The queue at the southern checkpoint crawls forward, each step grinding out another minute as the sun drops below the palisade and the torches cast long shadows over the road. The sandstone beneath my boots is warm from the day, but the air is cooling fast, thick with the scent of animal sweat. Master stands tall, cloak straight, his face set in that quiet, unreadable mask he wears in every border crossing, every negotiation. I stay pressed at his side, tail looped once around his calf, claiming, warning, unwilling to give an inch to the city’s sentries.
Ahead, the checkpoint is a controlled chaos of guards, clerks, and traders. A pair of dwarves argue with a clerk over a ledger, two catgirls wait with their eyes downcast and collars on display, a caravan master unloads a box of glassware for inspection. Every person is inspected, every pack opened, every animal checked for contraband or hidden taxes. This is the Merchant Republic, no exceptions, no favours, just the grind of coin and law.
When we finally reach the front, the guards, one Alderian, one dwarf, both in pale blue tabards, look us up and down with bored professionalism. The Alderian speaks first, his tone official, no room for games or negotiation.
“We’ll need permission to search your packs and inspect your persons,” he says, glancing at me a little longer than he does at Master. “Standard procedure. Step forward, please.”
I can feel Master’s thoughts, controlled, calm, measuring risk and response. He knows this is routine, knows there’s nothing in our packs worth real trouble, but I also know how much he hates being touched, how little he trusts anyone in uniform. For me, the feeling is worse, strangers’ hands on my fur, my tail, my collar, the old humiliation and rage twisting tight in my stomach. My claws flex, barely restrained, but I keep my eyes locked on Master’s, waiting for his lead.
He sets his pack down first, calmly, opening it wide for inspection, every movement deliberate and slow. “Go ahead,” he says, voice perfectly neutral, showing no fear, no irritation. “You’ll find only travel rations and personal gear.” His gaze never wavers from the guards, his body between them and me, not aggressive, not challenging, just the unmistakable presence of someone who’s not afraid and not to be underestimated.
When it comes to me, I stay right where I am, tail low, ears forward, posture tense. The dwarf guard holds out a hand, making it clear he expects to search me for hidden goods or contraband. My hackles rise. I can feel my breath quicken, every muscle wound tight.
When the guard’s hand hovers near my collar, I bristle, baring my teeth for just a second, a flash of warning, a promise that this isn’t just some pet’s trinket but property, marked and protected. The guard hesitates, eyes flicking to Master. He’s not eager to start a fight over a registered collar, not when there’s a line behind us and witnesses everywhere.
He doesn’t know what he’s reaching for. Nobody does, not really. Only Master understands, what it means when a stranger’s hand gets too close to my head, my tail, my collar. My memories are full of warnings. Never let them near. Never trust what they’ll do. Touch isn’t neutral, touch is trespass, an attempt to dominate, to dig past the surface and maybe, just maybe, find a way to break what’s inside me. My breath goes sharp and thin. I don’t care if this is a city, a checkpoint, a Republic with all its petty rules, anyone tries to get that close without my permission, and they risk teeth and blood.
He leans in, too casual, too sure of himself. My ears flatten, eyes go wide and wild, a low, guttural growl bubbling up from my chest, pure, raw, the unblinking, feral promise of violence. Every muscle tenses, ready to spring. The crowd’s attention drifts our way. The dwarf hesitates, just a heartbeat, his fingers pausing at the edge of my belt, not quite brave enough to reach for my tail or collar. He’s not a fool. He can see what’s waiting in my eyes, what happens if he tries to assert himself, tries to push past the boundary.
The Alderian clerk watches, unreadable, and Master’s presence is a stone behind me. I can feel his gaze, the readiness in him, the awareness that all it would take is a word, a glance, and I’d unleash on this little man, guards or no guards. My cruelty coils in my chest, how easy it would be to break the checkpoint’s calm, to make a scene so bloody and fast they’d never forget the “defensive kitten” at the city gate.
But Master is the one who chooses how far we go. I see the flicker in his thoughts, the calm calculation as he steps forward, not a word spoken, not a threat, just the cold, practical hand of someone who knows how things are done when the law is just a curtain for business. He slips two silver coins into the guard’s palm, slow, visible, never rushed. No anger, no bargaining. Just inevitability, the oldest bribe in the world. The dwarf feels the weight, closes his fist, and without a single word, steps back. He doesn’t bother to finish the search, doesn’t care what’s hidden now that his purse is heavier by two months’ wages. Merchant republics run on silver and secrets, corruption is just another toll to be paid.
The tension dissolves. My smile lingers, teeth still out, but my body relaxes just enough for the line to move. The crowd barely notices, the transaction so common it might as well be part of the official procedure. I fix the guard with a long, flat stare as we pass, promise and warning and contempt all at once. My tail flicks, ears snap forward, every inch of me daring him to try again anywhere but this gate.
Master walks ahead, and I slip right to his side, pressing against his cloak. I lean in, low, voice a hot whisper meant for him alone. “Two silver’s a bargain, but if he’d put a finger on my tail, he’d be chewing his own beard for a month.” The feral pride, the hunger to defend what’s mine, what’s his... it’s still burning hot under my skin.
