The cavern swallowed sound and light, leaving only the ragged symphony of combat. Steel shrieked against steel. Choked curses. The wet thud of fists on flesh. Six silhouettes moved in the gloom. Among them, a man moved like a shadow. His whip, wrapped in a surge of lightning, split the dark. It caught the arm of a trafficker lunging for the fox-eared archer. The man's scream shook the air as electricity convulsed through him.
The magic's call was a serpent coiling up his arm, injecting its familiar venom with each strike. But then a new sensation lurched within him. His breath caught as a foreign itch, deep in his marrow, sharpened into a hot skewer.
He staggered as the final trafficker fell. The thief—Elana—turned. Her smile was warm. Infectious. But as the whip's light flickered and died, his knee hit the stone. A wet gasp escaped him. Across the cavern, her face melted into horror.
"…len!"
He reached for her. All that escaped was silence, and a fine red mist.
"Valen… VALEN!"
Light stabbed his eyes. A single candle flame swam in the darkness. He blinked. The cavern's echoes dissolved into the mutter of a crowd and the floral stink of perfume. His head pounded. The room tilted. Where was his whip? His hand fumbled at his hip, finding nothing but empty leather.
"Valen, wake up." A plush voice whispered.
His vision cleared. Madame Fiorè's face hovered inches from his. Freckles dusted her creamy skin, fiery locks escaping their pins.
She clicked her tongue. "Eyes up, Valen." Her sapphire glare held no flirtation, only frustration. He flushed. Beyond her shoulder, a stranger polished a candelabra, pointedly ignoring them.
"Looking for this, mon loup?" She dangled the coiled whip. Its leather grip had left a ridged welt across his cheek. He touched it, wincing. Around them, the brothel's parlor glowed in the dawn light: gaudy wallpaper, crystal decanters, the murmur of departing clients. His side throbbed where the dream's pain lingered.
"You drooled on my best divan," she said, but her eyes held a thread of concern. "You're pale as the moon."
He waved her off with a cracked smile. "I'll be fine, Fio." He pushed himself upright, the velvet cushions sighing. His gaze swept the room before locking onto her. "What's festering in the city's gut? Heard any new rot? Beastfolk vanishing into cellars?"
Fiorè's fingers drummed her thigh, silk whispering. "You know I hear things." Her eyes narrowed. A pause. Then, dismissively: "Just chatter about a market thief. Slippery little ghost, they say. Steals fish, not lives." She plucked a stray thread from her gown.
Valen snorted. "A food thief? Not the history-altering crisis I was hoping for." He rubbed the whip-mark on his cheek, the sting grounding him. Then he froze. Fiorè's gaze had drifted… past his shoulder.
He turned.
In the doorway stood a catfolk girl, all silver fur and charcoal skin. Moonlight from a high window caught her as she shifted her weight, a dancer's poise with feline silence. Her eyes, wide and jade, fixed on him. No fear. Just assessment.
Valen's gaze cut back to Fiorè. "You get a new girl?"
Fiorè stepped between them, a peacock-blue barrier. "This is Luna." Her voice was tight. Her hand settled on the girl's shoulder. Not possessively, but like a shield. "Found her in the alley behind the brothel. Those vermin you hunt had her cornered."
Valen's jaw clenched. "And you bring her here?" This place reeked of perfume and desperation. He saw the brothel's shadows deepen, imagining chains where none hung. Sex work? That's no better.
His voice dropped, roughened by memory. "You know what they mean to me." He saw his old comrade's grin, now faded. "Don't make her…" He choked on the accusation, gesturing at the velvet-draped room.
Luna tilted her head. Her gaze held no fear, no pain. Only a sharp, feline curiosity. She sniffed the air, nostrils flaring as if testing his scent. His righteous fury faltered.
Fiorè's laugh was a short, sharp bark. "Imbécile." She shoved his shoulder, none of her usual tenderness in it. "Luna scrubs pots and linen, not backs." Her robe swished as she moved behind the catgirl, fingers brushing silver fur. "She's safer here than in your crusade's path."
Luna's ears twitched. "Fiorè is kind," she murmured, her voice like wind through leaves. Her green eyes lifted to Valen's. "I thought… all human places in Calamor were cages." The raw wonder in her tone made his throat tighten.
Valen's sigh shuddered out of him. He met Luna's gaze, the gentleness there surprising him. "Safety's rare," he admitted. Rising, he swayed. His sleeve slid back, revealing scars like cracked porcelain across his forearm. Fiorè's eyes tracked them, her expression unreadable. "My reasons run deep." He buckled his whip to his hip. The weight anchored him.
Luna's tail flicked, curious. "A story to tell?" she whispered.
Valen's smile was thin. "When the shadows aren't listening." At the door, he paused. The moon's grey light etched Fiorè's worry. No words were needed. Luna's soft "Thank you" followed him into the alley's chill.
