The desert stretched out behind him, endless and harsh, its golden dunes shifting in the fading light. Kinto Senji descended toward the oasis town of Sharuun, the jewel of this unforgiving land. He ran a weary hand through the damp fur on his forehead, the oppressive desert heat weighing heavily on his woodland-born frame. His robe clung uncomfortably to his sweat-soaked fur, irritation prickling along his skin with each step. After days spent trekking through sand and sun, his first stop would have to be the bathhouse; anything else would be unbearable.

Sharuun’s sandstone walls rose from the basin like a sentinel, carved with ancient reliefs of coiled serpents and blazing suns. The city was alive even at this hour, its existence sustained by the great Esmara Oasis, a vast, spring-fed lake nestled at its heart.

Kinto slowed his enduring pace as he approached the main gate, amber eyes flicking upward to take in the guards stationed above, their slitted pupils following him with lazy interest. Solerians. Their scaled bodies caught the last rays of sunlight in hues of bronze, emerald, and burnished gold. They were the true inheritors of this land, the enforcers of Saryxian rule.

At the gate's shadowed edge, two Solerian Repti guards towered over a slender Duneclaw Vulpin merchant, whose tawny, sand-colored fur bristled slightly beneath their scrutiny. The merchant’s ears lay flat against his skull, and he fumbled anxiously with a woven bag clutched tightly in his hands. He nodded vigorously, muttering rapid assurances in broken Sserashk—the guttural, sibilant tongue of the Solerians, dominant throughout the desert regions. Though clearly practiced, the Vulpin’s accent was thick, his words stumbling clumsily over the sharp, hissing syllables. The larger guard leaned forward slightly, tail lashing with evident displeasure, his muscular frame radiating quiet intimidation as he spoke words Kinto couldn't quite catch—but whose tone was unmistakably sharp.

Kinto felt his muscles tense involuntarily beneath the damp fabric of his robe. The scene was uncomfortably familiar—a stark reminder of the suspicion that outsiders, particularly Vulpin like himself, faced within Saryxian territory. He instinctively tugged his hood lower, shielding his vibrant orange fur and distinctive white markings from prying eyes.

Kinto didn’t belong here.

His kind—the Sylvarin, distant cousins of the desert-born Duneclaws—were rarities in these parts. His autumn-hued fur stood out sharply against the muted earthen tones of the Solerians. Dark brown fur colored the backs of his ears, extending fully down his hands and feet. A pristine white streak traced from his muzzle, disappearing beneath the neckline of his robe, suggesting it continued down his chest. Beneath the carefully arranged fabric of his garments, his three plumed tails shifted restlessly, their white tips barely visible as he adjusted the folds to conceal them, eager to finally be free of the oppressive desert heat.

The scent of the city reached him before its sounds: the mineral-rich tang of oasis water, spices mingling with roasting meats, and the heady fragrance of incense drifting lazily through the air. As Kinto passed beneath Sharuun’s imposing sandstone archway, the noise of city life surged around him—merchants haggling in sharp, clipped tones, the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal, and the distant, playful laughter of courtesans teasing their patrons. Kinto let the familiar cacophony wash over him, savoring the pulse of life that filled the city’s veins.

Yet, for all its vibrancy, Kinto had not come to trade. Nor had he come merely for rest.

His thoughts kept drifting to Ty-un Ossoro, the Solerian warrior with whom he'd traveled closely through these same desert sands not long ago. It wasn't exactly Ty-un himself who lingered in Kinto’s mind—though the vivid memory of his powerful physique, black scales accented with striking crimson, and the intriguing craftsmanship of his prosthetic arm still held a place in Kinto’s thoughts—but rather the broader fascination that Ty-un had sparked within him.

Traveling alongside the Solerian had awakened in Kinto a profound curiosity about the Repti physique itself, questions he'd carefully restrained himself from asking during their urgent mission. Ty-un had been singularly focused on rescuing his kidnapped daughter, Sarani, and Kinto was far too respectful—and practical—to complicate matters with frivolous distractions.

Yet, he had caught glimpses of Ty-un shirtless; the desert sun glinting off polished obsidian scales, their smooth yet rigid texture flexing over toned muscle. In those quiet, stolen moments, Kinto had privately wondered how those scales might feel beneath his fingertips—would they be cool and hard, like polished stone, or warm, infused with life and blood beneath? Did the scales flow seamlessly across every inch of a Repti’s body, or were there softer, vulnerable patches hidden beneath, waiting to be discovered? And how would those scales taste against his tongue, salt-slick from exertion, tinged with the musk and heat of the desert?

