The door clicks shut behind us, soft, the new hinges barely making a sound. Master doesn’t pause in the corridor. He just keeps walking, same unhurried stride. The pouch of fifty silver clinks faintly against his belt with every step, a quiet reminder of the errand we’re already on. I match him perfectly, two paces behind and half to the side, tail swaying low and slow.

We reach the side stairwell, the narrow one that spirals down to the kitchens and the private courtyard exit. Master takes it without hesitation, hand trailing the wall for balance on the tight turns. I drop to all fours for the descent, easier, quieter, faster, palms and boots finding purchase on the worn stone.

Halfway down, it hits me.

A scent.

Sharp. Sudden.

CAT

Not house cat, none of that soft fur. This is sharper, wilder, layered, the clean smell of fur warmed by skin, retracted claws and feline adrenaline. But.. underneath it, overwhelming it, is Alderian sweat, Alderian soap, the faint salt of skin that’s mostly smooth, mostly hairless. Ninety percent person. Ten percent or less CAT

A catgirl.

Here.

In this guildhouse.

My ears snap straight up, swiveling independently. Tail freezes mid sway, then lashes once, hard, whipping the air behind me. My nostrils flare wide, drinking the scent deeper. It’s fresh. Close. Not in the stairwell itself, but female. Young. Healthy. Not injured, but alert, there’s a thread of wariness woven through the musk, like she knows the building.

Master feels the shift in me instantly. He stops on the next landing, one hand still on the wall. Doesn’t turn. Just waits. Through the bond I send it raw, unfiltered. Another. Like me. Catgirl. Close. Smells Alderian but real cat underneath. Ears. Tail. Claws. Fangs. She’s here.

His head tilts slightly. Not alarmed. Uninterested

We step out through the guildhouse’s side gate into the narrow service alley behind the main building.

The scent hits us both at once.

Her.

Stronger now, out in the open air, no longer filtered through corridors and incense. She’s crouched at the far end of the alley where it opens onto a small cobbled yard, probably the guild’s private herb garden, now trampled and dark. A shallow clay bowl sits in front of her on the ground, water lapping at the edges. She’s drinking from it, pink tongue curling in neat, deliberate laps, tail curled neatly around her haunches.

Blonde. Same shade as mine, but longer, silkier, falling in soft waves past her shoulders and pooling on the cobbles around her. Ears twitching once at the sound of our boots, my boots, really.

She’s on all fours. Completely comfortable there. No armor, no weapons visible, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the fabric fine enough that it catches moonlight and glows. Collar around her throat, simple black leather, no tag, no buckle showing. Claws retracted. Fangs hidden.

Then she smells us.

Her head lifts, slow, unhurried, like she’s been expecting company. Water drips from her chin in bright drops. Red eyes catch the moon and reflect it back crimson, slit pupils narrowing to threads as she focuses first on Master, then on me.

Devileye.

The name fits. She doesn’t stand. Instead she does what any pampered house cat does when the favorite Alderian walks in. She blinks once, slow, deliberate, eyes closing fully for a heartbeat before opening again. The feline equivalent of a smile.

Then she stretches, front legs extended far forward, back arched high, tail lifting straight up. A soft purr starts in her chest.

My ears flatten halfway. Tail lashing once. Another one. Not a rival, exactly. Not a threat. But here. Touching him. The bond flares. Master’s calm amusement washing through me like cool water. No jealousy from him. Just mild curiosity, the same way he’d watch two cats size each other up over a sunbeam.

Devileye finishes her circuit and sits neatly in front of him, tail wrapped around her front paws, head tilted. Those red eyes flick up to meet his, unblinking, patient. Then she leans forward and butts the top of her head against his open palm, exactly the way I do when I want scratches.

A soft mrrp escapes her, questioning, hopeful.

My tail snaps straight up the second Devileye rolls onto her back and shows that soft, pale belly like it's nothing like he is nothing special, like sharing his hand is some casual game she can just join. The blonde fluff of her tail brushes mine again and something inside me cracks open.

Ears pin flat against my skull. Claws slide out fully, silent and I drop low, shoulders rolling forward. A low, rattling hiss starts in my throat, building slow, vibrating through my fangs until it’s more growl than sound. My tail lashes once, vicious before it curls high.

She’s still purring. Still blinking slow and sweet up at him, red eyes half lidded in that smug house cat bliss like she’s earned this spot at his feet just by being soft and pretty and there.

