He jolts awake, no gentle stirring, no sleepy confusion, just sudden, sharp movement as if pulled up from a nightmare or yanked into action by instincts that never let him rest. His heart hammers, his breath is already steady and cold. He doesn’t look at me at first. He sits, spine stiff, eyes half in the dark, already somewhere else. All at once, the bond snaps wide open and I’m caught in a flood.
Not thoughts, not really. Schematics. Calculations. Possibilities. Risks. Orders. His mind spits out routes and danger points and escape plans faster than I can even breathe. It’s a machine, whirring at a speed that leaves my own brain lagging, every moment cross referenced, every threat assigned a counter, every person we’ve seen or heard about in the last three days sorted by usefulness and potential danger. He’s a storm. I am tangled in it.
My tail whips and my ears flatten, pupils blown wide. I’m half up, crouched beside him, claws sunk into the bedding, panting, head swimming, heart thundering. I can taste the adrenaline, thick and sour, making my mouth water, making my fur stand on end. His pulse is an alarm in my skull, his thoughts a tidal wave I can’t ride or outswim.
I nose at his temple, frantic, desperate to ground myself, to get a whiff of what he’s really feeling beneath all the cold logic, but his head’s a fortress, steel and stone and razor wire, every wall bristling with plans. I snarl, a broken, hungry sound, as if by biting him I can slow his mind, drag him back down to me, to the bed, to the warmth and the now.
But it’s useless. He’s moving already, boots on, belt buckled, gear checked, eyes scanning the shadows for threats that aren’t even real yet. I scramble after, breathless, caught in the crossfire of his intent, every step a new permutation, a new crisis, a new plan of attack or retreat. My claws click against the floor, my senses a mess, I can’t keep up, I want to scream, but I don’t dare. He’s Master. He’s already gone, chasing something I can barely see, and I have to follow, have to keep up, have to be there before someone else gets to him first.
His plans become my world. His adrenaline becomes my own. My mind and nose chase the echo of his every move, no matter how fast, no matter how much it hurts.
He stops so abruptly I nearly crash into him, tail flicking wild, claws half drawn as if expecting a threat from every shadow in the room. His voice cuts through the chaos in my head, cold, even, no hint of the storm I just rode through the bond. “Looks like we’ll just have to pay a visit to this other guildhall.” No drama, no pause, just a plan dropping into place. Then he turns, his gaze landing on me.
He tilts his head, just the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth, and says, “Bad dream or something? You look like you’ve been dragged through the sky.” The words are plain, dry, utterly unfazed by the mess I’ve become. I realize my fur is bristling, my breathing shallow, pupils wide and wild, every inch of me trembling from the aftershocks of his thoughts running riot through my mind.
I bare my teeth, half snarl, half grin, ears still pinned. “You call that a dream? I call that a tornado with your name stamped on every broken piece.” My voice cracks with adrenaline, purr twisted into a growl, claws flexing at my sides. I lurch closer, pressing against him as if the world might spin off its axis if I don’t keep a grip. “You want to drag me through the sky, Master, you better be ready for me to bite when we land.”
I press my nose to his throat, desperate to scent him, to anchor myself, to steal a little calm from his unshakable presence. My tail coils around his thigh, refusing to let go, breath ragged as I force myself to slow down. “Next time, you warn me before you go tearing the world apart with your mind. Or at least let me ride lead, not get tossed like some mere pet.” My voice softens, defiance giving way to need, to that shaky devotion only he ever sees. “I’ll keep up. Always. But you’re not leaving me behind not ever.”
He then speaks and his words sting, but there’s no real bite. just that flat, amused truth that always leaves me clawing for the upper hand. “Oh please, you chose to sniff inside my head. Don’t think I didn’t catch you there, distracting me as I was looking at all the empirical data.” He pats the back of my neck, casual, dismissive. But he should know better than to offer an inch. Especially now.
