Master says it plain and direct. “Right let’s go check out the markets my cat.” I stretch right there on the sandstone path, back arching hard against him before I slam back into his side.

We head straight into the heart of Guardsville, the middle of the settlement where the real life of the port beats loudest. The central square opens up between the keep and the curving streets, a vibrant sprawl of canvas awnings and wooden stalls packed tight under the tropical sun. It smells like the old silk roads and spice ports rolled into one, sweet cumin and cardamom heavy in the air, sharp saffron and dried mango, the salt bite of fresh fish on ice, and the warm scent of flatbreads cooking on open griddles. Brightly dyed cloth hangs from poles in deep reds, golds, and indigo, fluttering in the breeze. Merchants call out in a dozen accents, voices rising over the clink of coins and the chatter of sailors and locals.

I cling to Master the entire walk, tail squeezed around him, ears flicking at every new sound while my blue eyes scan the stalls. We move through the press of bodies. The first row is heavy with spices, open sacks of vibrant powders and whole pods, merchants grinding fresh blends on stone slabs. I pause at one, claws tracing the edge of a stall as I breathe in the scent, then push a small pouch of saffron toward him with a sly little grin. “This one. For the tower kitchens. Or for me. Both.”

Further in, the textile stalls dominate, rolls of fine cotton and silk in every shade, some shot through with gold thread that catches the light. A stall keeper with a thick beard and gold rings on every finger unrolls a length of deep blue fabric patterned with tiny silver fish. “This would look good on you. Or on me when I’m wrapped around you later. Neutral ground or not, we take what we like.”

We linger at the pearl and shell stalls next, trays of lustrous orbs in every size laid out on dark cloth beside carved shell combs and inlaid boxes. The younger merchant from earlier spots us and gives a small nod from across the way, already talking to another trader about the new road. I ignore him, pressing closer to Master as I pick up a single perfect pearl the colour of moonlight on water and hold it up between two claws. “Pretty. But the real value’s in what they don’t show, the old sandstone under our feet and whatever’s still buried along that causeway. They can sell the pretty stories. We keep the bones.”

The food stalls pull us deeper into the middle of the square, grilled skewers of spiced fish and chicken, fresh mango sliced open and dripping, flatbreads stuffed with herbs and cheese sizzling on hot stones. I grab two skewers without asking, handing one straight to Master before biting into mine. Juice runs down my chin and I lean in to nuzzle it against his neck on purpose, purring dark and possessive. “Tastes better when it’s ours. All of this, spices, silk, pearls, the whole noisy mess. The joint depot we talked about will pull even more through here. We take the best cuts for the tower and let the tourists pay extra for the rest.”

 “You’ve got to pay for that.” I freeze with the skewer still halfway to my mouth, juice on my lips as my blue eyes flick to the stall keeper with a low, instinctive growl building in my throat.

Master stays calm beside me. He simply reaches into his pouch, counts out the coin without a word, and pays for the two I already took plus two more on top. His voice is low and even when he says it. “Remember cat girls need double what alderians do.” Then he turns, slides both fresh skewers straight into my mouth right there in the middle of the bustling square.

I take them without hesitation, fangs grazing his fingers on purpose as I bite down, purring loud and aggressive while the flavours explode across my tongue. Juice runs down my chin again and I lean in immediately in full view of the stall keeper and half the market.

We’re still standing there, the taste of spiced fish and mango on my lips, when the three merchants from earlier appear again through the crowd. leader gives a small, measured smile. “If you’ve finished browsing, we’d like to extend an invitation. There’s a dance tonight in one of the eastern guild houses, neutral ground, as we discussed. Good food, better wine, and a chance to meet some of the other captains and councillors who’ll be using the new road. It would be… advantageous for everyone.”

Master gives a short nod and we follow them east through the winding streets. The eastern building rises ahead of us, solid stone with carved lintels and heavy wooden doors, two guards in guild livery standing outside with clubs. They step aside without a word as our group approaches. Inside it’s cooler, the air smells of incense and expensive wine.

