His hand settles on my shoulder. Just there. Not forceful. Not urgent. Enough. The contact ripples straight through me, a clean line of control cutting through the static in my head. I’m coiled over her, claws still biting into cloth and skin, breath hot, heart loud, every instinct screaming to finish it. I could. He knows it. She knows it. The room knows it.
His voice is calm, almost regretful. “As much as I’d love to watch you, my dearest, rip into her… alas, we have an appointment.” I bare my teeth anyway, eyes never leaving hers. My tail lashes once, sharp and irritated. For a fraction of a second, I consider it. Overriding him. Doing exactly what I want. What she deserves. Letting this end in blood and lesson.
But then the rest of his words land. “And if you want to detaste, you can. But if you listen to me, you’ll drag or carry her. And then we leave.”
I feel it in the Bond. Not a command. A choice. And beneath it, something colder than desire for violence. Purpose. Timing. The long game. I click my tongue softly, irritated. Disappointed. Hungry. “…Tch.” I shift my weight, claws easing just enough to stop drawing blood but not enough to let her think she’s safe. I lean in close to her ear, my voice low and intimate, just for her. “Lucky,” I murmur. “Very lucky.”
Then I grab her. Not gently. Not cruelly either. Efficient. One arm hooks under her shoulders, the other around her waist as I haul her upright. She gasps, stumbles, and I drag her with me, her feet barely keeping pace, nails scraping against the stone floor. My grip is iron. There’s no fight left in her, just shock and the dawning horror of realising she’s no longer in charge of where this goes.
I step away from the ruined chair and overturned desk, pulling her toward the door. I don’t look back at the men outside. They’ve already learned enough. As we move, I glance sideways at him, irritation still flickering in my eyes but obedience locked in place. “You owe me,” I mutter under my breath, tail flicking. “Later.” But there’s no real anger there. Just promise.
I drag her out into the corridor, toward the night, toward whatever appointment he’s decided matters more than blood. And I stay close to him as we move, shoulder brushing his arm again, the Bond tight and alive.
We step back out into the alley together, the door behind us still echoing faintly from where it was opened too fast and closed too late. The men outside see us immediately. Of course they do. Dice stop rolling. Laughter dies mid breath. Hands hover just a little too close to knives and cudgels that suddenly feel very small.
I’m still holding her. Not supporting. Holding. One arm locked around her like a restraint, claws visible now, not raking, just there. A reminder. Her feet drag. Her breath is fast. She doesn’t struggle. She knows better now.
Master doesn’t rush it. He never does. He looks at them the way a tired man looks at paperwork he’s already decided not to file. His voice is level, almost bored. “You could attack us,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. “But it would be minutes before a guard arrives. And then what?”
He lets the sentence hang unfinished, trusting them to do the maths themselves.
12 +1, Tactical Genius +3, Calm Under Pressure +1 = 17
Enough to plant doubt. Not enough to end it. That’s my job. I turn my head slowly toward them. Ears lift. Eyes widen just a fraction too much. My tail rises, stiff, deliberate. I let the silence stretch, then tilt my head, studying them the way a cat studies birds it hasn’t decided to kill yet.
Intimidation Check, 17 +9, Charisma modifier +5, Yandere Devotion +2, Overwhelming Presence +2 = 35
I smile. It isn’t friendly. “You’re all thinking the same thing,” I say softly. “That if you move together, maybe you win. Maybe.” I tighten my grip on the woman just enough to make her gasp. Not pain. Demonstration. “But you’re also thinking about how loud she’d scream,” I continue. “How messy this street would get. How many questions you’d have to answer when the watch shows up and finds pieces.”
I take one slow step forward. They step back without realising they’re doing it. “I don’t need minutes,” I add. “I need seconds.” Their courage collapses in layers. One man lowers his eyes. Another lets his hand fall away from his coat. Someone swallows hard. No one speaks. No one moves. Good.
Master doesn’t even look at them anymore. He turns slightly, already moving, already done with the situation. I follow, dragging her along, my gaze lingering just long enough to make sure the lesson sticks. None of them try to stop us. They stand there in their neat little turf, suddenly very aware of how thin their walls are, how temporary their confidence was. We disappear down the street, the sound of her uneven footsteps and my claws on stone the last thing they hear.
