First, the ache: deep, bone-deep, like his muscles had been wrung dry and left to wither in the heat. Then, the wetness: his fur slick with sweat, clinging to him like a second skin, thick with the salt of fatigue and poison. The weight came next, the undeniable pressure of a body pressed against broad, scaled shoulders, his limbs bound tight, wrists burning where the ropes had bitten deep.
He was being carried.
The slow, steady sway of footsteps rocked him like a cruel mockery of comfort, his body limp and useless against the firm, rhythmic motion. He could feel the bite of leather straps digging into the crook of his stomach where he hung. Heat radiated from the one carrying him, not the smothering heat of the desert, but a body’s warmth, laced with the unmistakable scent of sweat and sand-baked scales.
Kinto forced his breathing to remain shallow, measured. His limbs twitched weakly against the bindings, but his body refused to obey him beyond that. The poison hadn’t yet released its hold; his fingers felt like dead weight, his tails limp and useless beneath the folds of his robe. He could think, though. That was enough.
Then he noticed his hands.
They weren’t just bound, they were covered. Thick, unyielding fabric encased them completely, preventing even the smallest flex of his fingers. Mitts.
His captors had been thorough.
They’d seen him try to weave sigils in the air during the fight.
That single attempt must have been enough. They hadn’t just restrained him, they’d ensured he wouldn’t be able to move his fingers at all, even when the poison wore off. No chance to form the intricate gestures required for most of his spellwork. No chance to slip free with finesse.
Smart... annoyingly smart.
The realization settled like a weight in his gut.
Night had fallen.
The desert was still hot, but not blistering, the sands cooling beneath the shattered glow of the moons. Above, the sky stretched dark and endless, the stars sharp against the black, two silver orbs casting their eerie glow over the dunes. One was whole, large and luminous, bathing the desert in pale light. The other, even larger, hung broken on one side, a celestial wound split apart by some ancient calamity, its fragments drifting in slow orbit, a jagged halo of destruction suspended in the sky. Around its shattered edge, a faint violet aura pulsed, curling like mist against the void, as if the wound in the heavens had never truly healed.
The wind was low, a sluggish breath rolling over the dunes, stirring loose grains of sand that whispered against the folds of fabric and the slow, measured steps of bare, scaled feet.
Kinto remained still. Not fully conscious—at least, not in any useful way—but aware enough to listen. The voices drifted over him in waves, half-lost to the haze of exhaustion that clung to him like damp cloth.
They had been walking for hours.
Finally, the one behind them spoke, his words a lazy drawl in Sserashk.
“You think he was working with the Dominion?”
There was no urgency to the question, only idle curiosity, yet something sharp lingered beneath the ease of his tone.
The one carrying Kinto didn’t answer right away.
A few more strides. A shift in weight. The slow creak of leather under strain. Then, finally—
“No.”
Simple. Uninterested. A certainty spoken without hesitation.
The other let out a snort. “You don’t even have to think about it, huh?”
“I don’t.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Well, Vorrik, I’m just saying, it makes more sense than half the shit I’ve been thinking.” His voice carried an edge of amusement. “Because I don’t see how this weak little fox gets a ten-thousand Lumen bounty when he can't even get past your slow ass.”
Vorrik.
Kinto’s ears barely twitched against the damp fabric of his robes, but the name settled into his thoughts, something solid in the haze.
Vorrik exhaled sharply through his nose. “He’s not Dominion.”
“Hmm. Then maybe he killed someone important.” A smirk curled into the other’s voice. “Or maybe he really did try to put a knife in the Empress. Got close before tripping over his own tails. How the hell does he even have three of them?”
Vorrik adjusted Kinto’s weight slightly on his shoulder, his grip firm but impassive. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
The other scoffed. “Come on. You’re telling me that’s not weird?” His tone was still light, but curiosity edged into it now. “Never seen a fox with more than one tail. Let alone three.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if we’re hauling something cursed back to Onoshu.”
Vorrik sighed, his patience thinning. “Kethar.” His voice was low, carrying a note of warning. “He's a Vulpin. Not a damned monster.”
Kethar.
Kinto let the name sink into his thoughts, etching it alongside Vorrik’s.
Behind them, Kethar made a considering noise, somewhere between skepticism and reluctant agreement. “Maybe. Still weird.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic crunch of sand beneath their feet.
Then Kethar hummed. “Maybe the Empress just wants to make herself a nice set of coats.”
Vorrik didn’t dignify that with a response.
Undeterred, Kethar sneered. “Think about it. Fox fur’s worth a fortune in some places. Three tails? That’s gotta be prime material for some royal finery.” He clicked his tongue. “Hell, I bet she’ll make his ears into a hat.”
Vorrik sighed through his nose. “That’s stupid.”
Kethar’s smile widened. “I don’t know. I think they’d look really good on you.” His tone was dripping with mock sincerity, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
The conversation lulled, the desert pressing its weight back into the silence. The distant hiss of shifting dunes filled the quiet.
Then Kethar clicked his tongue. “Wonder what happens if we cut one off.”
Vorrik didn’t turn. “No.”
Kethar grinned. “What? You don’t think it’d grow back, do you? Maybe he’s got some weird magic in him. Like a lizard losing its tail.”