I surge.

Not with spear or shield. Not with words. Pure instinct, feline no thought between brain and body. I launch sideways in a blur of dark blue and blonde slamming my shoulder into hers mid roll. We tumble together across the cold cobbles. My claws rake, not deep, not killing, just shallow scoring lines across her upper arm and the side of her ribs through that thin linen shift. Fabric tears with a soft rip. She yowls, high, startled and twists under me, legs kicking out to shove at my stomach.

I don’t let go.

I hook one arm around her waist, claws digging into the meat of her hip just enough to hold whilst I use my weight to flip myself so that I am now the one on top. My fangs bare fully now as I drop my face. My hiss is right in her face.

MINE

No words. Just the sound. My blue eyes lock on those crimson slits, pupils blown so wide they’re almost black. My ears stay flat, twitching only when her tail thrashes and smacks my thigh again.

She yanks. My balance slips, I stumble, claws scraping stone for some kind of stability however before I can twist free she’s on me, smaller but faster than I gave her credit for.

We hit the ground again, but this time she’s the one riding me down. Her knees slam into my ribs, driving the air out in a sharp hiss. She grabs both my wrists in one fluid motion, claws digging into the soft inner skin, forcing them above my head and slamming them into the cold stone.

My snarl rips out, raw, furious but she clamps her free hand over my mouth, palm tight across my fangs, thumb pressing hard under my jaw to force it shut. Her red eyes lock onto mine. No playfulness left. 

“Shhh, wild one,” she murmurs. “You marked me. Fair. Now I mark you back.”

I hate it.

I HATE HER

I hate how my body betrays me, spine arching just a fraction under her weight, tail going limp under the crush of hers, the low growl in my chest stuttering into something closer to a whine.

Devileye feels it. Her red eyes gleam. She releases my mouth, slow, testing, then drags one claw down the center of my chest.

My ears snap forward. Rage reignites, slow, burning, coiling low in my gut as I roll to my stomach. Push up on shaking arms. Claws dig into stone. Tail lashes once, hard.

Devileye glances. Red eyes meet mine. She smiles, small, fanged, unafraid.

I bare my own fangs in return. Slow. Deliberate. Promising. She can pin me once. She can taste victory for a heartbeat. But I’m not house broken. Master’s hand drops to the base of my ears, firm, grounding. Thumb strokes once.

Devileye’s smug little purr dies in her throat the instant the blade flashes. One clean, silent arc, redstone noble steel through air and fur and flesh without resistance. Her head separates perfectly at the collar line, rolling away in slow motion according to my adrenaline filled eyes. The body stays kneeling for a stupid half second, knees locked, tail still half raised before it slumps sideways.

The scent hits me hard and my tail snaps straight up, rigid, then lashes once, vicious, triumphant.

Master stands exactly where he was. Cloak barely stirred. The clan redstone noble sword already sheathed again at his hip, like he never drew it. His voice comes out calm, bored, the same tone he uses when the tea’s gone cold.

“If you’re finished playing, kitten, we have actual work to do.”

He steps over the body without looking down and closes the distance to me in two steps. His hand drops to the base of my tail, fingers closing around it in that firm, possessive grip that makes my knees buckle every time. 

“Good cat though.”

My tail curls tight around his wrist twice as I surge up. "Mine. Only mine. Always mine." The bond flares bright between us, his quiet satisfaction. Just the simple certainty that nothing touches what’s his without permission, and nothing touches me without consequences.

I nuzzle deeper, rubbing my cheek hard along his jaw, marking him with my scent over and over until the alley reeks of me instead of her. My ears stay forward, twitching at the distant sounds of the guildhouse settling, guards sweeping glass, servants whispering, but nothing matters except this.

A little while later we're on our way, continuing on with our assignment from earlier. We don’t look like we’re hunting. We look like we’re strolling.

Master stops at the first corner, leans one shoulder against a warehouse wall like he’s just catching his breath after a long night. His hand drops casual to my head, fingers threading behind my ear, scratching slow circles. I press into the touch, cheek rubbing hard against his palm, purring low and steady so the vibration travels up his arm. To anyone watching from a window or alley mouth, it’s just a man pampering his catgirl bodyguard after a rough job. Sweet. Domestic. Harmless.

My nose flares wide.