We march straight for the keep. No hesitation. No detour. Just the steady climb toward the stone throat of Maw Graven’s heart, the woman still in my grasp, her feet barely touching the ground as the slope steepens. The air changes as we approach the entrance, thinner, colder, carrying the old mineral smell of worked stone and the faint tang of oil from the torches set into iron brackets along the stair.
The guards tense the moment they see us. Blackened iron helms turn. Swords lower half an inch. A crossbow creaks somewhere above as someone shifts their weight. This is the inner line, the place where border suspicion hardens into doctrine. Faces set into expressions learned over years of drills and sermons about outsiders, impurity, and the sanctity of the keep.
Master doesn’t slow. He doesn’t raise his voice either. He adopts that tone, condescending, weary, precise, the voice of someone who has already decided the outcome and is mildly irritated that others haven’t caught up yet.
He gestures, casual, toward the woman at my side. “Internal matter,” he says. “Logistics irregularities. Your people flagged it late. We’re correcting it early.” A pause. Just long enough to let the words settle. “You can stand here and argue procedure,” he continues, eyes flicking over their armour like he’s appraising tools. “Or you can escort us up and let your superiors decide whether you did your job properly tonight.”
Charisma Check, 16, +1, Tactical Genius +3, Calm Under Pressure +1 = 21
The guards exchange glances. That’s the moment. The crack. Nobody wants to be the one who blocked something important and had it land on their name later. Nobody wants to explain why a potential internal breach was left at the gate because of pride.
One nods. Another exhales through his nose. The lead guard steps aside. “Escort,” he orders. The airlock stairway opens, a brutal, defensive piece of architecture. Narrow steps spiralling upward between two stone walls, high enough that the city noise drops away almost immediately. Gates grind open and shut behind us in sequence, each one sealing with a finality that presses on the chest. This is how Maw Graven breathes: in compartments, in control.
As we climb, Master’s voice drifts back, low, almost amused. “Looks like Amber Dalkurharn awakes, kitten.” His hand reaches out and pats my head. Just once. Everything in me lights up. My ears twitch. My pupils blow wide. My attention snaps fully to him, body angling instinctively closer, tail flicking high and fast. The world narrows to his presence, to that touch, to the approval threaded through it. I lean into it before I realise I’m doing it, a soft sound catching in my throat, all intensity and need, raw and unfiltered.
I want to press closer. To claim the space. To be seen. Then I feel it, the gentle resistance in the Bond. Not a command. A reminder. I straighten immediately, smoothing the moment away with a sly tilt of my head, lips curling into a knowing, almost playful smile. I take the reins where before I flared too bright. I step half a pace back, posture casual again, eyes sharp and amused as if none of it touched me at all.
“Focus,” I murmur lightly, more to myself than anyone else, tail settling into a slower, deliberate sway. The guards don’t comment. They pretend not to notice. That’s their skill, seeing only what they’re allowed to acknowledge.
We reach the top, emerging onto the enclosed ledge where the inner palisades and the keep proper meet. Stone walls curve around us, torches burning steady despite the height. Beyond them, the city sprawls below like a map, ordered, controlled, watched.
The keep doors loom ahead. Whatever waits inside, authority, interrogation, consequences, it’s awake now. And we’re already inside its lungs. I stay close to Master, the woman secured, my senses sharp again, the earlier flare banked but not extinguished. The night has shifted gears. So have we.
We are led through the keep proper, past doors that grow heavier the higher we climb, stone corridors narrowing and then widening again like the keep itself is breathing around us. Torches burn steady here, not guttering like the city below. This is the spine of Dalkurharn power, old and self assured. Every footstep echoes with authority that does not need to announce itself.
We climb floor after floor. Each level sheds noise, sheds people, sheds pretense. Guards thin out. Armour becomes ceremonial rather than practical. By the time we reach the upper hall, the air smells of parchment, oil, and mountain stone warmed by constant fires. This is where decisions are made that never reach the street as rumours until years later.
The doors open. Amber Dalkurharn waits inside. She does not rise. She does not need to. She is seated at a broad stone table etched with old territorial lines, maps weighted with iron. Her presence fills the chamber without movement. She looks exactly like someone who rules by endurance rather than charisma, composed, sharp eyed, patient in the way predators are patient when they know the trap is already sprung.