These thoughts lingered in a tantalizing place between intellectual curiosity and subtle desire, a delicate line Kinto had intentionally avoided crossing. Yet now, free of Ty-un’s stern gaze and driven by unanswered questions, that curiosity had drawn him deeper into Saryxian territory, back into a land of scales and secrets—back toward the very empire that had nearly claimed his life.

An involuntary shudder traced along Kinto’s spine as his mind abruptly turned to the Empress, Izana. The memory of their encounter was still raw, etched vividly into his thoughts. He had stood before her, confident and prepared, only to find himself utterly helpless, immobilized by a force he had neither seen nor understood. The sensation of true powerlessness, of being so completely at another’s mercy, was alien and deeply unsettling. He forced the memory away, exhaling slowly to steady himself.

First things first—a bath to cleanse the grit of travel from his fur, and perhaps, with luck, answers to some of those lingering questions.

The Bathhouse of Sahira stood near the city's heart, an opulent sprawl crowned with domed rooftops and intricate stonework. Its grand entrance was guarded by archways carved in elaborate relief—desert serpents elegantly coiled around flowering vines. Steam drifted lazily from within, carrying enticing aromas of sandalwood, citrus, and beneath it all, something deeper, richer—the earthy musk of bodies shedding the day's burdens in heated waters.

As Kinto stepped inside, relief swept over him immediately. The oppressive dryness of the desert gave way to soothing humidity that clung pleasantly to his fur, easing the dryness in his throat. He loosened the bindings around his neck with a quiet sigh, eyes adjusting to the soft, golden glow of lanterns illuminating the wide main chamber. Pools rippled gently beneath the dim, flickering light, the reflection dancing across carved columns lining the perimeter, each inscribed with ancient prayers to forgotten gods, worn smooth by centuries of steam and reverent touch.

Moving toward the alcove where travelers stored their belongings, Kinto shrugged off his robe, revealing lean muscles beneath fur colored like autumn leaves. He felt eyes on him immediately; his vibrant coat stood out boldly among the gleaming scales of the Solerians lounging in the pools. Yet he was not entirely alone in drawing curious glances—a wiry Sikari sat relaxed near the water’s edge, his sharp muzzle lifted slightly, ears perked and alert despite his languid posture, pale desert-sand fur blending almost seamlessly with the stone around him. In the far corner, a broad-shouldered Terveld reclined lazily against the wall, velvet fur slick and damp from the steam, his clawed hands resting comfortably across his chest, small, beady eyes nearly closed in blissful relaxation.

Still, Kinto’s striking coloration and three tails seemed enough of a rarity here to draw subtle yet persistent attention. He flicked his tails instinctively, betraying a moment of unease before steadying himself, determined to enjoy the comfort he had traveled so far to find.

The bathhouse was alive with movement, bodies shifting through the pools, voices murmuring in hushed tones or breaking into laughter that echoed against the stone. Solerians dominated the scene—tall, powerful, their wet scales glistening like polished stone beneath the lantern light. Some lounged at the water’s edge, reclining with practiced ease, their ridged tails flicking lazily. Others stood beneath the cascading streams that poured from sculpted mouths of marble serpents, the water rolling down their broad backs, following the deep grooves of muscle and scale.

Kinto stepped forward, his claws clicking softly against the smooth stone as he descended into the water. The heat enveloped him immediately, sinking into his weary limbs, coaxing a quiet exhale from his lips. He let his body sink until the water lapped at his chest, his ears flicking as he caught snippets of conversation drifting around him, spoken in Sserashk.

A group of them sat near the far edge, their scaled bodies sparkling with moisture and their voices low and lazy with amusement. One leaned back, his arms resting on the stone as his golden-brown scales caught the light. His powerful chest rose and fell with slow breaths, and a faint scar ran along the ridge of his left arm—a souvenir of some long-forgotten skirmish. His companion, younger and leaner, chuckled, shaking the water from his ridged tail as he leaned in to murmur something against the copper-scaled one’s ear. The larger Solerian smirked but did not turn away.

Kinto’s eyes drifted over them, lingering where the light kissed their scales, where the water ran in shimmering trails over their exposed forms. He had always found them fascinating—their presence, their raw, unapologetic strength. There was a primal elegance to them, a certainty in the way they moved, as if the world itself bent to accommodate their desires.

One of them caught his eye and held it for a moment, his slitted amber pupils narrowing slightly. The glance wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t an invitation, either. Kinto returned the look with a faint smile, then let his gaze drift elsewhere.

