed properly.

Griza bared her sharp teeth at him but lowered her voice to a hiss only I could hear. We were raiding for iron to take back to Mire Point. The Redstone caravan had too many guards. They caught us. But we are not broken. We will wait. We will watch. And when the Silent Emperor arrives, we will fight at the Fang Shadows side again.

I uncurled a little, crawling closer to the bars on my hands and knees, tail dragging. My bandages leaked fresh blood onto the straw. He will come, I whispered back, voice shaking with unstable need. He has to. The bond… when it is gone I cannot think straight. I cannot breathe right. I keep seeing him being dragged away and the silence afterwards. If these Redstone bastards try to brand me or sell me I will rip throats until they put me down. But I want to go home to him. I want his hand on my ears. I want to curl in his lap and purr while he calls me his good girl.

Grizas eyes softened for a moment, the closest a goblin warrior got to gentleness. The murals in the Mire temple show you coiled at his side, half sentinel, half terror. The creed is simple: power is claimed. Loyalty is blood deep. Safety belongs only to those who defend it. You are the price, Fang Shadow. The Redstone Anvil class will learn that when the Silent Emperor walks through those gates.

The other goblins nodded fiercely, pressing their small clawed hands to the bars as if they could reach me. One pulled a tiny bone charm from his pouch, a crude carving of a cat with a spear, and tried to slide it through the gap. A guard saw and kicked it away into the mud.

Night fell over Advantage. Lanterns were lit along the pens. The rain started again, soft and steady, dripping through the roof onto my head. I lay on my side, facing the goblin pen, tail curled around my injured leg. The goblins settled into a tight huddle, whispering plans in their own tongue, occasionally glancing at me with that mix of fear and worship I had seen in Mire Point years ago.

The emptiness in my chest never eased, but having them here, creatures who knew Master as the Silent Emperor, who saw me as the Fang Shadow, made the pain slightly more bearable. They were proof that he existed. That our story was real. That somewhere out there he was still searching for his kitten.

I traced the collar with one claw until the metal warmed under my fevered touch.

Master… there are Bogclutch here. They remember us. They are waiting too. Come soon. Please come soon. Your property is hurting and the bond is gone and I do not know how much longer I can stay sane without you.

My ears stayed flat. My tail stayed curled tight. The pound smelled of wet straw, goblin musk, and iron. But in the dark, across the narrow aisle, six pairs of yellow eyes watched over me with the fierce loyalty of a clan that owed everything to the duo who once gave them a tower, a hamlet, and a future.

Dawn brought the pound to noisy life. Guards shouted orders. Animals were moved between pens. A merchant came to claim a lame horse and haggled loudly with the Anvil overseer. I stayed curled in my corner, fever higher now, thigh wound definitely infected. The new bandages were already stained. Every breath pulled at my bruised ribs. My tail barely moved anymore, just slow exhausted twitches.

The goblins were awake before the sun cleared the hills. Griza paced the length of their pen like a caged wolf, claws clicking on the stone floor. The others sharpened small stones against the bars, trying to make shivs, or braided bits of straw into crude cords. When the feeding guard slid bowls of porridge under their gate, Griza spat on hers.

We eat when the Silent Emperor feeds us, she growled. Not Redstone slop.

The guard laughed and moved on to my pen. He slid my bowl through. I ignored it at first, but the fever made my head swim and my stomach cramp. I ate slowly, claws scooping the mush, eyes never leaving the goblins. Griza watched me with that intense reverence again.

Fang Shadow should not eat like this, she muttered when the guard was out of earshot. In Mire Point the clan would bring you roasted mire beast and embercrack tea. The Emperor would sit with you and share from his own plate.

The memory hit like a spear. Masters hand on my head, warm fingers scratching behind my ears while I purred and took bites from his fingers. Cooked meat. Proper fire. His calm voice in the bond telling me I was good. Tears stung my eyes and I hid my face in my arm, tail curling tighter. I know, I whispered. Everything is wrong without him. The bond being gone feels like part of me is missing. I keep waiting for it to snap back but it never does. These Redstone pigs keep calling me stray. They say thirty days then labour or arena. I will not last thirty days like this. I will go mad first.

Griza pressed her face to the bars again. Bogclutch does not forget. When Griznara Ironfang met the duo, the Emperor offered the Embercrack Tower for our spears. We cleared the bandits. Then the guards at Maw Rest refused the bounty. The Emperor did not rage. He simply gathered us and took the hamlet in one night. Quiet. Clean. Like the Silent Emperor always is. Then Duskfen. Then Mire Point on the peninsula after the mire beasts fell to his sword and your claws. We carved our home because he claimed it for us. He will claim you back the same way.

The other goblins murmured agreement, yellow eyes bright with fanatic loyalty. One of them, the young male, started scratching a crude mural into the wooden post of their pen with a sharp stone: a tall calm figure with a sword, and beside him a cat girl with spear and shield, tail coiled, fangs bared. The Fang Shadow and the Silent Emperor. Even in the pound they drew us like temple icons.

A pair of Anvil guards walked past and noticed the scratching. One kicked the post. Stop defacing clan property, greenskin filth!

Griza snarled but pulled the young goblin back. When the guards moved on she whispered again. We will wait. We will watch the gate every hour. If the Emperor comes we will fight with you. Bogclutch blood for the Fang Shadow.

The day passed in fevered haze. Guards checked on us twice. They changed my bandages roughly, pouring stinging alcohol over the wounds that made me hiss and lash my tail. The infection was spreading, red streaks up my thigh, heat radiating from the cut. I shivered and burned at the same time. The goblins shared their water with me by splashing it through the bars when the guards were not looking. It tasted of iron and dirt but it was something.

Evening brought more rain. I lay on my side facing their pen, listening to the goblins tell quiet stories of Maw Rest and Duskfen and the night the mire beasts fell to Masters redstone steel sword while I guarded his back with spear and shield. Their voices painted pictures I already knew but hearing them now, while trapped in iron and straw, made the emptiness sharper and the love fiercer.

They say in the temple at Mire the murals show you as half sentinel, half sacred terror, Griza told me softly after dark. The boundary. The price. The world learns not to threaten what the Silent Emperor claims. You are that price, Fang Shadow. Redstone will learn it too when he walks through those gates calm as winter and carves a path to your pen.

I reached one clawed hand through the bars toward them. Griza stretched her small green fingers and touched the tips of my claws. The contact was tiny but it grounded me. When he comes, I whispered, voice trembling with yandere heat, I will climb him like a tree and wrap my tail so tight around his waist they will need bolt cutters to separate us. I will purr until the bond snaps back and then I will never let the bond stretch five feet again. I will be good. I will heel. I will be the perfect kitten if he just comes.

The goblins nodded solemnly. They settled into their huddle for the night, but Griza stayed close to the bars, watching over me like a sentinel herself.

The pound quieted. Rain drummed on the roof. Lantern light flickered across iron bars and wet straw. My wounds throbbed. The fever pulled at the edges of my mind. But across the narrow aisle six goblins kept vigil with me, whispering the old creed of Bogclutch into the dark.