I push back hard, nose jammed under his jaw, breath hot against his throat. I shove my head up into him, not asking, not waiting, tail lashing behind me in sharp, defiant arcs. The contact is sudden, needy, a demand and a challenge at once. I rub my face up and down his neck and jaw, marking him with scent, all but headbutting his chin. I force him to feel the brunt of my need, the weight of my claim, the fact that I’m not just a voice in his head, I’m flesh and fur and insistence.
I press in again, harder this time, eyes slitted in bliss and irritation. I rub my cheeks against him, then slide up and butt my forehead into his jaw, hard enough that he has to brace or stumble. My tail hooks around his leg, anchoring, refusing to let him step away. I purr, loud, unashamed, the rough, rattling kind that’s half threat, half plea. The whole world narrows to this contact, this moment, this animal need.
Like a housecat desperate for attention, I weave around him, curling under his hand, pushing my head under his palm until his fingers are forced to scratch behind my ears. I flick my tail and give a deep, satisfied mrrrrow, the sound echoing in the narrow room. When he doesn’t scratch hard enough, I reach up, claws extended just a fraction, pawing at his sleeve until he relents, giving in to the demand for touch and worship and reassurance.
Then I flop down at his feet, dramatic and sprawled, rolling onto my back with my stomach exposed, tail flicking, looking up with wide, possessive blue eyes. I dare him to ignore me. I dare him to move without giving me my due.
“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before teasing a cat with a mind like mine, Master,” I purr, claws flexing in the air, “because I’ll always make you pay the toll. And I’ll never stop coming back for more.”
I stretch smug, every line of my body screaming ownership, challenge, devotion, all wrapped up in the simple, unbreakable ritual of being the one thing he can never outthink or outmaneuver.
It’s still early, the sun burning away the last scraps of cloud, sky sharp and blue above us, a rare mercy. I stalk beside Master down the broad, stone paved walk, tail flicking with nerves and caffeine, eyes narrowed against the glare. The city feels different here, too clean, too new, all the old grime scrubbed away.
And then, rising above the rooftops and the hush of morning, there it is, the building from the sketch, the new guildhall. The thing’s a fortress, freshly painted and still smelling of mortar and ambition. The walls are thick, cut from pale stone with gold trim catching the light, and the roof’s edged with crisp angles, too pristine for anything but recent money. There’s a clockface or maybe some kind of golden device set dead centre, ringed in silver, its hands sharp and deliberate, already ticking out the rhythm of this new power’s rule.
The front entrance is broad, meant to impress, three interlocking towers that punch out from the main dome. The flagstone steps are swept clean, no litter, no vagrant scrawl, no sign of struggle or old tenants except a half faded patch on the ground where an old sign used to hang. They’ve moved in fast, thrown coin around to make it obvious. It reeks of fresh influence, as if they want the city to know exactly how sudden and how thorough their arrival is.
I can almost taste the wealth and arrogance pouring from the stones, well funded, yes, but there’s an underlying edge of haste. No banners, no flowers, just that gold and stone confidence and a handful of guards who look almost new to their uniforms, still getting used to their roles, watching us with the jittery suspicion of men who haven’t yet decided what kind of trouble we might be.
Master takes it all in, unreadable, already parsing the entrances, the patrol routes, the kind of coin it takes to evict an old owner and stamp your own seal on the city’s skin in a single week. My nose twitches, scenting unfamiliar perfumes and the acrid tang of new paint, along with the nervous sweat of men not sure if they’re about to earn hazard pay. I bare my teeth, just a hint, tail curling, claws itching to scratch a mark somewhere, anything to remind them that even behind all this polish, a cat can always find her way in.
I crowd closer to Master, possessive, protective, eyes never stopping their prowl across the crowd and windows. I can sense it, the anticipation, the threat, the certainty that something’s about to snap, no matter how grand the facade. This guild may be new, but they’re already playing for keeps.
He gives me the briefest look, cool, careful, calculating, before he starts up the steps, as if he’s got every right to be here. I follow, tail high.