The stone roads gleamed under the gas lamps. Valen drew his cloak tighter, the wool damp and heavy. Calamor's night breathed around him: distant laughter, the clink of glass. He turned down a narrow alley, a shortcut to the gates.
Then… Shattering glass. A woman's sharp cry. Boots pounding stone.
Valen froze, hand on his whip. Shadows convulsed at the alley's mouth. "Fish thief!" someone roared.
Fiorè's little ghost? He stepped deeper into the gloom. "Not my circus," he muttered. But he clutched the coiled leather. The clamor faded as quickly as it came. He continued on his way.
* * *
Her lungs burned. The fish slipped in her grip, scales slick as ice. Behind her, the guards' torches swung wild flames across wet brick. Too close.
She skidded around a corner, boots splashing in a puddle. The stench of rot and wet wool choked her. Then she saw it: the wobbly stack of crates. She leapt, fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick wood. A crate shifted. She hauled herself up, the fish now clenched between her teeth. Below, a guard cursed. "Gone again, that wraith!"
Rooftop tiles greeted her, cold and uneven. She collapsed behind a chimney stack, trembling. The trout's flesh tore easily. Cold, briny, delicious. Juice dripped down her chin. But it wasn't enough. Enough to survive, but to live? Hardly.
"Tomorrow," she whispered. The word felt hollow. Drizzle began to fall again, thin and icy. She pulled her knees to her chest, small against the vast, wet dark.
Thunder rumbled overhead, jolting her awake. She hissed, shaking water from her fur. Then it hit her: butter, lemon, the rich oil-scent of salmon. Her mouth flooded.
Where?
She scrambled to the roof's edge, nostrils flaring. Past the city wall, a lone cottage glowed. Its window gaped open, steam curling onto the breeze.
She dropped to the muddy ground, silent. Through the window, she saw it. A plate heaped with pink flesh and herbs. One chair. Empty.
Her claws dug into wet earth. Too easy. But her stomach cramped, vicious. She hesitated. Then, like a shadow, she slipped inside.
* * *
The salmon's scent couldn't mask the ghosts here. Valen traced the scar bisecting his eyebrow in the tarnished mirror. Elana's laugh echoed in his memory, bright and reckless. "Hope you're not dead in a ditch, lynx," he muttered.
Movement. Behind him. Reflected.
He spun, chair scraping stone. Not Elana's hazel gaze. These eyes were wide with panic. A hooded figure, dripping on his rug. His whip was in his hand before he took a breath.
Silence. Rain hammered the roof. Her stare dropped to the salmon, hungry and terrified. Not an assassin. A thief.
Water pooled around her boots. Her soaked undershirt clung to her, revealing orange, marble-like swirls on her arms and stomach. She froze mid-reach, fingers inches from the fish. His growl spun her around. Claws unsheathed, glinting. One leap to the window—
Kind humans. The whisper in her mind halted her. Firelight kissed her cheek, drying damp fur. Her gaze flicked from his whip to the steaming plate. Hunger won. She took a trembling step back. "I… smelled it," she rasped.
Her hood shifted. Ears? She's beastfolk, but what kind? That forced smile was awkward, too sharp. It twisted something in him. Whatever she is, she's no threat. Just starving.
With the speed of a bolt, she scrambled onto the sill, rain slashing her back.
"Wait." The word left him before he could think. He laid his whip on the table and raised his empty hands. "Take it." He nudged the plate forward. "Just… don't bolt through my window again." His voice roughened. "The door's perfectly functional." A sliver of his old humor surfaced, surprising them both.
The thief paused, one leg outside. Rain soaked her calf. Just a child playing at banditry? "I'm… Valen," he said, the name rough but open. He stepped closer. Firelight caught the silver threading his temples. "And you are…?"
Her claws retracted. She slid back inside, dripping. "Mona," she whispered, as if testing the sound. Her eyes never left his. Yellow. Feral. But now, curious.
Water darkened the rug. Mona winced. "Sorry 'bout… the mess." Her voice wavered, young. "Jus'… smelled it." Her gaze snagged on a mounted dagger. "You hunt monsters?" she blurted, forgetting the salmon. Her fingers twitched toward a wolf pelt. She caught herself, cheeks flushing. "I mean… I'll clean it. Promise."
Valen nudged the plate closer. "It's alright. Please. Eat."
She snatched a piece, gulping it half-chewed. Grease shone on her chin.
"Do you have a family? Owners?" he asked softly.
"No one," she said, too light. A shrug. But her ears sagged. "Jus' a stray." Her gaze darted to the rattling window. "Hate bein' wet," she mumbled. Then, softer: "Can I… stay? Jus' tonight?" Her claws tapped the table. A trapped bird's heartbeat.
Stray. The word pricked him. He fetched a thick towel and a wool blanket that smelled of cedar. "Here." He held them out, careful not to crowd her. "Dry off first."
Mona clutched the towel, burying her face in its roughness. A muffled sigh escaped.