Vorrik exhaled sharply. “Vulpin don’t grow new limbs.”
Kethar tilted his head. “Never seen one with three tails either, so who’s to say?”
Vorrik’s patience thinned to a blade’s edge. “We’re closer to lizards than he is, and we wouldn’t grow ours back.”
Kethar continued, unbothered. “I’m just saying. If we show up with only two, do they still pay the full price?”
Vorrik didn’t answer.
Kethar smirked. “See? Now you’re wondering.”
Vorrik shook his head, ignoring him.
The conversation faded, swallowed by the desert’s vast silence.
The only sound left was the slow, steady rhythm of their footsteps over shifting sand. The wind had died down, leaving only the weight of the night pressing against them, thick and unmoving.
Kinto drifted in and out of the haze, his thoughts sluggish, half-formed. The exhaustion clung to him, deeper than muscle, deeper than bone, a drowning sort of fatigue that made every second stretch into something distant, unfocused. His body remained limp, uncooperative, his breath shallow against the damp fabric of his robe.
The cold had settled in, creeping through his fur where the sweat hadn’t yet dried, but the heat still lingered in his skin, smoldering from within. His mind reeled, circling back to what he had just overheard.
Vorrik. Kethar.
Their names sat heavy in his thoughts, small pieces of clarity in the fog.
He let himself sink into the quiet, let the steady, rolling sway of being carried lull him into something close to rest.
Time blurred into silence, still and oppressive.
Yet the weight draped across Vorrik’s shoulders was no longer completely still.
The first movement was subtle, just the faintest twitch, a breath drawn slightly sharper than before.
Vorrik noticed, but said nothing. His captive had stirred before, drifting between unconsciousness and the muddled haze of the poison. It meant little. He continued onward, footsteps steady, rhythm unchanged.
But the shifting continued. No longer just the lifeless slump of unconsciousness. These were deliberate, careful movements. The Sylvarin’s breathing grew more aware, controlled, and no longer lost to the haze.
Vorrik exhaled quietly, adjusting his grip. “He’s awake.”
Kethar, trailing a few steps behind, rolled his shoulders with an exaggerated stretch. "Took him long enough," he muttered, voice carrying lazily in the cool air.
Vorrik didn’t respond, just waited, listening closely.
The Sylvarin wasn’t truly struggling—he lacked the strength for that—but he was clearly aware now. Vorrik felt the weak tug of limbs testing their bindings, heard the muffled sound that escaped through the gag. A quiet noise, edged with frustration rather than pain.
Kethar’s golden gaze flicked toward Vorrik, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “You hearing this?” He tilted his head, mock curiosity coloring his tone. “Fox has something to say.”
Vorrik huffed a breath, considering.
They had been walking for hours. Vorrik’s shoulders burned with the strain, but it wasn’t enough to wear him down, not yet. Still, stopping for a short break wouldn’t kill them. And if the Vulpin wanted to speak, there was little harm in letting him.
He figured he at least owed him the explanation.
"Fine," Vorrik muttered.
The movement stopped.
It wasn’t abrupt, not a sudden jolt or a sharp change in pace, but a slowing. A shift in weight. The sensation of the solid ground coming closer. Kinto barely registered it before he was lifted off the Solerian’s shoulder and unceremoniously dropped onto the packed sand.
His legs folded beneath him immediately.
A rush of vertigo made his stomach lurch, the world spinning as his body crumpled against the desert floor. His limbs were useless, his muscles still sluggish, unresponsive. Every breath felt heavy, the dryness in his throat scraping raw against his tongue.
A hand caught his upper arm, stopping him from fully collapsing.
His head lolled forward, his body trembling from exhaustion and dehydration. The poison still gripped his limbs like lead, dragging each sluggish movement into something pitifully slow. The scent of sweat, dust, and worn leather filled his nose, a mix of his own and the Solerians’. He was drenched, his fur matted with sweat, his robe plastered against him, the damp fabric chafing with every breath. It did nothing to cool him. If anything, it made the heat worse.
Something tugged at the back of his head.
Then—relief.
The gag was pulled free, the damp cloth falling away from his muzzle, leaving behind a raw, aching stiffness in his jaw. Kinto sucked in a deep, ragged breath, his tongue thick in his mouth. He swallowed against the dryness, but it did little to ease the discomfort.
Kinto blinked slowly, his breath coming in uneven drags. He had questions, but forming words felt like trying to grasp water with bare hands.
A figure moved in the periphery of his vision.
"Finally," Kethar muttered. "I thought we were never stopping."
His voice was distant, not in front of Kinto but off to the side. Kethar was stepping away, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. "Gonna take a piss," he announced to no one in particular.
"Go," Vorrik said, his voice as dry as the sand.
Kethar wandered a few steps off, disappearing beyond the dim glow of their small rest stop, leaving Kinto alone with the other one. The bigger one.
Vorrik crouched beside him, resting one elbow on his knee. He was watching. Kinto could feel it, even without lifting his head fully. His breath came slow, measured, but Kinto caught the flicker of observation in his posture.
Neither of them spoke for a long while.
The quiet was thick, broken only by the crackling quiet of the desert, the distant sound of Kethar relieving himself somewhere behind them, and the faint, uncomfortable rustle as Vorrik adjusted Kinto’s bindings. Kinto’s throat was raw, each breath scraping painfully against his dry throat, but he forced himself to speak.