No one stops us. The guards at the door just nod, stiff and rehearsed. Inside, the place is a hive of noise and energy, fresh paint, polished floors, and the clatter of furniture being moved. New banners hang above the foyer, stitched with some sleek emblem, geometric, forgettable, desperate to look established. The air smells of fresh parchment and burnt tea.
We’re barely two steps in when some eager functionary, a young man in a crisp blue jacket, badge shining, clipboard in hand, spots us and hurries over. “Welcome! Welcome to the future of guild security and opportunity!” he crows, voice bright and too loud, every word designed to carry to the rest of the room. “You must be the new applicants, recruits already, fantastic, absolutely fantastic. You’ll find we run things very differently here compared to those… old city guilds. We’re not just another hall. We’re an investment in your future!”
He ushers us forward, all gleaming teeth and sales pitch, never giving us a chance to answer or protest. “Here at x” he continues, gesturing grandly, “you can expect, full medical support, not some hedge out back, double shifts, double pay, yes, you heard that right, actual, regular silver in your hand, not just promises and scraps. Every member is guaranteed two hot meals a day, private quarters, clean, new, secure, and full access to our training yard and practice dummies.”
He walks us past a row of open offices, each one glass, walled, bustling with activity, clerks, guards, a handful of hard eyed types in tailored coats overseeing everything. “And don’t forget our exclusive sponsorship deals! Gear upgrades every quarter, subsidised supplies, performance bonuses, guild sponsored leave. We even have an after hours lounge for staff, none of that cheap ale and moldy bread. Only the best.”
He beams, all corporate bravado and easy charm, voice dropping just enough for the pitch to sound conspiratorial. “We’re the modern option. We don’t cling to old feuds or dusty rules. You sign with us, you’re on the fast track, career advancement, real benefits, actual care for our people.” His eyes flicker with calculation, as if weighing how best to sell us, how quickly to get us in line.
All around, the new recruits stare, some with envy, some with suspicion, but most with hope. They hear the words. They want to believe. The old world is dying, and these halls are ready to sell them the future for the right price.
I shoot Master a sideways look, tail lashing, a wicked little grin curling my lips. “Hear that? Maybe they’ll even polish your boots, Master. All this luxury… what could possibly go wrong?” My voice is honey and barbed wire, quiet enough for only him. But my eyes are already prowling, looking for the cracks, the places where too much shine always hides rot.
Masters strength roll,15 +3, Proficiency: +2 = 20
The door closes behind us, shut tight. Master doesn’t hesitate. He’s all resolve and that nihilist, noir drowned fatalism. I barely catch the flicker in his eyes before he moves, one brutal, decisive motion. He grabs my wrist, pivots, and slams me back against the wall. It’s not anger, not desperation, it’s control. Absolute. The move’s as smooth as any mercenary’s, muscles coiled, every inch of his body a weapon forged in the kind of work these “modern” guilds pretend never stains their precious contracts.
I gasp, breath stolen, pleasure sparking behind my ribs. My tail lashes in the tight space, every nerve alight. I bare my teeth, grinning, letting him press all that city worn, world weary purpose right into my bones. The office is silent but for my heart pounding, the soft rumble of his breathing.
His voice is low, graveled, contempt as cold as midnight. “Look at this place. Everything sold as new, clean, civilised, same rotten city underneath, just with a fresh coat of paint. They promise luxury and care, but all they’re doing is swapping one master for another. And everyone out there lines up to be bought, thinking it’ll be different this time. It never is.” His eyes are hard, cynicism burning through every word. “The world doesn’t want heroes. It wants cogs, quiet ones, smooth ones, the kind that don’t remember what the old blood stains looked like.”
I arch against his grip, rolling my hips into his, breath ragged, purring with vicious, territorial delight. “Let them rot in their glass boxes, Master. Let them choke on their polished promises. You don’t belong to any of them.” My claws scratch the wall beside his head, just to feel the bite, to hear the echo, to mark the space as mine.