The air here is thick, layered. I tilt my head under his scratching hand, ears flicking forward to catch the low murmur of voices inside the new target, muffled, male, two of them. One voice higher, nervous. The other lower, bored. Something about “shipment delay” and “Crimson won’t wait forever.” My tail curls once around Master’s calf, slow, possessive before it then unwraps to sway again, tip brushing the wall like I’m marking territory.

Through the bond his thoughts slide into mine, numbers ?

I process it fast, cat eyes piercing the gloom, nose sorting scents. Two inside the garret. One smells of cheap tobacco and sweat, the nervous one. Other smells of iron, guard, probably. No one else on this floor. Below, ground level, three more. Cooking smells, stew, onions, cheap wine. Weapons. They’re armed but relaxed. Not expecting trouble tonight.

Master’s fingers slide down to the base of my tail, gripping once, firm, approving. My purr kicks louder for a heartbeat before I force it quieter. He exhales once through his nose, almost a laugh, then pushes off the wall and keeps walking. Casual. Like we’re just taking in the night air.

We circle the block once, slow loop, no rush. I drop to all fours for half the stretch, palms and boots silent on the cobbles, tail high and swaying. Master doesn’t comment. He never does when I go low, he just adjusts his pace so I can stay close, hand trailing loose at his side for me to shove my head under whenever I want.

Around the back of the building the alley narrows to a shoulder width squeeze between 17 and the next warehouse. Rain barrel against the wall, rusted iron, half full, water stinking of moss and dead leaves. I nose it once, nothing useful, then leap light onto the barrel rim, balancing with tail out for counterweight. From here I can see the rear window better, shutters green as promised, but one is loose. Scent pours out stronger now, ink, old paper, wax seals and sweat. Fresh sweat. Someone’s pacing up there.

My ears swivel. Tail lashes once, slow, deliberate whilst brushing Master’s shoulder as he steps up beside me. I feed him everything my senses pull in, raw and unfiltered, letting the bond do the sorting.

Rear window, single latch, rusted. Easy to force. Drop twenty feet to roof below, flat and no guards posted. Scent trail from window to ground, someone climbed down earlier tonight, came back up. Boots, small, female maybe. Not heavy. No blood on the sill. Inside, ledger on table, red sharkskin, brass clasp, three crossed quills embossed. Smells of fresh wax and fear sweat. The nervous one keeps touching it. Guard smells of ale, drunk but not falling down drunk. Crossbow on rack by door. Loaded. Two quarrels in belt. No traps visible on floor, too cluttered with crates and rope coils. But pressure plate under the rug by the door, faint metallic click when nervous one stepped on it earlier. Alarm, probably. Silent.

Master’s hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, thumb stroking the edge of my collar. "Good kitten". 

We don’t rush in. We keep moving, another slow circuit, this time pausing at the front stoop like we’re debating whether to knock. Master leans against the doorframe, one boot propped on the step. I sit at his feet, knees bent, tail curled neatly around my own ankles, head resting against his thigh, purring soft and steady while my eyes never stop scanning.

Across the lane a man stumbles out of a tavern and goes to the toilet against the wall, mutters something about “Crimson” and staggers off. No one watches us. No one cares. We’re just another pair in the street, rich man and his pretty pet, probably here to buy contraband or hire muscle.

My nose twitches again. New scent on the wind, faint, but sharp. Alchemical. Somewhere higher up, maybe the roof. Not from 17. From 19, two doors down. Someone watching the watcher. My ears pin back for a heartbeat, then flick forward. Tail lashes once, low, warning, brushing Master’s calf hard.

He feels it through the bond. 

Third party ? I send, feeding him the thread of scent. Roof of 19. Crossbow. One shooter. Smells of nerves. Not Cartel. Not Sapphire. Independent. Probably waiting for us to go in.

Master’s lips twitch. His hand drops to scratch behind my ear again, slow, deliberate circles that make my eyes slit and my purr deepen. "Let them wait."

We stay like that another ten minutes. Him leaning, me curled against his leg, tail swaying lazy arcs that sweep the step clean of dust. To the world we’re resting. To me though it’s perfect, his scent drowning out the stink, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, the bond humming quiet between us like a second pulse.

The wait stretches on, long minutes. I stay crouched on the garret windowsill, tail swaying slow pendulum arcs, blue eyes locked on the two men inside.