Near the center of the pool, another figure caught his attention. This one was younger, his sand-colored scales smooth and unblemished, his tail twitching slightly beneath the water. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, his posture relaxed but attentive. His movements were slow and deliberate as he washed his arms, the water trickling down the fine ridges of his scales.

Kinto met his gaze briefly, and the younger Solerian offered a small, shy smile. There was something refreshing about his openness, a contrast to the guarded stares of the others. Kinto nodded in acknowledgment, a quiet gesture of camaraderie, before the Solerian looked away, his tail flicking lightly against the surface of the water.

It was then that Kinto noticed another figure rising from the far edge of the pool. The man’s copper-green scales glistened in the lantern light, the ridges along his arms and shoulders catching the faint glow. He was larger than the others, his broad chest and thick tail giving him an imposing presence even in the relaxed atmosphere of the bathhouse. The faint lines of scars crisscrossed his body, pale against the darker green of his scales, each one a story etched into his flesh.

The Solerian reached for a towel, his movements slow and deliberate, the water cascading from his scaled body as he stepped onto the smooth stone floor. His emerald eyes flicked briefly in Kinto’s direction, meeting his gaze with a calm intensity. Kinto felt a faint shiver run through him, though he kept his expression neutral. The man’s presence was impossible to ignore—he didn’t need to speak or move quickly to command attention.

Without a word, the Solerian draped the towel over his shoulders and disappeared into the steam, leaving Kinto with a quiet sense of unease—or was it curiosity?

The bathhouse hummed with life, but Kinto’s mind was elsewhere. He let his body sink deeper into the water, the heat wrapping around him like a cocoon. A blend of floral oils, damp stone, and the deep, unpolished scent of sweat and wet scales clung to the air—a contrast between refinement and rawness, between indulgence and something more primal.

The minutes stretched into hours in the bathhouse, though time seemed to melt away in the humid haze. The bathers came and went, their voices weaving together in a muted hum that echoed off the carved sandstone walls. Kinto, for once, allowed himself to remain still. The heat seeped into his muscles, dulling the aches of his long journey and giving him an excuse to linger.

His sharp amber eyes drifted lazily over the room, catching snippets of conversation, the occasional glance, and the rhythmic swishing of tails beneath the water. Some of the bathers seemed to notice him more than others, their reactions ranging from curiosity to quiet unease. It wasn’t surprising. Vulpin weren’t unheard of in the desert, but they were far from native. And Kinto, with his three tails, luminous fur, and an air of self-assurance that often felt more like a challenge, was even less common.

Kinto pushed himself upright, the water cascading from his fur in warm rivulets. He ignored the way eyes followed him—some intrigued, others wary—as he moved toward the stone steps leading out of the pool. His tails flicked, sending ripples across the water’s surface as he emerged, unhurried but aware of the weight of his presence in the room.

The attendant at the alcove offered him a towel without a word, though Kinto caught the way his gaze flicked to his fur, to the unusual sight of a Sylvarin among Solerians. Kinto smirked faintly but said nothing, taking the offered cloth and beginning the slow process of wringing the excess water from his fur. The act was meditative, grounding.

The air outside the bathhouse was cooler now, touched by the crisp edge of the desert night. Sharuun had begun its slow descent into evening’s hush, though it was far from silent. The streets remained alive with low murmurs and flickering lantern light, the scent of charred meat from a street vendor mingling with the floral musk of night-blooming jasmine.

Kinto exhaled slowly, adjusting the folds of his robe as he moved past the last archway of Sahira’s bathhouse. His fur, still slightly damp from the mineral-rich waters, caught on the warm breeze, and his three tails swayed lazily behind him as he blended back into the flow of the city.

There was no rush to find an inn.

Instead, he took his time, letting his keen amber gaze flicker over the faces around him—the merchants closing up their stalls, the Saryxian couriers exchanging coin, the occasional glint of a blade at someone’s hip. He always paid attention to the small things. The way men walked, how their tails swayed, the weight they carried in their shoulders. It was a habit that had saved his life more than once.

Tonight, however, he allowed himself to relax. A little.

His body was loose from the heat of the baths, his mind soothed by the slow, idlesight of steam rolling from the pools. He thought of the Saryxian men, the way they reclined in the water, steam curling against their chests, the scent of them thick in the air.

Gods, he’d needed this night.

His only regret was leaving alone.