He doesn’t let go. He leans in, close enough that his words are for me alone. “Never trust a place that calls you ‘family’ before they know your name. Never trust a guild that brags about what it’ll do for you. Nothing’s free. Not anywhere.” His stare is sharp, daring me to flinch, to doubt, to forget what kind of world we walk through together.
I smirk, baring my teeth, voice a velvet taunt. “Let them sell their futures, Master. All I need is you. The city can keep its lies. I’ll take the truth, no matter how much it hurts.”
The poor functionary is still in the room, pressed back against the edge of his perfect new desk, eyes wide as coin, clipboard clutched to his chest like it’s going to save him from the wild scene unfolding in front of him. He’s out of his depth, completely. You can see the moment his brain short circuits, realising this isn’t just another polished recruitment pitch, this is something sharp and real and unfiltered, something that doesn’t fit any of his training modules or orientation pamphlets. All those tick boxes broken..
He gawks, mouth working, trying to piece together if he should step in, call for help, or just back out and pretend he saw nothing. The confusion, the twitchy fear, the dawning realisation that he’s not in control? It’s delicious.
I absolutely lose it. The laughter rips out of me, unhinged, manic, a high, bright peal that fills the little office, bounces off. It’s the laughter of someone who’s seen too much, who knows the punchline to every sick joke the city plays, who’s drunk on the power of being exactly what she is, with no shame, no filter, no leash. My tail lashes the air, ears pinned back with wild glee, eyes burning with predatory amusement.
I lean harder into Master, letting my claws drag along his coat, putting on a show for our captive audience. “Oh, gods, look at him! Look at that face!” I choke out between laughs, voice ragged, savage with delight. “Didn’t they tell you, darling? This isn’t the ‘team-building’ exercise you rehearsed in orientation. You wanted to show us your benefits package? Here’s mine.” I throw a leg over Master’s hip, baring my teeth in a smirk that’s all ego, all threat, all Aliza, unapologetic, untameable, out for blood and glory.
He stands there, paralysed, just blinking as if hoping this is all some fever dream, one that will vanish if he can just keep quiet and hold onto his rules.
I swing my gaze to him, eyes bright, tone syrup sweet and laced with venom. “Relax, hero. You wanted new recruits? This is what the future looks like, real, raw, territorial, and a hell of a lot hungrier than you.” I flick my tail, then deliberately press my cheek to Master’s chest, letting my laughter die into a smug, possessive purr. “Better run back to your managers. Tell them they don’t own a single thing in this city that I don’t let them keep. Not even the air.”
He edges toward the door, pale and rattled, fumbling for the handle as if it might bite him too. My grin widens, hungry, confident, utterly unbothered.
Masters crossbow attack,18 +3 (DEX modifier) +2 (Proficiency) +4 (Copper iron crossbow bonus) +1 Aliza = 28 total attack roll
Master moves fast. Too fast for the poor corporate boy to even yelp. There’s a flicker and then the crossbow comes up, silent, methodical, not a whisper of wasted motion. The bolt sings through the stale office air, a perfect, brutal arc. It bites deep into the functionary’s shoulder, punching through that crisp new uniform and pinning him to the wall like a butterfly in a collector’s case. The man screams, a thin, reedy wail, shock and agony blooming across his face as he collapses, blood welling through his suit and soaking the paperwork still clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
Master’s attack is flawless, clean and clinical. No mercy. No hesitation. Just violence delivered with the precision of a man who knows exactly what every number means and why the city keeps count.
He doesn’t lingeron the victim, just turns to me, his eyes cold, his voice utterly neutral. “Don’t forget why we’re here.” There’s no heat, no regret, just that grim, lawless clarity. In the same breath, he steps close, seizing me with a hand at the nape, dragging his nose down my neck, inhaling like he’s burning the scent into memory for some future storm.
Then he drops me, suddenly, decisively, cloak swirling as he stalks away toward the wounded man, boots heavy, each step punctuating his control. “I’ll be back for that scent of yours later, my pet. Alas, work calls for now.”