Master stands below, one shoulder against the warehouse brick, arms loose at his sides. To any passing drunk he looks bored, another rich Alderian killing time with his catgirl pet after a long night of whatever rich men do. My ears flick toward him every few heartbeats, catching the soft rhythm of his breathing. The bond hums steady between us.

Then he moves. Not toward the window. Not toward the door. Sideways, casual, unhurried. My tail snaps straight up. Ears pin halfway, then flick forward again. A low, involuntary growl starts in my chest, too soft for the men inside to hear, loud enough for Master to feel through the bond.

He doesn’t pause. He just keeps walking. I drop from the sill in perfect silence, knees bending to absorb the fall, claws scraping stone for half a heartbeat before retracting. I prowl after him. The jealousy burns hotter than any scratch.

Him.

Not the ledger. Not the trap. Not the job we were paid to do but the rooftop man. Some stranger with a crossbow string. And Master is curious about him.

The bond flares, his calm curiosity threading through my rising storm. It only makes it worse. I want his thoughts on me. On the way my tail curls when he scratches the base. On the purr that starts when he calls me good kitten. On the blood I’d spill for him without blinking. Not on some shadow perched above us.

He reaches the side wall of 19. Brickwork rough, ivy dead and brown clinging in patches. A rusted drainpipe runs vertical, good handholds. He doesn’t climb. Just stands there, head tilted back slightly, looking up at the roofline like he’s admiring the architecture.

Then he turns to me. His hand lifts, palm open, fingers loose, the same invitation he’s given a thousand times. I surge forward before I can stop myself. Drop to all fours for the last stride, shove the top of my head hard into his palm. My purr kicks up, deep, possessive, almost angry, vibrating through his fingers as he settles them behind my ear. He scratches once, slow, firm and then leans down until his lips brush the sensitive fur at the base of my right ear.

People stare.

A pair of passers stagger past the lane mouth slow, eyes widening. An Alderian man pressing his mouth to his pet’s ear ? It’s backwards. It’s wrong. Pets nuzzle. Pets beg for scratches. Masters don’t lower themselves. Whispers ripple, soft, scandalised. One of the men mutters something about “spoiled beasts” and “no discipline.” The other just stares, mouth slack.

Master doesn’t care. His breath is warm against my ears when he whispers. “I’m curious about the one on the rooftop.” My tail lashes once, hard, whipping his calf before curling tight around his ankle in a possessive coil. Jealousy coils hotter. I bare my fangs against his wrist, light, warning and then press my whole face into his palm, rubbing hard, scent marking, trying to drown out whatever fascination he’s feeling for that stranger above us.

"Me" I send through the bond. "Look at me. Think about me. Not him."

His fingers tighten once, reassuring then slide down pressing against my collar. "Soon, kitten." The bond pulses warm but it doesn’t erase the burn. He’s still looking up. Still curious.

He steps closer to the wall. Hand trails the brick, testing. Then he starts climbing, slow like he’s done this a hundred times. No hurry. No tension. Just that calm ascent.

I follow.

I don’t use the pipe. I leap, higher, faster, claws sinking into brick, pulling myself up in a scramble. Tail out for balance, ears pinned forward, blue eyes locked on his back.

The rooftop wind whips sharp across my face the moment we land on the roof in perfect sync. My tail lashes once, hard, vicious, before curling high and rigid behind me. 

The watcher, hood up, crossbow half raised stutters to the side. His eyes darting from Master's calm face to my exposed fangs then back again little, little ticts. His mouth opens, closes. opens again. 

"What the, where did you come from ?" His voice is unprocessed, cute as he really has no idea. The crossbow trembles in his grip "How how the hell are you even up here ?"

Master doesn't answer right away. He simply steps  forward as if this is just another causal night. He tilts his head the tiniest fraction. Voice low almost gentle like but completely neutral "This is normal."

The words hang there. Simple. Factual.

The watcher's breath hitches again, louder this time.  "Normal ?" The word comes out rushed, "You just climbed a sheer wall in the dark" His eyes drift to me, lingering on my flattened ears, my bared fangs and the slow deliberate sway of my tail that brushes Master's leg. "Your cat just leapt up here like it was a windowsill. And you call that normal ?"

Master doesn't look away from the man. "She's fast," he says, voice still that same flat calm. "I'm patient. We meet in the middle." Another small shrug, one shoulder lifting lazy. "Nothing complicated."

The watcher's laugh comes out cracked "Nothing complicated. Right. Sure. You two just stroll up like you're taking a midnight constitutional and I'm the one losing my mind." His crossbow dips again, lower this time.