Servants are already waiting in the main hall, quiet, efficient, dressed in simple dark tunics with guild crests. They bow low and immediately begin offering garments for the dance, laying out folded piles of fine fabric across long tables. Silks, embroidered cottons, layered robes in rich dyes. The lead merchant gestures toward them with a polite hand. “Please. Choose whatever suits. The dance is informal but the company expects a certain standard. We’ll have private rooms if you wish to change.”

My blue eyes scan the offered clothes, already knowing exactly what I want. I reach out and lift a set in deep black silk, the lining a rich magenta that flashes when the fabric moves, edged with clean light blue trim along the collar, cuffs and sash, pure Alderian colours cut into merchant lord style. Flowing outer robe with wide sleeves, layered inner tunic, wide sash that ties at the waist, the whole thing cut to move like water but still look like power.

I hold it up against myself, then turn and press it to Master’s chest for a second, purring thick and dark. “This one. Black with magenta lining and the blue trim. Alderian colours on merchant lord lines. It’ll look good when I’m clinging to you on the dance floor.”

My ears flick forward sharply as the servants turn toward me with polite, lowered heads, one of them asking soft and direct, “And yours, my lady ? For your dress ?”

“This one,” I answer, voice thick and sure. “Black with magenta lining and Alderian blue on the edges. It’ll move right when I’m wrapped around him on the dance floor".

My ears pin flat the second the servants move. Two of them step in fast from either side while I’m still pressed against Master, their hands closing around my arms before I can even twist. I snarl, low and feral, tail lashing hard as I yank backward, claws raking across the nearest wrist. “Get off, Master !”

They’re too quick. Three more close in, efficient and silent, gripping my shoulders and waist. I struggle hard, body twisting in that violent, erratic way, back arching as I try to slam an elbow into one of them, but they’ve already pulled me two steps away from him. My tail whips out and cracks across someone’s leg. A sharp tug on my hair forces my head back. Another pair of hands catches my tail at the base and holds it firm, the grip professional and unyielding. I growl louder, fangs bared, blue eyes wild as I fight to turn back toward Master but the servants are already steering me into a side room off the main hall, the door swinging shut behind us with a heavy thud.

The room is smaller, lit by hanging lanterns, bolts of fabric stacked along one wall and a long table covered in pins, shears, and measuring tapes. They don’t waste a second. My dark red tunic is yanked upward in one smooth motion, the fabric tearing slightly at the shoulder seam as they strip it off over my head. I hiss and claw at the nearest arm, drawing a thin line of blood, but another servant catches both my wrists and pins them behind my back with surprising strength. My trousers follow, tugged down while I kick out, one bare foot connecting with someone’s shin. They ignore it. Within moments I’m stripped bare, skin prickling in the cooler air, blonde hair falling loose around my shoulders and my tail lashing furiously between the hands still gripping it.

Measuring tapes appear instantly. Cold metal ends press against my skin as they work fast and rough, wrapping around my waist, my chest, my hips. One servant pulls my arms out to the sides while another slides the tape under my breasts and around my back, the motion clinical but invasive. Another pair of hands lifts my tail, stretching it out straight to measure its length and thickness at the base, the grip firm enough that I can’t whip it free. I snarl again, ears pinned flat, trying to twist away, but they just adjust their hold and keep going. Fingers comb through my hair without gentleness, pulling it up into a rough knot so they can measure the back of my neck and the width of my shoulders. One of them even tilts my head to check the angle of my ears, the touch impersonal and quick.

Fabric is already being draped over me before the last measurement is finished. Heavy black silk drops across my shoulders, the cool lining brushing my bare skin. They pull it tight around my waist, pinning it in place with sharp little tugs that make me growl. The magenta lining is brought in next, layers of it wrapped and folded against the inner seams while someone else works on the light blue trim, cutting strips and pinning them along the collar line and cuffs right there on my body. I keep struggling, body jerking in small, feral motions, tail lashing against the legs of whoever is holding it. Every time I twist they simply tighten their grip or shift their stance, never pausing the work.