My tail flicks, shuddering with pride and hungry anticipation, the raw, electric violence. I purr, wild, high, unhinged, watching him close in on his prey, the taste of blood and power thick on the air. The functionary whimpers, pinned and helpless, and the city outside doesn’t even know it’s just changed hands again.
My mind is nothing but heat and laughter and the pounding drum of ownership. The moment Master’s fist cracks across the functionary’s jaw, one brutal, unhurried punch, so effortless it’s almost tender, I feel a wild shiver ripple through me, pleasure and hunger twisted together. The man’s scream dies with a whimper, body sagging against the wall, blood smearing down the polished surface, lips wet and quivering, eyes wild with pain and the shock of his own insignificance.
The office is thick with the metallic scent of blood, sweat, and fear, my territory now, claimed not by banners or contracts, but by violence and dominance so raw. My focus narrows. Not on the functionary’s face, not on his pain or his terror, but on the fresh mark Master left on his world, this living evidence that we don’t play by their rules.
I stalk up, slow and deliberate, hips swaying, tail lashing, every step a warning and a promise. I let my claws drag across the desk, scratching lines into the gleaming finish, making it clear nothing here is untouched, unthreatened. My eyes never leave the blood.
I don’t care about the man’s name, or his whimpering. He’s nothing but an object now, a message pinned to the wall for the rest of the guild to find. I crowd close, inhaling the sharp stink of terror, eyes wide, smile unhinged. My attention flickers, first to the bolt, the beautiful wound, the ragged red ruining the uniform, then to the trembling, ruined face that tried to sell us promises just minutes ago.
My claws extend, gliding gently down his cheek, not enough to break skin but enough to let him feel the promise of what’s next. I lean in, purring, breath hot in his ear. “This is what your new world smells like, blood and fear and the sound you make when you realise you don’t matter.” I mark him with my scent, cheek to cheek, a low, guttural growl vibrating from my throat. I go to lick the blood from my claws, eyes wild, letting my gaze flick to Master.
The change in the air is instant. One heartbeat I’m drunk on blood and power, the next I feel it through the bond like a knife in my ribs, Master’s anger, real and raw, flooding out so sudden it leaves no room for breath. He’s not the calm shadow anymore.
I freeze, claws halfway to my mouth. My tail drops, low and stiff, every hair standing on end. His stare lands on me, no mask, no pretense, nothing civilised left. Those eyes strip me bare. I feel it crawl over my nerves, down my spine, rooting me to the spot. There’s no warmth, no indulgence, just that silent, boiling fury that means I’ve crossed a line even the world itself can’t redraw.
The office shrinks, the world contracts to him and the violence between us. He’s silent, but the bond screams.
My ears go flat, my body low, my voice a whisper. “Sorry, Master.” No defiance, no ego. My hands drop, claws retract, my head bows, nose almost to the floor, offering him everything.
He doesn’t speak. There’s no warning, no performance, no explanation. Master moves in a single, economical motion, sword drawn, blade pressed to skin, one hard, practiced pull. Blood spills hot and dark over the functionary’s ruined collar, spraying the desk, pooling across the paperwork and new polished floor.
For a moment, the only sound is the wet, living hush of death, the faint echo of a last, choked breath. Master just stands there, hand loose at his side, blade slick and red. He doesn’t even bother to wipe it. He looks at me, no mask, no cold detective logic, nothing left but that bare, naked animal anger. His stare is flat, pitiless, empty as a winter sky.
Through the bond, the storm hits me, shame, self loathing, rage, the sick, black twist of a plan destroyed by his own hand, my indulgence, my hunger, my mistake infecting him. I feel it. He didn’t want information. He didn’t want leverage. He just wanted the man gone, wanted to show me what happens when I step too close to the line.
His eyes lock onto mine, wide and dead and furious. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. For a second, I think he might strike me, punishment, retribution, an end to the game and the bond, both.
I don’t move. I don’t dare. I let him decide what comes next.