With a sigh, Kinto turned down a quieter alley, taking a shortcut toward the inn. The sound of the main street faded behind him, replaced by the dull hum of wind against sandstone. His keen ears picked up the occasional shuffle from the rooftops—feral strays, perhaps, or just the city exhaling into the night. He wasn’t worried.

Until—

It started as a ripple in the air. The subtle change of presence, the shift of weight against stone, the quiet hush of footfalls too measured to be anything but intentional. Kinto caught it immediately. A small flicker in his periphery—a shadow lingering too long where there shouldn’t have been one.

He kept walking.

A pair, at least. One was larger—he could hear it in the weight of his stride, the faint scrape of claws against stone. The other was lighter, but fast. The silence of their approach confirmed something else: they weren’t common thieves.

Kinto sighed inwardly. Not tonight, please.

He turned another corner, guiding himself toward a more open path. If they followed him there, then—

A figure stepped into his path.

Tall, broad, and scaled. Emerald eyes gleamed under the dim lanterns, and Kinto caught the glint of copper-green scales over a thickly muscled chest, partially concealed beneath a dark, sleeveless tunic that hung open at the front, exposing the ridged strength of his torso. A thick leather belt secured a draped crimson sash at his waist, its fabric worn at the edges. His loose desert trousers, dyed a muted ochre, gathered at his ankles, leaving his feet bare against the sandstone. His arms, marked with faint scars, were wrapped in leather bracers from wrist to elbow, the bindings snug against his thick forearms. Kinto’s mind flickered briefly to the bathhouse—he’d seen this one before, reclining against the far edge of the pools. That same imposing frame, those same emerald eyes, watching. He hadn’t seemed interested then.

And yet, here he was now.

The larger Solerian’s stance was relaxed, but not careless. A soldier’s discipline clung to his frame, the kind of ease that only came from years of knowing exactly how to use his own strength. He wasn't reaching for a weapon, but Kinto noted the position of his hands—close to his belt, near enough to strike.

Before Kinto could pivot, a second figure emerged behind him, effectively cutting off his retreat. This one was leaner, but just as imposing. Sun-gold scales gleamed along his arms, the ridges catching in the dim lantern light as he shifted with an effortless ease. He wore a fitted, sleeveless tunic of dark linen, open at the sides and secured with a cross-laced tie at his chest, revealing the sinewy definition of his torso. A deep brown sash was wrapped snugly around his waist, cinching his loose black trousers, the fabric worn soft from years of travel. His feet, wrapped in dirt-stained cloth bindings, pressed soundlessly against the sandstone. A smirk tugged at his lips as his slitted golden eyes raked over Kinto with something sharper than amusement.

The copper-green Solerian remained silent, his stance unmoving, but his presence loomed heavy in the narrow alley. His eyes—deep and sharp as polished jade—tracked Kinto’s every breath, every minute shift of his weight. He was studying him, not as one man sizes up another, but as a predator measures prey.

The golden-scaled one, however, was different. There was a lazy confidence in his posture, a casual sway in his tail that suggested he had all the time in the world. A man at ease in a game he already knew he would win.

One was the brawn. The other was the blade.

He exhaled softly, adjusting the folds of his robe as if this were nothing more than an unfortunate detour on his way to a warm bed. His amber eyes flicked from one to the other, keen, watchful.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, his voice light, as if he were discussing the weather. “Something I can help you with?”

The copper-green Solerian regarded him steadily for another heartbeat before responding, his voice a low, firm rumble speaking the Common tongue. “You’re Kinto Senji, correct?”

Kinto allowed himself a slow blink, feigning mild amusement. “Depends who's asking. You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“We have orders,” the larger Solerian said quietly, reluctant but firm. “It’ll be easier for everyone if you come quietly.”

Kinto’s tails flicked thoughtfully as he glanced behind him, briefly locking eyes with the golden-scaled Solerian whose wicked grin only widened in response. He returned his gaze forward, fixing a polite smile on the copper-green Solerian. “Easier for everyone? You mean easier for you.”

A flicker of discomfort crossed the larger Solerian’s face—he clearly disliked this situation almost as much as Kinto did. “You know what I mean,” he said with quiet urgency. “I don't want this getting out of hand.”

A soft, almost mocking chuckle echoed from behind Kinto, the golden-scaled Solerian tilting his head lazily. “Speak for yourself. I'd quite like things to get out of hand.”

Kinto’s amber eyes sparkled with wry amusement. "Well, if you wanted to get rough with me, you could've just asked nicely first."

The golden-scaled Solerian laughed darkly, clearly pleased at Kinto’s response, his tail swaying eagerly in anticipation. “Please, fox, resist. I’ve been bored all day.”