"How old are you, Mona?" he asked, leaning against the hearthstone. Her youth unnerved him.
She pondered. "Dunno," she mumbled. Then, chin lifted: "Seen twenty winters, though!" A tiny smile graced her lips. "That's old, right?"
She peeled off her hood. Short hair, wet-dark gold, plastered to her temples. Orange streaks traced her cheeks like whiskers. Her ears were pale gold. Unmistakably feline, they flicked upright.
Valen's breath caught. Golden fur. Eyes like sunlight trapped in amber. Elana's old warning hissed in his ears: Gold-furred ones fetch a lord's ransom. Some skin them for trophies.
He cleared his throat. "You're a catfolk?" Idiot. You see the ears. "Just… never seen fur like yours." The compliment felt clumsy, but true.
Mona tugged at a wet strand. His stare prickled her skin. "Is that why?" Her voice frayed. "People… stare. Throw stones." The blanket scratched her neck. She pulled it higher. "Am I… bad luck?"
Valen's shoulders relaxed. Scaring her like a fresh recruit. He sank into the armchair opposite. "Nah," he said, softer. "Stupidity, mostly. Fear of what's not like them." A half-smile touched his lips. "But you're safe here."
He nudged the salmon plate closer. "Tell me, what's a day like for you, Mona?"
She tucked her knees up, tail wrapping tight. "Hard," she said softly. "I gotsa be quick. Sneaky." Her eyes wandered over his things: the broken shield, the dented flute. "Why'd you come way out here? The city's… loud. But warmer."
Valen leaned back, the chair groaning. "Solitude's… simpler. When I adventured, there were six of us. Packed like sardines." A fleeting smile. "Never quiet."
He stood and crossed to her. His hand rested lightly on her damp hair. A pat, brief as a sparrow's landing. She needs stability. "You're free to come whenever. Stay out of the rain, grab a snack… But, only if you swear"—a mock-stern look—"no more salmon theft." His chuckle rasped. "The window's off-limits. Use the door. Like civilized folk."
Mona's head tilted into his palm. A purr rumbled low in her chest. She snapped it off, cheeks flushing. "Promise," she whispered.
She studied his face, the silver at his temples. "Your friends," she ventured, softer. "Did… did they leave?" Her claws pricked the blanket. Like mine?
"Still breathing, last I heard. But the road… it wears you down. Like river stones." He watched the rain streak the glass. "Calamor promised peace. Or a hiding place." A dry chuckle. "Same thing, sometimes." He faced her. "The uprising, two decades back? Ancient history to most. But not to us, eh? Scars linger."
Mona set the salmon aside. "I know 'bout scars," she murmured. She parted her hair, revealing a jagged line above her right eye. "Some humans are… soft. Like the baker who leaves out crumbs." Her voice hitched. "Others… aren't." She drew the blanket tighter. "Those stories? Where humans take us in? I used to believe 'em." Her yellow eyes searched his face. "Do you think they're real?"
She stared at the floor. "I've… had to hide who I am. Hood over ears, tail stuffed in pants. Watched humans. Learned." She breathed deep. "Even when I blended in... they found reasons to be mean. Slept in alleys. Fought for scraps. Stole..." Her cheeks twitched. "Better than… The other stuff." She didn't say it. Didn't need to. Valen knew.
He nodded slowly. "I understand, somewhat. The adventurer's life is not far from a drifter's."
A yawn escaped him. "Mona," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm turning in. You're welcome to the couch." His eyes were tired, but a softness remained.
"Thank you… But…" Her claws dug into her palms. "Humans who help… get hurt," she whispered, eyes fixed on his scars. She forced a step back. "I bring trouble. Don't wanna see you get more scars 'cause of me." A tremor ran through her. "I'm gone by mornin'. Promise."
Valen watched her. "If that's what you want," he said, the sadness in his voice rougher than he intended. He moved closer.
His hand lifted, slow as dawn. Fingers brushed her golden hair, tracing the soaked fur beneath. Mona flinched. A shudder ran through her. Not fear, but release. Muscle by muscle, she uncoiled. His palm settled warm atop her head, his thumb stroking. "But, I'd enjoy the company," he murmured.
The fire crackled. Rain whispered on the roof. Her breath caught, a knot loosening.
Mona turned away. The couch swallowed her, the blanket rough but dry. She tucked her tail under her legs. Valen's movements blurred: the click of a lock, the clink of a dish.
"I'll think 'bout it," she breathed, the words slurring. Sleep dragged her under, heavy and sudden. For the first time in years, no worry chased her. Just warmth, deep and thick as honey. Safety.
Valen watched her tail curl tight around her ankles. He cleared the plate. Upstairs, his bed waited, cold and narrow. He paused at the stair's edge, his gaze drifting back.
The hearth painted gold on her cheek. Fate? Maybe. Or just rain, and an open window. He climbed the steps slowly, the cottage settling around them like a sigh.