“Why?” he rasped weakly, the single word taking considerable effort.
Vorrik didn’t respond immediately, the silence stretching so long that Kinto thought he might not answer at all. Then, finally, Vorrik’s voice broke the quiet, low and flat:
“You already know why.”
Kinto exhaled sharply, frustration flickering beneath his exhaustion. He tried shifting his bound arms, but the thick mitts prevented even the slightest movement. With considerable effort, he lifted his gaze, meeting Vorrik’s unreadable stare with eyes that still held a spark of defiance.
Vorrik regarded him silently, measuring something Kinto couldn’t read. After a moment, he spoke again, reciting the charges as if reading them from an official proclamation.
“Espionage. Murder. Conspiring against the Imperial Throne. Attempted assassination of the Empress.”
The words landed heavily between them, stark and damning.
Kinto felt a wave of disbelief, mixed with dread. He knew accusations would come, but hearing them listed out like undeniable truths twisted painfully in his gut. Despite himself, he let out a bitter, breathless laugh.
“That’s absurd.”
Vorrik remained impassive, unmoved by Kinto’s reaction.
“I didn't kill anyone,” Kinto pressed, swallowing hard against the burning dryness. “And I certainly never tried.”
Vorrik tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanging. “That’s not what the bounty says.”
Kinto went quiet, letting the words sink in. A bounty severe enough to mobilize hunters like Vorrik and Kethar should have detailed every offense clearly. But there was no mention of the prison, the break-in, or the child he'd rescued. And there was only one reason the Empress would omit details so critical: she wanted something hidden, even from her own agents.
He exhaled slowly, fighting the surge of unease at the realization. His voice lowered, almost urgent in its quiet honesty:
“I was there,” Kinto admitted carefully, holding Vorrik’s gaze steadily. “But not to spy or kill. I went to rescue someone. A girl who never should’ve been taken in the first place. A child!”
Vorrik remained motionless, his expression still unreadable, but something shifted faintly behind his eyes, a subtle change Kinto couldn’t quite decipher.
Kethar reappeared then, stretching his arms behind his head as he wandered back into the firelight.
"Still alive?" he mused, grinning. "Good. He needs to be breathing when we hand him over."
Kinto ignored him, his gaze locked on Vorrik, waiting for a reaction or acknowledgment... anything at all.
But the Solerian merely adjusted his belt and casually reached for his waterskin.
Kinto’s throat tightened painfully at the sight of it. He swallowed hard against the dryness, hesitating only briefly before forcing out his next question. "May I at least have some water?"
Vorrik didn't look up. "No."
Kinto let out a slow, careful breath. "Please, I—"
"You'll drink when we make camp," Vorrik replied flatly, his tone final.
Kinto went silent, recognizing there was no point in pushing further.
"That's enough out of you," Kethar interrupted sharply.
Before Kinto could brace himself, a clawed hand seized the back of his head, pulling roughly. He winced as Kethar shoved the cloth back into his mouth, tightening the gag brutally and without care.
“There,” Kethar sneered, pulling the knot unnecessarily tight. “Much better.”
Kinto exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping once more against Vorrik’s shoulder, defeated. He let the quiet of the desert envelop him again, punctuated only by the rhythmic crunch of sand beneath their feet and the occasional, restless sigh from Kethar trailing behind them.
For a long time, no one spoke. The night air was marginally cooler, though the desert retained an oppressive warmth beneath their steps, stubbornly clinging to the day’s heat. Kinto drifted in and out of awareness, his mind dulled by fatigue and dehydration.
Eventually, Kethar broke the silence, speaking casually in Sserashk as his gaze flicked toward Kinto's limp form. "You ever wonder why the Empress wants this fox alive so badly? Seems a hefty bounty for someone who went down in less than a minute."
Vorrik didn’t break stride, his expression neutral, though the slight tension around his eyes revealed a flicker of irritation. "The less you think about it, the better."
Kethar grinned lazily, claws flexing in idle boredom. "Easy for you to say. You’re not the one staring at his floppy ears for hours on end." He tilted his head, amused. "And you know me... I start thinking when I'm bored."
Vorrik exhaled shortly. "Just keep your claws to yourself."
Kethar feigned offense, lifting a scaled hand dramatically to his chest. "Me? Hurt our precious bounty? I'd never." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "But what's wrong with a few friendly questions? Apply a bit of pressure, maybe he spills something interesting."
Vorrik’s stride faltered slightly, just enough for Kethar to notice. "We're not here for your games," Vorrik replied sharply, irritation creeping into his voice. "We finish the job and collect the bounty. That's it."
Kethar clicked his tongue, amusement fading into mild annoyance. "Always so serious, Vorrik. You never let yourself enjoy the little things." His golden eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Or maybe it's guilt? Feeling sorry for your fuzzy friend?"
"Careful," Vorrik warned, his voice dangerously low. "Keep it up, and you'll be carrying him the rest of the way yourself."
Kethar’s smirk faltered slightly, shifting quickly to an irritated frown. "Relax," he muttered defensively, masking his annoyance with a shrug. "I'm just trying to keep myself entertained."