Stitching starts almost immediately. Needles flash in the lantern light as they sew the black outer layer directly onto the pinned magenta lining while the dress is still on me. The thread pulls tight against my skin in places, the fabric shifting and tugging with every movement I make. One servant works on the left sleeve, stitching the light blue trim in place with quick, even stitches that brush against my arm. Another is at the back, pulling the silk taut across my shoulder blades and running a line of stitches down the spine. The sash is wrapped around my waist over the pinned layers and secured with more stitches, the ends left long for later adjustment. They move around me in a constant circle, hands everywhere, adjusting the drape over my chest, pinning the hem so it falls just right at my ankles, tugging the collar into place so the blue trim sits clean against my throat.

I bare my fangs at the nearest one when they pull my tail through a carefully cut slit in the back of the dress and start stitching the edges around it, the needle flashing close to sensitive skin. My ears stay pinned, a constant low growl vibrating in my chest as they work. The black silk clings and shifts with every feral little jerk I make, the magenta lining flashing whenever the fabric parts. They don’t speak. They just keep measuring, pinning, and stitching with that same relentless efficiency, treating me like a living mannequin that happens to have claws and a bad attitude.

The dress is taking shape fast and messy around me, stitches visible in places where they’ve had to adjust on the fly, loose threads hanging, the fabric still being tugged and smoothed while the needles keep moving. One servant is already working on the wide sleeves, stitching the light blue trim along the cuffs while another pins the magenta lining so it will flash dramatically when the sleeves move. The whole thing feels aggressive and unfinished, fabric pulling in places, pins still pricking at my skin through the layers, the servants’ hands never stopping as they circle and adjust and stitch.

I keep fighting in small, instinctive ways, twisting my shoulders, lashing my tail against their legs, growling every time they pull my hair or handle my ears but they’re simply too many and too practiced. The bond pulses with Master’s presence somewhere on the other side of the door and I cling to it hard, the thought of him the only thing keeping the feral edge from tipping into full panic. They’re dressing me for him. For the dance. For the image we need to present. But every tug, every stitch, every hand on my tail or in my hair makes me want to rip free and claw my way back to his side.

The servants keep working without pause, the black silk and magenta lining and light blue trim slowly locking into place around my body in a chaotic, aggressive rush of fabric and thread and measuring tape. My ears stay flat, my growl low and constant, tail twitching in the grip that still holds it steady while the final stitches go in around the slit and the hem. The dress is almost finished on me, messy and alive with movement, every adjustment another reminder that I’m not in control of this part but I will be the moment they let me out of this room and back to Master.

My ears are still pinned flat when the servants finally step back. The last stitch is tied off, a loose thread snipped, and they give a small collective bow before one of them opens the side door. I’m pushed forward into the main hall without ceremony, the black silk dress still settling around me, magenta lining flashing with every step as the light blue trim catches the lantern light along my collar and cuffs. The sash is tight at my waist, the wide sleeves flowing, the slit in the back letting my tail move freely for the first time since they started.

I only have half a second to register the space before everything hits me at once.

The hall has been cleared into a wide open dance floor. Other pairs are already positioned, finely dressed merchant ladies on one side, their partners on the opposite side, standing like two lines facing each other across an arena. And directly across from me, on the far side, is Master.

The bond slams into me like a physical blow. I see him standing there in whatever merchant lord robes he chose, looking every bit the ruler they’re trying to present, and something inside me just… snaps.

All control vanishes.

A low, feral sound tears out of my throat, half growl, half desperate yowl. My ears flatten completely against my blonde hair. My claws dig into the polished floor as I drop straight onto all fours without thinking, the black silk and magenta lining billowing around me for a split second before I launch forward.

I run.

Not walk. Not stride like the elegant merchant lady they tried to dress me as. I run on all fours like a wild thing, tail lashing behind me in wild arcs, blonde hair flying, the dress fabric tearing slightly at the knees from the force of my movement. The magenta lining flashes bright with every bound. The light blue trim on the sleeves and collar whips through the air. Gasps and sharp intakes of breath ripple through the room like a wave.

More than half the people present react instantly.

“What in the tides ?”

“Is that ? She’s on all fours”

“Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful.”