He doesn’t say a word. Not a sigh, not a growl, not a single command. He just moves, detached, cold, untouchable, shoulders set in that posture. His eyes are knives but his body is ice, every line radiating a warning. He steps past me, careful not to meet my eyes, not even to glance down. He’s leaving me there on the floor, raw and shaking, as if my surrender is nothing, as if I’m not even worth the punishment.
But as he moves toward the far wall, I feel the bond yanking tight, a hot wire under my skin, panic rising in my throat. He gets close to five feet away, five feet, that knife edge where the bond starts to tear and the pain claws up from my stomach to my chest, frantic and sharp and electric. I can feel his mind roaring just out of reach.
I don’t think. I can’t. Instinct takes over, animal, desperate, a housecat stripped of dignity and pride, running on nothing but the need not to be left behind. I drop to all fours, crawling after him, claws clicking over the polished tile, tail low and trembling. I circle him, weaving between his legs, rubbing my cheek along his calf, tail twining around his ankle, scenting him, marking him over and over. My head presses against his hip, then his knee, then his hand, begging for any response, any touch, any sign that I still belong, that he hasn’t cut me loose.
I wind myself around his legs, purring low and frantic, butting my head under his hand, pawing at his boot until I’m sure he can’t ignore the weight of me. My body is a question, a plea, a promise, I’m still here, still his, still willing to do anything if he’ll just let me stay close.
The second his hand comes down, fingers rough and steady against my head, everything inside me snaps tight with relief and wild, dizzy joy. The pat is small, almost thoughtless, just a palm dragging down over my scalp, a stroke behind the ears, nothing more than a gesture. But it’s all I need. Permission. Forgiveness. Proof that the world isn’t ending, that I haven’t lost my place, that even if everything else burns, I am still his.
My whole body surges up, the movement explosive and animal. I leap, no hesitation, no dignity, all claws and desperate, overwhelming love. My arms wrap around his neck, legs around his waist, tail lashing wildly behind me as I cling, burrowing my face into his collar, rubbing my cheek under his jaw, purring so loud it vibrates through both our chests. My claws knead into his back, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to remind him I’m real, I’m here, I’m his.
For a moment I just hang there, clinging, purring, breathing him in. The world is small, safe, just Master, the heat of his skin, the echo of his heartbeat thudding beneath my cheek. I don’t speak, don’t move except to hold tighter.
Even after Master pries me off, stern, insistent, every inch a command, I drag my paws, tail wrapped tight around his wrist, nuzzling, making him work for it. When he finally peels me away, I stand close, hovering, never more than a foot from his side, eyes locked on his face. I want him to know I’m not leaving, not unless he makes me.
He’s all business now, scanning the room with that cold, precise, methodical focus that always makes me ache with pride and hunger. His eyes flick over paperwork, battered drawers, the ruin we left behind, nothing missed, nothing wasted.
I try to help, pacing the edges of the room, nose twitching, ears swiveling for any sound, every muscle tight with a need to be useful. But the blood, the scent of him, the aftermath of his anger, it clouds my head. My mind’s a mess, thoughts spinning, senses overloaded, paws fumbling at files and cupboards. I knock over a stack of folders, sneeze at the dust, get distracted by the way his scent clings to the door handle. Everything feels too bright, too sharp, too loud. I’m a disaster, chasing shadows, missing the obvious.
Master, meanwhile, moves through the chaos like he owns it. He finds the hidden drawer beneath the desk, a trick latch, smeared with blood but still functional. Inside he gathers the evidence, barely glancing at me as I circle uselessly, trying to make myself helpful, trying to please. I can only watch, biting my lip, tail twitching, desperate for another chance to prove myself. For now, though, the lesson is clear, sometimes, no matter how wild or devoted or desperate, a cat is still just a cat, and the world keeps turning on the hands of those who know where to look.
“Well, take your clothes off,” Master says, voice all cold authority, no room for argument. My body reacts before my mind can even catch up, fur bristling.