He paused briefly, gaze turning thoughtful, genuine concern flickering beneath his usual bravado. "Look, Vorrik... I know this bounty means a lot to you. How many hatchlings do you have now, anyway? Three? Four?"
Vorrik didn’t respond immediately, tension visibly tightening in his shoulders. After a long pause, he sighed, his voice softer, reluctantly admitting, "Four."
"Four," Kethar echoed, shaking his head slightly. "That's a lot of mouths to feed. Shaal doing alright? She ever give you grief about spending so much time away?"
Vorrik stared forward, the tightness in his expression easing slightly at the mention of his mate. "She understands."
"She’s more forgiving than any Solerian I’ve ever met," Kethar scoffed, not entirely mocking this time. "Honestly, Vorrik, you’re lucky she hasn’t chased you out into the desert herself by now."
Vorrik’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering there and gone. "She’s tried."
Kethar laughed softly, a sound that for once lacked the edge of bitterness that often colored his voice. Then, carefully, almost cautiously, Vorrik glanced toward him.
"Korun is doing fine," Vorrik said quietly, deliberately, as if choosing his words with special care.
The effect was immediate. Kethar missed a step, faltering just enough to betray the sudden jolt of emotion. He recovered swiftly, but the shift in his demeanor was unmistakable. The arrogance and cocky assurance faded, replaced by a rare sincerity. A quiet, fleeting smile softened his features. "Yeah?"
Vorrik watched him closely from the corner of his eye, noting the slight softening around Kethar's mouth, the guarded vulnerability in his expression. "He's strong," Vorrik said quietly, a subtle pride creeping into his voice. "Stronger every day."
For a long moment, Kethar said nothing, letting Vorrik's words sink in as his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the shifting sands. His expression had grown distant, thoughtful. "Good," he finally murmured, a quiet, relieved sigh slipping from his lips.
They walked on for several more paces in silence, the tension between them giving way to something softer, almost comfortable. Eventually, Kethar shook himself slightly, as though pulling free of a lingering memory. His familiar bravado returned, though now tempered by genuine sincerity. He turned toward Vorrik again, his voice more resolute.
"Just remember who brought you this bounty," he said firmly, eyes serious but not unkind. "You needed the coin, I came through. Don’t forget it."
"Believe me," Vorrik murmured, voice heavy and weary, eyes fixed on the endless dunes ahead. "I couldn’t if I tried."
Silence returned between them, more comfortable now, the tension replaced by mutual understanding as they pressed onward through the endless desert night.
Days dissolved into a numb blur, heat wearing at Kinto's senses.
They traveled by night, when the desert air was tolerable, and rested by day, finding what little mercy the landscape allowed: a jagged outcropping, the narrow shade of wind-carved stone, anything to shield them from the sun’s merciless glare. Vorrik allowed short breaks, nothing more. They moved in long, punishing stretches of silence, broken only by Kethar’s occasional idle remarks or muttered complaints, most of which Vorrik ignored.
Kinto remained bound and gagged for most of it. Twice a day, Vorrik gave him water, just enough to keep him conscious, never enough to quench his thirst. Each time, the relief was almost cruel, the cool trickle on his tongue a mockery of what he truly needed.
The first time, he had swallowed greedily, too quickly, and choked. Vorrik’s grip tightened, his hand firm at the back of Kinto’s head as he tilted the waterskin at a slower pace. The gesture wasn’t gentle, just practical efficiency.
Kethar, of course, had found the whole exchange amusing.
Food came less frequently. On the second evening, Vorrik pressed a few strips of dried meat between Kinto’s teeth, watching impassively as he chewed. Kethar had snorted, tossing a dismissive glance at their captive.
“Why bother? He’ll live long enough.”
Vorrik had offered no response. He was keeping Kinto alive, nothing more.
By the third day, the journey had begun to take its toll in ways Kinto could no longer ignore. His body ached from disuse, his fur stiff with sweat and sand, his throat constantly dry no matter how much water Vorrik allowed him. It all clawed at his sanity, every step a small agony, consciousness dulled by thirst and reapplications of the poison. The edges of the world blurred, a slow, dragging weight pressing him deeper into fatigue.
Then Vorrik slowed.
At first, Kinto barely registered the shift, his thoughts too sluggish, his body too worn down. But something had changed.
Behind them, Kethar let out a sharp breath, breaking the quiet with an impatient scoff.
"Finally tired of carrying him?"
Vorrik didn’t answer. His steps had halted, not from exhaustion, but from something else.
The desert had changed.
A new tension gripped the air, a pressure settling thick and heavy over the dunes. The faint whistle of wind sharpened, a dry rasp curling through the stillness like a whisper before the scream. Vorrik’s pupils contracted, scanning the horizon, nostrils flaring at the shift in the atmosphere.
Then Kinto felt it.
A faint tremor in the sand. The wind picked up, rolling fine grains through his fur and against his skin, a subtle shift, small at first, but growing.
The realization struck an instant before Vorrik barked out the warning.
“Down. Now.”
Kethar snorted, rolling his shoulders. "What, now you want a break?"
Vorrik’s tone sharpened, his posture rigid as his gaze locked onto the distant horizon. "Storm."
Kethar’s smirk vanished.
