We leave. Not dramatically. Not with speeches. We leave the way experienced predators do when the ground starts to smell wrong. Quiet steps. No eye contact with the past. The market is already tearing itself apart behind us.
I hear it before I see it. Raised voices snapping into shouts, boots scraping stone, the ugly rhythm of anger looking for a body. Clan Dalkurhan xenophobes are at it again, wrapped in their stone water grove nonsense, screaming about purity and borders while a group of dwarves refuse to bow their heads low enough to satisfy those with gods for excuses.
I glance once. Just once. No immediate threat to us. No pursuit. No blades drawn in our direction yet. Just chaos eating itself. Good. I feel the tug in my chest. The instinct to step in. To break something. To make the noise stop. I want blood. I want to be seen. I want to calculate leverage.
But then I feel him beside me. His thoughts are already moving forward, already done with this place. He did not bring us here to clean up every rot in Alderia. He brought us here to leave. So I turn away. My tail brushes his leg deliberately as we pass the edge of the market, ears forward, posture calm. Anyone watching would see travellers. Anyone smarter would feel the pressure and look elsewhere.
We do not get involved. That alone feels like a victory. The first hours carry us through flatlands. Fields stretch out in long obedient rows, soil dark and heavy, the smell of earth thick enough to coat the back of my tongue. Farmers glance up as we pass, some curious, some wary, most too tired to care. White and light blue cloth everywhere, the kingdom’s colours stitched into aprons and cloaks like a reminder of who owns the ground beneath their feet.
I stay half a step behind him, spear angled just so, shield resting easy. My ears track every sound, birds lifting, distant carts, the soft mutter of wind through crops. My tail sways low, relaxed but ready. This is easy walking. Honest ground.
After two hours, the land thickens. Farmland gives way to temperate forest, trees taller and closer together, light breaking into patterns that move even when nothing else does. The air cools. Damp. Green. My ears twitch at the change. Forests are honest too, but they remember things longer.
We pass Maw Tower not long after. Sandstone rises out of the trees like a clenched fist, squared and utilitarian, Clan Dalkurhan banners hanging stiffly despite the weak wind. Guards watch the road from slitted windows, their silhouettes rigid with doctrine. I feel my spine tighten.
I lift my chin slightly as we pass, eyes sliding toward the tower just long enough to register. Not a glare. A promise. My tail flicks once behind me, deliberate. They do not move. Good. I feel his thoughts brush mine, approval without words. He noticed. He always notices. We keep walking.
By the time we reach the Oak Trade Road, five hours have bled away behind us. The road is broad, packed earth reinforced by stone in places, worn smooth by centuries of trade and conquest. This artery feeds the capital, and everything along it feels the weight of that importance. South of Mire Point. East of Marshgate. A liminal stretch where jurisdictions blur and everyone pretends not to see too much.
As we cross into the flatlands beyond, something catches my attention. Movement. Orderly. Non hostile. A small caravan has stopped off the road, wagons pulled into a defensive crescent more out of habit than fear. Travelling herbalists, by the smell of it. Alderian mostly, one gnome perched atop a crate arguing cheerfully with a catgirl who looks half asleep in the sun. No guards. No tension. Just people existing without sharpening knives.
It unsettles me more than danger would. I slow half a step, watching them with narrowed eyes. Peace always feels temporary. Borrowed. “They are fine,” I say quietly to him, more statement than reassurance. “No trap. No play for attention.” We pass without interaction. No one calls out. No one stares too long. The world, briefly, behaves.
Then the rain comes. Soft at first. A fine mist that darkens cloth and brings out the smell of leaf rot and stone. My ears flatten instantly, irritation flaring sharp and hot. I hiss under my breath, fingers tightening on my spear shaft. I feel the old fear rise, ugly and irrational. Water creeping into fur. The stink. The humiliation. But my cowl is secure. Master made it with his own hands. I trust it more than I trust gods.
Saving throw against wet fur effects, 9, Cowl bonus: +3 = 12
The rain beads and runs off instead of soaking in. My fur stays clean. Dry enough. I breathe out slowly through my nose, forcing my tail to loosen. I move closer to him without thinking, shoulder brushing his arm, grounding myself in his presence. The bond hums steady. He notices the shift but does not comment. Good. He knows better.
Rain lasts a few hours, never heavy, never cruel, just persistent enough to test patience. Leaves drip. The road darkens. Footsteps grow quieter. Then it stops. Clouds thin. Light returns in pale stripes through branches. Steam rises faintly from the ground.I roll my shoulders, ears lifting again, tail resuming its slow deliberate sway. We made it through. Clean.
By the time the light starts to change toward evening by his reckoning, we are well away from Mire Point and the rot that clings to it. The road stretches ahead, quiet, honest, waiting. I glance at him, then forward again. “We are doing this right,” I say softly. Not pride. Confirmation.
Inside me, I am calm, satisfied by momentum. Already planning the next stretch. Spoiled and relieved, presses close to the warmth of his presence without apology. We left chaos behind. We walked through land that did not try to own us. We endured rain without humiliation. That is a good first day. And as my tail brushes his leg again, possessive and certain, I know this road will behave, because I am watching it, and because he chose to leave instead of letting the world pull him apart one demand at a time.
His words land gently, like a hand placed flat instead of a grip. “Come now, let’s rest. I’m just glad it’s been somewhat peaceful. Can’t say it’s been a bad five hour walk… but you must be hungry.” I stop without thinking. Not abruptly. Not stiff. Just a natural halt, like my body heard the truth before my mind finished processing it. My ears flick forward, then angle slightly outward in that tell I never quite managed to erase. My tail slows, then curls once behind me, thoughtful.
Of course I am. Catgirls burn through fuel faster than Alderians, and five hours of steady marching, vigilance, rain tension, restraint around Maw Tower, and emotional indulgence in his thoughts has left that familiar hollow heat low in my stomach. It is not weakness. It is biology sharpened by habit.
Still, the way he says it matters. Not as an order. Not as a dismissal. As care folded into practicality. I step closer, shoulder brushing his arm again, claiming the space like it belongs to both of us now. My spear lowers slightly, no longer the extension of my vigilance but just a tool resting. My ears relax. My tail lifts and sways once, content.
“You noticed,” I say quietly, amused, pleased. “I was going to give it another hour before I admitted it.” I glance around, letting my senses stretch, not in alarm this time, but in selection.
“There,” I say, pointing with the spear tip toward a shallow rise just off the road. A cluster of trees breaks the wind, ground slightly elevated so water will not pool if the rain returns. Fallen leaves thick enough to soften sound, sparse enough not to hide anything large and unpleasant.
I move ahead of him instinctively, checking the perimeter with quick efficient motions, ears rotating, tail lifted for balance. No tracks too fresh. No scent of predators close. Just old forest and tired air. Good.
Once satisfied, I shrug my pack off and kneel, movements smooth, familiar. The rhythm of camp settles into my bones like a remembered song. I unlace the bundle of smoked venison with practised fingers, the scent immediately sharpening my focus. Protein. Salt. Comfort.
I tear a piece free and pause. Then, without ceremony, I hold it out to him first. Not because I need permission. Not because I am submissive. Because this is how bonds are reinforced quietly, without spectacle. “Eat,” I say softly. “You think better when you do.”
Only after he takes his share do I settle back on my heels and eat properly, hunger blooming into satisfaction with the first bite. My tail curls around my legs as I chew, ears half lidded now, the edge finally easing off my nerves. The forest sounds return around us. Insects. Distant birds settling. No shouting. No ideology. No market chaos clawing at the air.