He gestures wildly at us with his free hand. "You two just appear. Like that" A snap of fingers. "And now you're standing here chatting like we're old mates at the tavern."

Master nods once, small, polite. "We could be."

I bare my fangs wider at that, a slow hiss leaking between them. My tail lashes once and sharp.

The man finally notices how I'm coiled, knees bent deep, shoulders forward, claws fully extended now.

"Look," he rasps, voice dropping to something pleading. "I don't want trouble. I swear on the tides. Just a payout. Just coin. I didn't sign up for whatever this is." His gaze flicks to Master's sword hilt, then to my spear, then back to my face. "You're not normal people."

Master doesn't rush. He simply steps forward, slow and measured. No drawn blade. No raised voice. Just that everyday calm, like he's walking to the kettle for more embercrack tea instead of closing on a man who's pointing a loaded crossbow at his chest.

The watcher hesitates. Something in Master's aura pulls him in. No threat. No menace. Just quiet certainty. The kind that makes prey freeze instead of bolt. 

Master's hand moves. Fast. Clean. No flourish. The redstone noble steel slides free of its sheath in perfect silence, doesn't sing, doesn't scrape, just appears between them like it was always meant to be there. The point presses gentle against the watchers chest, right over the heart, dimpling the leather jerkin without piercing yet.

The man's eyes blow wide. Breath catches. Body locks rigid.

Master's voice stays soft. Almost kind. "You're Sapphire." Not a question. The watchers mouth opens.

Master tilts his head the tiniest fraction. "My cat can smell the guild polish. Your crossbow string is waxed with their blue resin. Your boots have the tread pattern from the Sapphire quartermaster stores." A small pause. "Because you were told to watch. Not interfere."

My tail lashes once, sharp whilst jealousy coils hot but not for the man, but for the fact Master's attention is still on him. Even now. Even while he's about to die.

I surge. Drop low and fluid, knees bending deep, then launch, silent, perfect, slamming my shoulder into the watcher's ribs from the side. He staggers, breath exploding out in a wheeze. My claws hook into his jerkin at the shoulders, dragging him down with me. 

He thrashes once, weak, panicked, then stills when my fangs hover an inch from his eye.

Master steps closer. Calm. Unhurried. Sword still in hand, point now resting casual against the watcher's throat beside where my tail grips.

"Who sent you?" Master asks. Same neutral tone. Like he's asking for directions to the nearest tea house.

The man wheezes. "Guild... master. Said... said to watch the freelancers. Make sure the ledger stayed in play. If you took it... report back. If Crimson got it first... clean up."

Master nods once. Small. Polite.

"And the trap in the garret?"

"Pressure plate under the rug. Silent bell to the lower floor. Four more waiting in the stairwell. Crossbows. Nets. Alchemical smoke. Standard containment."

My tail tightens another fraction. The watcher's chokes. My purr turns into a low, rattling growl that vibrates straight into his chest.

Master exhales once, soft, almost fond. "Thank you." The words are quiet. Genuine. Then the redstone steel moves again, clean, precise, no wasted motion. The blade slides in under the ribs, angled up, piercing heart in one smooth thrust. No spray. No scream. Just a soft, wet exhale as the light leaves the watcher's eyes. 

Master sheathes the sword then turns and walks to the edge where the watcher had been crouched. He settles into the exact same spot, knees bent, elbows resting on the stone, gaze dropping to the window of 17 Blackspire Lane below. Calm. Composed. Like nothing at all has changed.

I prowl up beside him instantly, pressing my whole side against his hip, shoulder to thigh, tail curling twice around his wrist in a possessive grip that won't loosen. My cheek rubs hard against his arm, scent marking, claiming, drowning out the stink of fresh blood with my own wild musk. My ears flick forward, blue eyes narrowing on the same window he watches, nostrils flaring to catch the nervous sweat of the two men still inside.

The rooftop settles after the watchers last wet exhale fades. His body lies where it fell, sprawled awkward across the roof, one arm flung out like he was reaching for something he never quite grasped. I don’t spare him another glance. He’s nothing now. Just cooling meat. Master’s already forgotten him.

I purr. Low at first, then deeper, rolling through my chest until it vibrates against his ribs. The sound fills the night air between us, drowning the distant creak of noise. My tail squeezes his wrist once, hard and then loosens to sway lazy arcs that brush his right leg every few heartbeats.