A deep, howling roar began to swell from the distance, low and hungry. The horizon darkened, a rolling, twisting mass of sand barreling toward them, a wall of dust, thick as smoke, swallowing the sky.
Vorrik never took his eyes off the approaching storm. “Bad.”
Kinto, still slumped uselessly over Vorrik’s shoulder, blinked sluggishly through the haze of exhaustion. Even in his dulled state, he knew what a sandstorm meant.
Kethar cursed, his usual smug confidence slipping. "We need to move... find cover!"
Vorrik shook his head. "Too late."
Kethar spun, looking wildly in every direction. Nowhere to run. No cliffs, no caves, just endless dunes and a storm that would bury them in minutes.
His breathing quickened.
Vorrik’s voice cut through the rising panic like a blade. “Get low. Cover your face and hold your breath.”
Kethar snapped his head toward him. "Get low? Are you insane? We’ll be buried alive!"
He took a half-step backward, visibly trembling, his tail lashing, eyes darting like a cornered animal searching for escape. His breath came too fast, too shallow, the first signs of real fear.
“Kethar,” Vorrik warned sharply, sensing his companion’s rising hysteria. “Running will get you killed. Do exactly as I say. Now.”
Kethar hesitated, every muscle straining against instinct. Vorrik’s presence seemed the only anchor holding him in place, but the trembling didn’t stop.
The storm’s roar grew deafeningly close. The wind surged, sand whipping violently into the air.
“Down!” Vorrik shouted, and without waiting another second, he dropped Kinto roughly onto the sand, following him immediately, his body becoming a shield.
The impact knocked the breath from Kinto’s lungs. He landed heavily onto his side, his bound limbs uselessly pinned beneath Vorrik’s crushing weight. Before he could fully grasp what was happening, Vorrik shifted slightly above him, pulling Kinto sharply inward against his torso, pressing him firmly into a sheltering hold.
Kinto’s face was abruptly buried against Vorrik’s side, his muzzle wedged deeply into the Solerian’s armpit. The scent was immediate, overpowering—rich musk and sweat mingled heavily with the grit and dryness of desert sand. It flooded his senses, dizzying and humiliating all at once. Panic surged, trapped beneath Vorrik’s massive form, utterly helpless and immobile.
Sand lashed viciously around them like a living thing, the noise of the storm drowning out everything else. Kinto squeezed his eyes shut, ears flattened tightly, the gritty wind clawing at his fur and exposed skin. But worse still was the relentless pressure of Vorrik’s body, every rigid muscle taut against him, radiating warmth and strength.
Through the chaos, Kinto heard a sound far worse than the wind: the broken, desperate breathing of someone in genuine terror.
“Kethar!” Vorrik’s voice was a fierce bark, barely audible through the storm’s fury.
Kethar wasn’t getting down. Instead, he was frozen in blind panic, standing upright as sand battered him mercilessly. He stumbled backwards, tail rigid, eyes wide and blank with primal fear. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
“Kethar, get down!” Vorrik snapped again, desperation edging his voice.
Kethar shook his head frantically, his gaze locked on the approaching wall of darkness. He was muttering something unintelligible, his claws flexing uselessly at his sides. “No—no—I can’t—”
In that moment, Vorrik acted with decisive strength. He reached out, seizing Kethar’s ankle, pulling sharply. The golden-scaled Solerian hit the sand hard, sprawling beside them. Vorrik’s voice cut sharply through the roar of the storm, close and commanding.
“Stay down. Hold your breath. It’ll pass.”
Kethar shook violently, squeezing his eyes shut. Sand rapidly began covering their forms, accumulating alarmingly fast, yet Vorrik’s grip remained firm, anchoring Kethar in place. The golden-scaled Solerian’s body shuddered uncontrollably, trapped between Vorrik’s reassurance and his primal terror.
Pressed beneath Vorrik’s heavy bulk, Kinto’s world had narrowed to suffocating darkness and overwhelming heat. His muzzle, trapped against Vorrik’s side, filled with the potent scent of scales, sweat, and musk. It was intimate, invasive, and deeply uncomfortable—yet undeniably intoxicating.
His drained mind and body betrayed him. Heat pooled low in his gut, a confusing surge of embarrassment and involuntary desire. He felt the mortifying rise of arousal, pressing awkwardly, unmistakably, against Vorrik’s inner thigh.
His heart pounded furiously, shame burning through him hotter than the sandstorm itself. Vorrik must have noticed. He had to have noticed.
Yet Vorrik said nothing. He didn’t move away, didn’t shift to spare Kinto’s dignity. Instead, he remained utterly still, breathing measured, focus entirely outward as he endured the storm.
Kinto’s humiliation deepened into anguish, but there was nowhere to retreat. He could only suffer silently beneath Vorrik’s indifferent weight, hoping desperately that the sandstorm would end quickly.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the wind began to fade. The roar became a dull howl, then a whisper, leaving behind only shifting sand and echoing silence.
Slowly, Vorrik rose, sand cascading from his broad back and shoulders. Kinto gasped weakly as the weight lifted, air flooding his lungs. He kept his face turned down, ears flat, avoiding any possibility of eye contact.
Vorrik’s attention went immediately to Kethar. The golden-scaled Solerian lay motionless, half-buried, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants. Vorrik gently shook him.
“It’s over, Kethar. Breathe.”
