The world outside is cold and crisp, sun dragging itself reluctantly up over the city’s tiled rooftops. The air smells cleaner here, middle class, upper crust, the stink of poverty and cheap violence replaced by old stone, cut wood, and expensive soap. The buildings stand shoulder to shoulder, sandstone and timber, two or three storeys each, all smug and proper. No signs of the gutter world here. No chaos. Just the neat, careful order of people who think they’re too important to bleed.

We walk side by side, the picture of perfect composure. Master strides as if he owns the street, slow, measured, the kind of pace that lets everyone know he has nowhere to be but everywhere to go. He wears the badge on his cloak, the same as me, and in this district, that’s enough to keep most glances polite and quick. I keep half a step behind, not out of deference, but calculation, every angle covered, every threat measured, every idiot guard clocked and dismissed. My tail flicks, ears perked, senses turned up so high it feels like the world’s vibrating under my skin.

The street is alive in its own way. Carts rumble by, a baker’s boy whistles from a side door, delivering bread to a woman. The guards here aren’t drunks or bullies, they wear tailored uniforms, polished breastplates stamped with private house crests, crossbows at the hip and swords at the ready. Their eyes track us but don’t linger. Too many important people, too many rules. They don’t want trouble from guild guests. Not today.

The warehouse is a blunt rectangle of stone and timber, three storeys tall, painted a dull blue grey that almost fades into the cloudless sky. We cross the street like we’ve done it a hundred times, the world parting in front of us. Nobody questions us. Nobody looks twice. Even the drivers steering their loaded carts give us room, as if the badge and the way Master walks are enough to make them think twice about getting in our way.

We don’t pause at the doors. Master pushes them open with the calm arrogance of someone expected. I slip in right behind, close enough that my fur brushes his cloak, my eyes already scanning the shadows. Inside, the warehouse is a cathedral to money and silence. Pale sunlight cuts through tall, dirty windows, landing on stacked crates, rows of barrels, thick beams overhead strung with faded banners from old trade deals. The air is cold and dry, filled with the scent of old timber, dust, and the sharp metallic tang of stored coin. No one greets us. Good.

We walk the perimeter slow, as if taking inventory. I listen. My ears catch the faint scratch of a quill somewhere upstairs, the muttered voices of men at work, the heavy tread of boots on the floorboards above. Private guards, maybe. Or merchants with secrets to keep. There’s no sign of the Iron Pact yet, but the place feels tense, like everyone’s waiting for the next move. Master’s gaze flicks from crate to crate, logging details, storing information. I watch him watch, hyper-aware of every breath he takes, every small flex of muscle as he weighs the risks. My heart is racing, caffeine making it even worse, every moment is a threat, every corner a promise of violence or discovery.

We move deeper into the rows, slipping past a pair of men arguing over a shipping manifest. They glance up and fall silent, eyes dropping. No challenge. I keep my back to Master, tail low and tense, ready to lash out if anyone so much as thinks of coming closer. There’s a hollow behind a stack of tarpaulin, covered crates, half hidden in the shadows, with enough space for two to crouch unseen. Master moves for it with the same certainty he applies to everything. I follow, silent and smooth, sliding in next to him so close there’s barely an inch between us. My tail curls around his ankle, knotting us together, anchoring my nerves.

We crouch in the dim, our breaths barely stirring the dust. I feel his heartbeat, calm and slow, a metronome against the rapid stutter of my own. I try to match him, steady, careful, unhurried, but the caffeine in my veins keeps my muscles twitchy, my thoughts sharp and fractured. I track every movement, every sound, the shift of guards near the front door, the drag of boots on the stair, the shudder of cart wheels as more goods are unloaded somewhere on the far side.

Master pulls the sketch map from his cloak, tracing lines with a gloved finger. I lean in, reading upside-down, committing every detail to memory. Layout’s simple: ground floor stacked with crates and barrels, small office at the far end, stairs up to a balcony lined with more storage and a private meeting room. No sign of heavy security, just enough muscle to keep out thieves and rabble. The real secrets, those will come later, after dark, when the Iron Pact arrives to do their deals in whispered voices and shadow.

I nudge him, silent communication, pointing out a gap in the crates that might make a good vantage point later. He nods, wordless approval. My tail flicks against his leg, an unconscious shiver of pride and need. We wait. We watch. The warehouse creaks and shifts around us, a living thing breathing slow in the morning sun.

No one finds us. No one interrupts. We belong here, for now and the way we move says it louder. Every muscle is ready to spring, every thought wound tight around the possibility of violence. If they want to keep their secrets, they’ll have to be clever. If they want to keep their lives, they’ll have to be lucky. And I’ll be right here, claws out, fangs bared, wrapped around Master like a living snare, waiting for the first sign that the real game is about to begin.