Master reaches into his inner pocket without looking away from the window twenty feet below. Pulls out our matching flask, embercrack tea still warm inside, the mushroom bitter scent rising sharp and comforting when he unscrews the cap. He takes a slow swallow first, throat working under my lips where I’ve pressed them to the pulse just below his jaw. Then he tilts the flask toward me.

I don’t take it with my hands. I lean in, fangs grazing the sides, tongue curling to lap at the dark liquid. Hot. Bitter. Perfect. The burn spreads down my throat. I purr louder against his skin, grateful, possessive, utterly content.

We stay like that. Hours bleed away. The moon climbs higher. Inside the window, the nervous one has finally stopped pacing. He’s slumped at the table now, head in his hands. The guard, broad, scarred, ale sour has dozed off against the wall, crossbow slipping from his lap to rest barrel down on the floorboards. No one comes to relieve them. No bells ring. No shadows move in the stairwell. The trap waits, patient and stupid, for intruders who aren’t coming.

We don’t care. Master takes another slow swallow from his flask. I mirror him, lapping again. My ears twitch once at a distant noise, then flatten in contentment as his fingers slide up from my tail to cup the back of my neck. Thumb strokes the edge of my collar "master’s property", tracing the letters like he’s reminding himself, reminding me.

I melt harder against him. My whole body presses along his side, chest to hip, thigh to thigh, until there’s no space left between us. My tail unwraps from his wrist only to loop three times around his forearm instead, squeezing once before then settling into slow sweeps. My claws hook gentle into his clothing fabric as I begin kneading slow circles that shred linen without meaning to. I don’t stop. I never stop. 

The bond hums between us, quiet and steady, just like it should. Hours slip past as Master shifts, just enough to pull me closer, arm draping loose around my shoulders now. I huff a soft, pleased sound against his neck and arch into the touch.

He exhales soft, "Good kitten." The words bloom inside my skull as euphoria crashes through me again. I nuzzle harder, face buried deep in the crook of his neck now, just breathing him in, his scent, his warmth, his pulse under my lips. 

Master finally moves. No warning. No words. Just a slow uncoil from me. His gaze flicks once to the gap between rooftops, twenty feet and then back to me. Through the bond "Now."

My tail lashes once, sharp, delighted, whipping the air. My ears snap forward. Claws flex and retract in anticipation. I surge up beside him, pressing my shoulder to his hip, cheek rubbing hard against his arm one last possessive time before we move.

He steps back three paces, casual, measured and then launches. No run up dramatics. Just a single powerful stride and he's airborne.

I don't wait. I drop low, knees bent deep, hips cocked, then I explode forward. Four strides, fast and fluid building up as if it's life or death as I charge froward running like a wild thing.

Air whistles past my ears. My tail snaps out for balance mid flight, whipping once to correct trajectory. Claws extend instinctively before they sink into the roof of 17 Blackspire Lane with a soft thunk. I land in a crouch, knees deep, tail curling high and arrogant behind me, shield still strapped lazy to my left arm, spear haft diagonal across my back. Blonde hair spills wild over my shoulders as I shake it back with an impatient flick of my head and bare my fangs in a slow, smug grin.

Pathetic. All of it. The trap waiting below. The two idiots in the garret. The guild thinking fifty silver buys anything more than a slow death. The entire city thinking it can play games with us. With me and my Master. 

They don't realise a cat knows, it always knows, it always lands.

I prowl to Master's side, hips swaying, tail lashing in slow triumphant arcs that brush his leg with every step. My ears swivel forward, nostrils flaring wide. The roof reeks of stink, old bird droppings everywhere. Underneath it, the sharp bite of alchemical preservatives drifting up through the cracked tiles.

Master doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. He moves to the skylight, small, grimy, iron framed, set into the sloped roof above the garret. One knee drops to the tiles, fingers trace the latch. Rusted. Loose. Child's play. He glances at me once, calm, expectant.

My claws hook the frame, silent, precise and I ease the skylight open inch by inch. No squeak. No scrape. Just fog curling in like smoke from my own smug satisfaction.

We drop.

Master first silent, lands on the bottom of his feet beside a cluttered table, redstone sword already in hand but point down, relaxed. I follow half a heartbeat later, knees bending deep to absorb, tail curling high for balance, landing light beside him. My shield is up now, angled lazy but ready, spear tip pointed down.