Kethar shuddered, eyes opening slowly, the pupils blown wide with lingering panic. He didn’t speak, but the relief in his breathing was audible.
Vorrik gave him a moment, offering silent reassurance through his calm presence, then finally stood, brushing himself off. He glanced briefly at Kinto, expression carefully neutral, before turning away.
Kinto’s face burned beneath his fur. Vorrik’s silence had been worse than any reproach.
Kethar sat up slowly, hands trembling visibly as he dusted sand from his scales. His golden eyes flickered uncertainly toward Vorrik, embarrassment and gratitude warring in his gaze.
“You good?” Vorrik asked quietly, without judgment.
Kethar swallowed hard, eyes lowered in rare vulnerability. “Yeah. Just…hate feeling trapped. You know?”
Vorrik gave a small, understanding nod. “I know.”
No more words were exchanged. Vorrik simply returned to Kinto, lifting him silently back over his shoulder as though nothing had happened.
As they resumed their march beneath the rising sun, Kinto closed his eyes, desperately wishing to erase the memory of his body’s shameful reaction, yet knowing it would linger as sharply as the sand in his fur.
Behind them, Kethar walked quietly, subdued and haunted by the near-burial he’d narrowly avoided. He glanced periodically at Vorrik’s back, resentment gone, replaced by a grudging respect and gratitude that unsettled him deeply.
The endless dunes had begun to break, giving way to jagged rock formations that jutted from the sand like the bones of some long-dead beast. Sparse clusters of desert shrubs clung to the crevices, their brittle leaves rattling in the dry breeze. A sign that shade was close. Shelter.
Kethar adjusted the strap of his belt, rolling his shoulders. "Tell me we’re close," he muttered.
Vorrik’s eyes flicked toward the distant break in the cliffs ahead. “Couple hundred paces.”
Kethar grunted, swiping a hand across his brow. The midday sun had climbed high, turning the desert into a furnace. Even his scales, built for heat, prickled under the weight of it.
The last stretch was silent.
By the time they reached the cave mouth, the air shimmered with heat, distorting the edges of the world like a fever dream. Vorrik stepped into the shade first, his tail flicking once as he adjusted his grip on Kinto’s nearly limp form. Without ceremony, he strode forward, disappearing into the cool darkness.
Kethar lingered a moment longer, casting a glance back at the sun-scorched expanse behind them. Then, with a final shake of his head, he followed.
The cave was a welcome reprieve from the relentless desert heat, though the midday sun still pressed heavy at its entrance, radiating in waves off the sand and stone. It wasn’t deep, but it was shaded, its walls rough with centuries of wind-carved grooves, the floor uneven but mercifully cool compared to the blistering heat outside. The faint scent of dry earth and distant moisture clung to the air, perhaps a buried spring deeper within, though none of them would be foolish enough to search for it now.
Vorrik had barely taken three steps inside before he shifted Kinto’s weight and dumped him unceremoniously onto the cave floor.
Kinto hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his already-aching limbs. A strained noise pressed against the gag in his mouth, but it was weak, breathless. His body had gone beyond exhaustion, beyond the numbing grip of the poison. He was dehydrated, his fur still damp from the hours spent baking under the desert sun, his robe clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
Vorrik knelt beside him, his heavy hands working quickly to undo the knot at the back of his head. A tug, and then—relief. The damp cloth was pulled away, leaving his jaw sore and stiff from the prolonged restraint.
Kinto sucked in a slow, shaky breath, his tongue thick in his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, but it did nothing to ease the dryness coating his throat like sandpaper. His ears flicked weakly as he forced his head to lift, just enough to meet Vorrik’s gaze. He had no strength to speak yet, not immediately, but the plea was in his eyes.
Vorrik must have understood.
Without a word, he uncorked his waterskin, tilting it just enough to let a thin stream of water trickle against Kinto’s parched lips.
Kinto gasped softly at the first taste, his throat tightening in desperate need. He opened his mouth further, drinking in shallow, greedy gulps, but before he could take more than a few swallows, the flow stopped. Vorrik pulled the waterskin back with practiced precision.
Kinto made a low, involuntary sound, something between a sigh and a whimper of frustration, but Vorrik ignored it. He recapped the waterskin and settled back onto his haunches, his expression unreadable.
“That’s enough for now,” he said simply.
Kinto swallowed, his throat still dry but no longer screaming in agony. He exhaled heavily through his nose, head lolling slightly to the side as he tried to gather himself. The world still felt distant, hazy, but at least he could think again.
Vorrik studied Kinto for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose and pushed himself to his feet. Without another word, he stepped away, moving toward the mouth of the cave where their small fire crackled low.
The sound of rustling fabric and shifting leather drew his attention.
The flickering fire cast long shadows against the cave walls, its glow barely reaching where Kethar lounged, sifting through Kinto’s belongings with idle curiosity. His claws skimmed the edges of weathered tomes, tracing the embossed patterns along their spines, pausing only to flip through their contents. Some pages were empty, pristine sheets waiting for ink. Others were so meticulously crammed with sigils and arcane script that they blurred together in an unreadable mass. Primed spells, ready to be activated. A clever system, but ultimately useless now. With the fox’s hands bound, those pages might as well have been empty.