The larger Solerian scowled, voice tightening as he tried one last time, stepping forward slightly. “This doesn't have to turn violent, Senji. We won't harm you if you come willingly.”

Kinto tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering the options. "Perhaps we could discuss this over drinks instead?"

The larger Solerian's jaw tightened, patience clearly thinning. "This isn't negotiable."

Kinto raised his hands placatingly, taking a small half-step backward to subtly reposition himself. "A shame," he sighed softly, "I was hoping we could solve this like civilized kin."

The golden-scaled Solerian chuckled softly, stepping closer, claws flexing subtly at his sides. His eyes gleamed with predatory amusement in the dim lantern light. "Civilized is dull, little fox. Go ahead—run. I'll even count to five."

"Keth—" the larger Solerian growled sharply, cutting himself off before revealing more. He shot his companion a glare full of restrained anger before refocusing on Kinto, voice tight with forced calm. "Last chance. Don’t force our hand."

Kinto’s tails twitched as adrenaline surged, heart quickening. His gaze flicked rapidly between the two, assessing, calculating. "Tempting, but I think I'll take my chances."

The golden-scaled Solerian grinned savagely, muscles coiling visibly before he sprang forward. "Finally."

The attack came fast.

Kinto barely had time to twist out of the way as the golden-scaled one lunged, claws swiping where his ribs had been a second ago.

The whoosh of displaced air sent a pulse of adrenaline through him. Fast.

Too fast.

He’d underestimated the speed.

He pivoted, ducking low to avoid a follow-up strike. His heartbeat quickened as he twisted mid-motion, slipping past the golden-scaled one’s reach and darting toward the only open space.

The larger one moved.

A step. A shift. A wall of muscle and scales blocked his escape.

Kinto skidded, barely avoiding slamming into him. He spun, weaving through the tight space between them, slipping past a second swipe from the golden-scaled attacker. Their coordination was too tight. He needed to break their rhythm.

Kinto’s fingers curled, his mind already shaping the first sigil—

Then—

A sharp bark in Sserashk, urgent, warning.

Before he could process it, the golden-scaled one’s eyes locked onto his hands. A flicker of realization—then motion. His tail lashed out like a whip, striking fast to break Kinto’s focus.

Kinto barely caught it in time. He sprang backward, his balance shifting instinctively as he deflected the surprisingly forceful strike aimed at his chest. But his attacker was already closing in, claws glinting under the lantern light.

Kinto ducked. The strike whistled past, so close he felt the rush of air against his ears. He could handle this—he’d handled worse before. If he could just—

Then he saw it.

A flicker of liquid sheen along the Solerian's claws. A faint, unnatural wetness. Poison.

Kinto’s heartbeat quickened. He dodged again, narrowly avoiding another slash, but the realization changed everything. One scratch, one mistake, and it was over. He couldn’t afford even a graze.

He needed his tome.

Kinto pivoted sharply, reaching for the book at his hip. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, the larger one moved. A powerful arm swung toward him, and Kinto barely had time to duck before the faster one came from the other side, forcing him to retreat again.

They were relentless. He needed space, time—

Kinto feigned another dodge, letting the copper-green one's swing miss him by inches, but as he turned to counter, the golden one was already there. A tail lashed out, a blur of gold under the dim light, and before Kinto could react, it struck.

The impact was like being hit with a club. It slammed into his ribs with crushing force, knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled, the world tilting as pain erupted through his side.

Before he could recover, before he could even draw breath, the golden ambusher was on him.

Claws raked across his arm, shallow but burning. The toxin worked fast. His limbs were already slowing. His muscles slackened even as his mind screamed at them to move.

“Gotcha,” the golden-scaled one murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

A strong hand gripped his throat and shoved him hard against the alley wall. His head cracked against the stone, a sharp explosion of pain blooming behind his eyes. He barely had time to gasp before the Solerian's other hand forced his jaw open, a vial uncorked and pressed to his lips.

The bitter liquid burned as it slid down his throat. Kinto gagged, tried to twist away, but the man's grip tightened. The toxin spread like wildfire through his veins, his muscles locking, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His throat seized, and then—

The world blurred.

A sharp pulse drummed through his skull. His limbs, once responsive, melted into numb weight. His vision swam, tilting as darkness curled at the edges of his sight.

He heard them speaking, but the words were obscured.

His body no longer belonged to him.

And then, as the desert wind carried the last echoes of the city behind him—

Everything went dark.