The nervous one jerks upright at the table. The guard startles awake, crossbow clattering to the floorboards, hand fumbling for the hilt at his belt.

I bare my fangs wider, slow, lazy, utterly egotistic. Pathetic. Both of them. I can smell the fear rolling off the nervous one in humiliating bursts. The guard reeks of stale ale and sudden regret. My tail lashes once and sharp, whipping the air hard stirring the papers on the table.

Master doesn't move. He just stands there, calm on the floorboards, sword loose in his grip, watching them .

The nervous one finds his voice first, high, cracking. "You, you're not supposed to how did you". I cut him off with a low, rattling hiss that vibrates straight through my fangs. My tail curls high behind me, all arrogant like.

Master speaks, soft, neutral, everyday calm. "The ledger." The guard scrambles for his crossbow. I don't even look at him. My tail lashes, once, then I surge. Four steps, fast, shield slamming into his chest with a dull thud. He staggers back, breath exploding out. My free hand hooks claws into his jerkin at the throat, lifting, pinning him to the wall. His feet kick uselessly an inch above the floorboards.

Pathetic. The nervous one freezes, hands raised, trembling. Master steps forward, unhurried, picks up the red sharkskin ledger with one hand. Flips it open. Scans the pages. Nods once, small, satisfied.

I don't release the guard. My tail squeezes harder, once, a warning before it then loosens just enough for him to drag in a breath. 

Master closes the ledger. Tucks it inside his cloak. Then he looks at me. One small tilt of his head, permission.

My tail lashes once, delighted, before I drive my claws deeper. The guard gurgles, once, wet and then goes limp. I drop him and he crumbles. The nervous one makes a small, broken sound. I turn to him, slow, deliberate, tail swaying high and arrogant behind me. My shield stays angled lazy, spear tip dips forward until it's an inch from his chest. My blue eyes lock on his, pupils blown wide with night vision and pure, egotistic glee.

Pathetic. All of it. Master steps up beside me, hand settling on the back of my neck, fingers threading into fur, thumb pressing once at the base of my collar. "Good kitten."

After all of that drama we just as easily slip back through the skylight the same way we came in, silent, fluid and no trace left behind well besides the two cooling bodies. Master goes first, and then I follow, pulling myself up in a single effortless motion.

No one sees us drop down the side wall, Master's feet find the same crumbling mortar holds he used on the way up as I scramble down beside him in four quick leaps, claws scraping faint lines down the wall. We hit the cobbles of Blackspire Lane together, soft thuds, barely audible.

The street is empty. The drunk from earlier has staggered off, most passerbyes have gone back to their taverns or simply home. The ledger sits warm and heavy inside Master's cloak, pressed against his ribs where I can smell it every time I lean in, red sharkskin, and fresh wax that's clearly been applied.

I don't wait for permission.

The moment our boots touch stone, my hand snaps out, claws retracted but fingers curling hard around the front of masters shirt. I yank him toward me, forceful, possessive and leaving no room for hesitation. He doesn't resist. Doesn't even blink. Just lets me pull him in until our chests bump, until my tail coils twice around his waist.

I bring him close. Closer. My free hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers threading into short hair at the nape. The bond flares bright between us, his calm threading through my storm.

Then I move. Slow. Deliberate. One step sideways, my boot sliding against his, guiding him with the press of my thigh. He follows, effortless, like he's always known the steps. My tail tightens around his waist, pulling him tighter still, until there's no space left, until every shift of my hips rocks against his.

We slow dance. Right there in the middle of Blackspire Lane. No music. No audience yet my tail sways with us in slow arcs that brush his legs, curl around his ankles then unwrap to loop higher again. My claws hook gentle into the fabric at his back, kneading slow circles through leather, claiming every inch I can reach without tearing.

I nuzzle into the crook of his neck, cheek rubbing hard along his jaw, then down his throat marking him with my scent until everything is all buried under wild musk and embercrack warmth. 

One slow turn and then my hips roll against his, guiding him in a lazy circle that carries us a few paces down the lane. My ears flick forward, then soften, flattening halfway in pure, spoiled bliss. My blue eyes are half lidded whilst watching his face, his expression stays calm, always calm, even when my tail squeezes his waist hard enough to make his breath hitch the tiniest fraction.

Another turn. Slower this time. My hand at his nape slides down this time as it then settles on his back, pressing him closer until our heartbeats sync through the bond, through the skin, through everything. My tail unwraps from his waist only to curl three times around his thigh, high and possessive.