He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, and tossed one book aside. As he reached for another, his fingers landed on something with a different weight, its leather binding more weathered, the edges softened from years of handling. Gold-lettered embossing caught the firelight, though the text itself remained unacknowledged.
Kethar turned it over once in his hands, his thumb skimming across the spine. Then, with casual curiosity, he glanced down at Kinto.
"This one any good?" he asked, tapping a claw against the cover.
Kinto blinked slowly, then shifted slightly where he lay. “Which one?”
Kethar scoffed. “This one.” He held it up, angling it toward the fire’s glow. “The, uh—” He paused, then shrugged, flicking the book open instead. “The thick one.”
Kinto’s ears twitched. The title was right there. Clear as day.
The fox’s amber gaze flickered between Kethar and the book before he exhaled, voice dry. “It’s about survival in the Sarrian Deserts.”
Kethar gave the book a considering look, flipping a page. The carefully structured text meant little to him, but the diagrams caught his eye: illustrations of desert flora, weather patterns, and detailed notes on tracking water sources.
“Huh,” he muttered. “Figures you’d be hauling around something boring.”
Kinto huffed, his voice quieter now. “Boring to you. Useful to me.”
Kethar snorted and tossed the book onto the pile. “Yeah, yeah. Shame it didn’t teach you how to not get caught.”
Kinto said nothing.
The Solerian snickered, stretching as he reached for another tome, but this one was different.
Thinner than the others, it lacked the heavy wear of Kinto’s spellbooks, its cover smooth and unblemished compared to the scuffed and sand-worn bindings stacked beside it. A journal, not a tome. Personal.
Kethar’s claws tapped against the leather as he flipped it open.
At first, it was nothing unusual: rough landscape sketches, half-finished figures, scattered notes written in a mix of languages. Idle observations, travel records, stray thoughts jotted in the margins. But then the patterns became too familiar.
The shape of a face. Then a body. Then the same body, again and again.
A Solerian.
Kethar’s smug face faded slightly. His claws tapped against the page as he flipped through, eyes narrowing. The sketches weren’t idle or careless. They were studied. Intentional.
His golden gaze slid lower.
Anatomy.
His tail flicked with amusement as he examined the clumsy depictions, clearly speculative and notably incorrect.
Kethar’s smile stretched wider as he flipped another page, taking his time. His eyes flicked up to Kinto, golden gaze sharp with amusement.
"You know," he drawled, tapping one of the more wildly inaccurate sketches, "if you’re gonna get off to something, you should at least get the details right."
Kinto visibly stiffened, his whole body tense.
Kethar’s grin widened. "This?" His claw traced lazily over the botched depiction of a Solerian's genitals, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. "Not even close. Pretty obvious you’ve never seen the real thing."
Kinto’s ears twitched, his jaw tightening slightly, but he remained silent.
Kethar let the moment drag, watching him with the sharp-eyed amusement of a predator toying with cornered prey.
"Well?" He tilted his head, flicking through a few more pages. “You’re usually a chatty one, fox. Got nothing to say for yourself?”
Kinto exhaled slowly, controlled. “I’d say you have too much time on your hands,” he muttered, voice dry. "If rifling through another man's notes is how you entertain yourself."
Kethar chuckled, unconcerned. “Notes, huh?” His claw tapped against a particularly bold sketch, dragging lazily over the inked strokes. "Gotta say, fox, I’ve seen a lot of notes in my time, but usually, they don’t come with dick scribbles."
Kinto didn’t take the bait.
His golden eyes flicked down to Kinto, scanning his reaction. Then, a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Gotta give you credit, fox—some of these sketches are real ambitious," Kethar sneered, flicking a claw against the exaggerated lines. "Shame you’re way off." He stretched, standing slow, deliberate. "But hey, I’m feeling generous. Could clear things up for you right now. Get you some firsthand accuracy."
His fingers traced over the fabric at his waist, tugging it just enough to let the implication hang. "Well, fox? Still curious?"
Kinto inhaled sharply, eyes snapping to the movement before he caught himself, turning his gaze away, stiffening against the bindings.
Kethar’s smirk widened. “That got your attention, huh?” His fingers lingered, curling around the loose fabric of his waistband, tugging just slightly, just enough to make a point.
Then, a sound—not Kinto, but Vorrik.
A slow, deliberate exhale from across the cave. The kind that wasn’t quite a sigh, but wasn’t far from one either.
Kethar glanced over. Vorrik hadn’t looked up from tending the fire, but the tension in his posture spoke for him. A flick of his tail, a small but telling shift of weight.
Kethar grinned. “What?” he called lazily. “Just educating the fox.”
Vorrik didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance his way. But the firelight caught the sharp angle of his jaw as he rolled his shoulders, a muscle ticking just once.
Kethar waited for a response, but none came.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he let go, shaking his head. “Nah, I’d hate to ruin the mystery for you. Can’t have you getting spoiled now.”
He tossed the book onto the pile with a chuckle. “Guess you’ll just have to keep guessing, fox.”
Kinto kept his gaze averted, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. The bindings held him firm, but his entire body radiated the effort of not reacting. Kethar saw it, felt it, and it only made his smirk widen.