“After everything we discussed, look at her.”

Voices rise in a chorus of disgust and shock. Merchant captains and councillors, the very people who had been smiling about neutral ground and joint profits earlier, are now staring in open horror as I tear across the dance floor on hands and knees like an animal. Some ladies clutch at their partners’ arms. A few of the guild guards by the doors shift uneasily, hands moving toward their weapons before they think better of it. The leader merchant from earlier looks like he’s swallowed something sour, his face tight with barely concealed revulsion.

I don’t care.

I only see Master.

My claws scrape across the floor with every bound. The dress is getting in the way but I don’t slow down, I just power through it, the black silk and magenta lining twisting and flashing around my body. My tail lashes hard enough to knock over a small side table near the edge of the floor. Someone yelps. I keep going, ears pinned, fangs bared in a manic grin that’s half feral joy and half pure possessive need.

I reach him in seconds.

I don’t stop at a polite distance. I crash into him on all fours, claws catching on his robes as I surge upward, wrapping myself around him like a living chain. My tail coils tight around his leg, then higher around his waist. My arms lock around his shoulders. I press my face into his neck, breathing him in, purring loud and aggressive right there in the middle of the horrified hall. The dress is rumpled and half torn at the knees from my run, magenta lining showing in wild flashes, light blue trim askew.

The murmurs get louder. Someone actually laughs, a short, incredulous bark of disbelief before it’s quickly hushed.

I don’t let go. I can’t. The bond is screaming between us and I’m shaking with the need to claim, to own, to make sure every single person in this room understands exactly who he belongs to.

Then the music starts.

It’s some formal merchant dance, slow, measured, with clear steps and turns that the other pairs are already beginning to perform with stiff elegance. Neither of us knows any of it.

We try anyway.

I force myself upright, still clinging, still half feral, and we stumble into something that vaguely resembles dancing. My hands stay locked on him. His hands find my waist through the black silk and magenta layers. We move in awkward, clumsy circles, stepping on each other’s feet, turning at the wrong times, the wide sleeves of my dress catching on his robes. Every few steps I press closer instead of maintaining proper distance, nuzzling into his neck or growling softly when another pair gets too close. The magenta lining flashes every time the fabric twists. My tail keeps wrapping around his leg even though it’s supposed to be out of the way.

The other dancers give us a wide berth. The disgusted muttering continues in low waves around the edges of the floor.

“She’s acting like a beast”

“After they made such a show of the road being civilised”

“Look at the dress. They spent all that effort and she’s tearing it apart”

I hear every word. I just don’t care. I keep moving with Master in our clumsy, below-decent version of a dance, body pressed tight against his, claws occasionally pricking through the fabric of his robes when I squeeze too hard. My ears stay low but twitch at every shift in the music. My tail refuses to behave, curling possessively around him every chance it gets.

We turn too sharply and nearly collide with another couple. I bare my fangs at them in a quick, instinctive snarl before Master’s hand on my waist pulls me back into our messy rhythm. The black silk and magenta lining tangle around my legs. The light blue trim on my cuffs brushes against his chest as I cling harder.

It’s not graceful. It’s not elegant. It’s barely dancing at all.

But it’s ours.

Every clumsy step, every time we step on each other’s toes, every time I press my face into his neck and purr loud enough for the nearest pairs to hear, it’s me claiming him in front of all these horrified merchant lords and ladies who thought they could dress me up and make me behave like one of them. The dress they forced on me is already coming apart at the seams from my run and our terrible dancing, magenta lining flashing like a warning, light blue trim crooked and defiant.

I don’t loosen my grip for a second.

The music swells and we lurch through another turn, my tail whipping out and nearly catching a passing servant. More whispers. More disgusted looks. I ignore them all, focusing only on the feel of Master under my hands, the bond between us, and the feral certainty that no matter how many people stare or mutter or turn away in revulsion, he is mine and I am never letting go.

We keep dancing, badly, possessively, unashamed, while the rest of the hall watches in varying degrees of shock and distaste, the black silk and magenta and light blue trim of my ruined merchant lord dress flashing with every clumsy, feral step.