I bare my fangs, just a flash, against his throat. Not biting. Not yet. Just reminding. As we continue to dance, slowly throughout the street as if we were the only two souls alive.

Then suddenly with no warning and no shift in expression. One hand slides under my thighs, the other hooks behind my back in that familiar cradle grip master uses and with that i'm in his arms.

I huff once, half surprise, half spoiled delight and then melt into him completely. My arms loop around his neck as he carries me back towards the guildhall.

The guildhall corridors are still dim when we slip back through the side gate, the red sharkskin ledger pressed warm against Master's chest where I can smell its wax every time I nuzzle closer. My tail stays curled twice around his wrist the whole way up the stairs, tip flicking possessive little arcs that brush his forearm. My ears stay forward twitching at every distant sound that they pick up.

The meeting room door is already open when we reach it, same table, same iron candle holders, same eight Sapphire guards lining the walls in their chainmail and blue tabards. The guild master sits at the far end again, elbows planted. He doesn't rise. Doesn't speak. Just watches us enter..

I don't wait. My tail lashes once, sharp and irritated before I vault onto the table in a single fluid leap. My boots thud on the wood as I keep my knees bent and back hunched forward like the table is my proven claimed territory.

Master walks the length of the table. He reaches the chair opposite the guild master and drops into it without ceremony, leaning back just enough to look relaxed, one hand resting loose on the armrest.

I don't sit. I stay crouched, ready to pounce if I smell a threat.

Master reaches inside his cloak. Pulls the red sharkskin ledger free. Sets it on the table with a soft thump and slides it down the table, slow, deliberate and until it stops exactly in front of the guild master.

The man stares at it for a long beat before he then looks up at Master. Then at me, hunched on his precious table like it's my scratching post.

"You were not hired for this," he says, voice flat, clipped. "We did not authorise any action against the Cartel safehouse. You acted without sanction. Again."

Master shrugs, one shoulder lifting lazy. "You paid us to squeeze them. We squeezed. Ledger's clean. Cartel's bleeding. Crimson's proxies are scrambling. You're welcome."

The guild master's eyes narrow. "We deny any involvement. You are freelancers. If this ledger implicates Sapphire in any way."

Master cuts him off. Voice still that same neutral calm. "Whatever." He leans forward slightly elbows on the table now, fingers interlaced. "That was our last job."

The words sit heavy in the room. The guards shift, subtle, uneasy, hands resting closer to sword hilts. My tail lashes once, slow yet deliberate and brushing the table. My ears flatten against my skull whilst a low, rattling growl starts in my chest, vibrating through my fangs which I now bare.

Master doesn't glance my way. Doesn't need to. He knows I'm coiled tight enough to explode if anyone so much as breathes wrong. "Any mess from here on," he continues, tone bored, "is yours. No more proxies. No more warehouses. No more ledgers. We're done."

The guild master exhales through his nose, slow, controlled. His gaze flicks to the ledger again, then to me, still crouched, still grinning with fangs and murder in my eyes, then back to Master.

"You think you can simply walk away?"

Master stands. Slow. Unhurried. Cloak settling around him like it's bored too. "I already did."

He turns and I vault off the table, boots thudding light beside him, tail curling twice around his wrist in an instant, possessive, anchoring as we take toward the door. The guild master doesn't call after us. Doesn't need to. We walk out.

The moment we step out of the guildhall we head to the district gate. The customs post is a squat stone and wooden box, two Alderian guards in tabards. They straighten when they see us coming. Eyes flick to Master and then to me.

"Chip check,".

Master stops without a word. I growl low in my throatm rattling, warning but he rests his free hand on the back of my neck. "Easy, kitten." The bond hums warm.

I force my ears to flick forward instead of flattening. My tail squeezes his wrist once, hard before it then loosens to sway slow arcs.

The guards steps closer as they begin searching us for any untaxed goods and scanning my collar.

"Redstone marked," the guard reads aloud, voice dropping half an octave. "Marshgate registered." His eyes flick to the spear then to the shield, "No untaxed goods?"

Master shrugsm "Nothing that concerns you."

The guard hesitates but only for a minute before they let us leave Merchant Cross. The Oak Trade Road stretches ahead, sandstone cobbles and a familar smell of trees. Back in the open, humm this is nice, just me and Master.