Kethar stretched and sat back down, rolling his shoulders, the exaggerated motion almost lazy as he settled back against the rock. He reached into a small pouch, picking at the dried meat he had stored away. It had been some desert critter they had caught earlier, its charred remnants torn apart into ragged strips. He chewed idly, tearing a piece free with his teeth, but as he adjusted his grip, a chunk of meat slipped between his fingers and dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
“Damn it,” he muttered, scowling at the fallen scrap. His tail flicked irritably, but as he moved to retrieve it, something drew his attention.
Kinto was staring at it.
Not at him. Not at the pile of books or the shifting movements of the cave.
Just the meat.
Kethar tilted his head slightly, his golden gaze settling directly onto his captive.
“Well, well,” he murmured softly, leaning forward with keen interest. “Hungry, fox?”
Kinto’s jaw tightened, his gaze unyielding despite his obvious discomfort.
Kethar picked up the morsel, twirling it casually between his fingers, his eyes sharply observing Kinto’s tense reaction. “Not so quick with your smart mouth, are you?” His lips curved into a taunting smile. “Perhaps you'd find your voice again if I waved this right under your nose.”
Kinto remained silent, though a brief flicker of defiance crossed his expression.
With deliberate slowness, Kethar tossed the scrap onto the floor, letting it land mere inches from Kinto’s restrained form.
“Go ahead,” he said, leaning back with casual arrogance. “Eat.”
Kinto hesitated, muscles tense despite their weakness. His hands twitched, but the mitts swallowed even that small motion. He didn’t move.
Kethar’s smirk widened. “What’s wrong? Thought you were hungry.”
Kinto flicked his ears back, his breath slow and measured. He would not grant Kethar the satisfaction of seeing him humiliated further.
With a quiet, disdainful chuckle, Kethar reclined once more, idly chewing on another strip of dried meat. “Suit yourself.”
The silence stretched again, interrupted only by the occasional sound of chewing and shifting gear.
Kinto swallowed thickly, then, with what little strength he had, forced himself to speak.
“…I need to relieve myself.”
Vorrik looked at him, unreadable.
Kethar raised a brow, tearing another bite of meat between his teeth. “So? Piss yourself.”
Kinto’s ears flicked, his jaw tightening as he shot Kethar a sharp glare. He knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.
But Vorrik, at least, had a sense of pragmatism.
Vorrik exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before standing. “No. I’d rather not smell that for the rest of the trip.”
Kethar shrugged, grinning. “Not my problem.”
Vorrik ignored him.
He stepped forward, crouching down beside Kinto once more. Without further discussion, he gripped Kinto’s arms, hoisting him upright and hauling him toward the cave entrance.
Kinto’s legs barely functioned. His balance was nonexistent. The toxin still pulsed dully in his limbs, and the dehydration made every step feel like he was wading through stone. If Vorrik wasn’t holding him up, he would have collapsed within moments.
The heat outside hit him again, though it was nothing compared to the unbearable midday sun. Vorrik maneuvered him to the cave’s edge, where the sands stretched out before them in long, rolling dunes.
Kinto didn’t have the luxury of privacy.
Vorrik wasn’t going to waste time untying him, but he also wasn’t about to let him make more of a mess than necessary. With a firm grip, he shifted Kinto’s stance, steadying him against a nearby rock. The Vulpin wobbled, his legs barely able to hold his own weight, but Vorrik held him upright long enough to reach down and yank the fabric of his robe aside, tugging his pants down just enough to keep them out of the way.
Kinto’s breath hitched, just for a second, as Vorrik shifted him. It was nothing. Vorrik didn’t react, didn’t notice. But Kinto did. The memory of the sandstorm coiled tight in his gut, unwelcome and humiliating.
“Go,” he said flatly.
Kinto let out a slow breath, his face burning, not from the heat, but from the sheer indignity of it. His bound arms made everything awkward, and his sluggish limbs refused to cooperate fully, but his body gave him no choice. Any hesitation was purely in his mind, shame warring with necessity.
Vorrik stood silent, his presence impassive, merely ensuring Kinto didn’t collapse where he stood. If he had any thoughts about this moment, he didn’t voice them.
It took time. Too much time.
The poison made everything sluggish, his body unresponsive and slow to obey even its most basic needs. His muscles trembled with effort, and by the time relief finally came, it wasn’t the sensation of emptying his bladder that made him exhale, but the end of this humiliating ordeal.
Vorrik waited without comment, shifting only slightly when it was done. With ease, he adjusted Kinto’s clothes back into place, securing them without fanfare before hoisting him up once more. The Vulpin hung limp in his grip, drained beyond words, but Vorrik carried him back toward the cave without a second thought.
By the time he was placed back onto the cool stone floor, Kinto had nothing left.
He should have felt anger. Should have felt fear. Should have felt something.
But all he felt was tired.
He slumped, his body weak and useless, his ears flicking faintly as he listened to the rustling of Kethar rummaging through his belongings. Somewhere nearby, Vorrik settled himself, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the strain of travel.
Kinto exhaled, his breaths slow and deep despite the dryness in his throat. The thirst gnawed at him, but there was no point in asking again. He closed his eyes, listening to the wind beyond the cave entrance, to the soft rustle of sand shifting over stone. The reality of his situation hadn’t changed. He was still bound. Still weak. Still at their mercy.
But for now, there was nothing left to do but wait.