He moves with that same ruthless efficiency, no shame, no hesitation. His fingers strip away his own bloodstained tunic and cloak, folding them with mechanical care, sliding them into the backpack along with mine. I scramble out of my things, awkward, feverish, glancing once at the corpse in the corner and then back at Master, watching for the flicker of approval, desperate for his focus. Blood stains my skin in streaks and patches.
He tosses a set of the new guild’s uniforms onto the table, fabric stiff, still creased. There’s a badge stitched into the collar, some empty corporate symbol where identity should be. He grabs a set for himself, rolling the sleeves, adjusting the fit, never once looking embarrassed or unsure.
He shoves my new uniform into my hands. “Get dressed. Fast.” His tone is still flat, detached, but the undercurrent is all possessive heat, he doesn’t just want us to blend in, he wants to erase the evidence, to claim every inch of me for himself, even in this borrowed skin. I slip the tunic over my head, fumble with the trousers, still feeling the weight of his gaze.
We leave the body sprawled in a pool of blood, slumped against the wall like discarded meat. No attempt to hide him, no message left behind. Just another piece of collateral in a city that eats its own. The new uniforms itch against my skin, the fresh badge at my throat an empty shield. I watch Master adjust his collar, cool and collected, all edges and purpose. When he steps out first, I follow on his heels, clinging close, eyes bright, heart hammering with the wild, shivery thrill of getting away with murder.
The corridor outside is bustling, new recruits, scribes, a handful of hard eyed guards shuffling papers or lugging crates. No one gives us a second glance. We move like we belong, nothing out of place except the sharpness in Master’s eyes and the giddy, fever bright grin I can’t wipe off my face. I press up against him, tail snaking around his wrist, purring under my breath as we blend with the crowd.
The thought hits me, hard, delicious. They’ll find the body, eventually. There’ll be panic, questions, meetings, accusations. But us? We’re ghosts in clean uniforms, our scent masked. What are they going to do? My laughter bubbles up, manic, breathless. I have to bite his shoulder to keep from cackling outright as we turn the corner, slipping into the main flow of bodies streaming out to the street.
I nuzzle into his side, letting my fingers tangle in the back of his new tunic, claws pressing just hard enough to remind him I’m there, to mark him even under the disguise. “They won’t trace a thing,” I whisper, voice full of smug, vicious glee. “Let them scramble, let them panic, they’ll never find us, not when we wear their skin and their name.” I rub my cheek against his arm, tail lashing, eyes alight with a predatory pride. “We own this city, Master. Let them chase ghosts.”
He doesn’t even glance down at me, just keeps walking, the very picture of control and composure. But I cling tighter, drinking in the power, the anonymity, the reckless freedom of slipping away from a fresh kill in borrowed clothes.
Outside, the city’s noisehits, carts rattling, boots, voices loud. The sky’s still clear, sun blinding off pale rooftops, but the air bites, crisp and raw. I step out at Master’s side, clutching the stack of stolen papers against my chest, feeling the cold gnaw at my fingers and seep into my bones.
Most Alderian passersby hunch their shoulders, draw their cloaks tight, faces pinched against the chill, but I hardly flinch. My ears twitch in the breeze, but truth is, my body soaks up the cold with stubborn pleasure. My tail whips through the air, a slow, self satisfied lash, fur puffed but not shivering. I’m built for worse than this, double the warmth, twice the resilience, cat blood made to outlast the worst winter can spit.
But still, I use it as an excuse to close the gap, pressing myself shamelessly against Master’s side, draping my arm through his, tail wrapping around his wrist as I walk. The cold’s a convenient lie, a reason to nuzzle into him, to tuck my head under his chin and let my purr rumble loud enough to drown out the traffic. “Too cold for these streets, Master,” I murmur, the hint of a smirk curling my lips, “even for a cat like me. Good thing I’ve got you to keep me warm.” I nuzzle in, drawing in his scent through the borrowed uniform, not caring who sees, who stares.