I don’t wait for permission. I drag the woman forward and throw her down onto the stone floor at Amber’s feet. The sound is loud in the chamber, final. The woman scrambles, tries to speak, fails. I straighten, tail high, ears forward, voice spilling out in a rush of triumphant certainty.
“There,” I say, bright and feral and utterly unapologetic. “Tracked the mess from Maw Mine. Found the handlers. Followed the rot straight to Maw Graven like it always does. She was moving steel and silence for the Crimson problem you wanted cleaned up.” I gesture vaguely with one claw, dismissive. “Middle layer. Logistics. Thought the border would keep her safe. It never does.”
Amber’s gaze flicks from the woman to me, then to him. No surprise. Just confirmation. I step back, closer to Master now, shoulder brushing his arm as I continue, voice lifting with that sharp, manic edge I only ever let loose when I know I’ve delivered. “So you can stop breathing down our necks now. You wanted the trail cut. It’s cut. You wanted Maw Mine quiet. It will be.” A grin flashes, wild and satisfied. “We did our part.”
Only then do I turn fully to him. My attention snaps into place like a lock closing. I circle him half a step, eyes bright, tail curling, every ounce of my focus collapsing inward until the rest of the room barely exists. I lean in close, voice dropping, conspiratorial, possessive, delighted. “And,” I add softly, “you owe me one now, don’t you, Master.”
It isn’t a demand. It’s a statement of fact. A promise tucked into a smile. Amber watches the exchange in silence, fingers steepled, reading the dynamic the way rulers do, not judging, not intervening, simply noting what kind of weapon she’s dealing with. Her mouth curves almost imperceptibly. “Efficient,” she says at last. “Messy. But efficient.”
Her eyes settle back on the woman on the floor. “Leave her. She’ll be dealt with.” Then, to Master, measured and calm, “Your involvement in this matter is concluded. Dalkurharn will not trouble you further over the Crimson issue.” Which is exactly what he wanted. I don’t care about the politics anymore. I’ve already turned back to him, basking in the aftermath, tail flicking with restrained excitement, the urge to revel tugging at me hard.
Master’s voice is perfectly neutral when he answers her. No triumph. No satisfaction. Just closure. “Very well.” Outwardly, he gives nothing away. Inwardly, through the Bond, I see it anyway. The way he files Amber Dalkurharn away like a document slid into a drawer. Not forgotten. Just… stored. A contact. A lever. A name that might matter later. He doesn’t feel indebted. Not even a little. In his mind, this wasn’t a favour exchanged. It was a task completed. Clean enough. Finished.
What does settle over him is relief. The kind that comes after days of tension finally unclench. The Crimson trail is done. The pressure from Maw Mine is gone. The city has stopped biting at our heels. For the first time since we crossed the border, he can breathe without calculating three moves ahead. I feel that softness ripple through him before he moves. Then, without warning, his hands are on me.
He bends, scoops me up effortlessly, one arm under my knees, the other firm around my back. No hesitation. No announcement. Just decision. I make a small sound of surprise but don’t resist, don’t even tense. My body goes pliant immediately, trusting, instinctive, spoiled in the purest sense of the word.
I curl into him, tail looping lazily around his arm, ears flicking in that pleased, dazed way I get when I’m handled without warning but with complete certainty. My head settles against his shoulder, cheek brushing his collarbone. I inhale him, deep, greedy, grounding myself in the familiar mix of leather, steel, and him.
He doesn’t say anything as he turns and carries me out. And that’s the thing. He doesn’t have to. The guards part without comment. The corridors blur past beneath us. Stone, torchlight, echoes. I barely notice any of it. My world has narrowed to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the sure strength in his arms, the way he carries me like this is normal. Like I belong exactly where I am.
warmth floods me, thick and heavy and indulgent. I press closer, fingers curling into his coat, tail tightening just a little, not to restrain him, just to claim the moment. My eyes half close. I let myself be carried. Let myself be small. Let myself be spoiled without asking for permission.
“You didn’t owe me,” I murmur softly, not accusatory, not disappointed. Just stating it the way I understand it now. “But you’re doing this anyway.” A pause. “That’s better.” He doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t need to. He just keeps walking, carrying me down through the keep, out of power and politics and into the quiet aftermath. And for once, I don’t watch the exits. I don’t scan for threats. I don’t listen for footsteps behind us.
I simply rest in his arms, spoiled and content, knowing the hunt is over and the night finally belongs to us.
