Across the continent, a cavern swallowed sound and light, leaving only the ragged symphony of combat. Steel shrieking against steel, choked curses, the wet thud of fists finding flesh. Six silhouettes moved in the gloom: three humans, a fox-eared archer, a lizardfolk with scales like tarnished copper, and the catfolk woman whose narrowed eyes burned brighter than the torchlight. They fought not for gold or glory, but for vengeance. Her tail had bristled as she described the traffickers who'd taken her fellow catfolk.
Amongst them, a particular human moved like a shadow given purpose. His whip, wrapped in a surge of lightning, split the dark. The arm of a trafficker lunging for the fox-eared archer convulsed as the electricity surged through. The trafficker's scream shook the air. Around him, chaos reigned: the lizardkin's roar, the clang of blades, the catfolk's snarl as she severed rope bindings.
The magic's call was a serpent coiling his arm, injecting the usual venom. A familiar sting with each strike. However, a new sensation lurched from within. His breath caught as a foreign itch deep within his marrow grew to a skewer. He staggered as the final trafficker crumpled. Then the thief turned. Her smile was warm. Infectious. But as the whip's light flickered and died, he collapsed. One knee hit stone. A wet gasp escaped him. Across the cavern, the thief's face melted into horror.
"…len!"
He reached for her, trying to speak. All that escaped was silence, and red mist.
"Valen… VALEN!"
Light stabbed his eyes. A single candle flame swam in darkness. He blinked. The cavern's echoes dissolved to the muttering of a crowd, and the floral scent of perfume. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat. The room tilted violently. Where was the whip's worn grip? His hand fumbled at his hip, finding only empty leather. Shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink. A low groan escaped him.
"Valen, wake up." A plush voice whispered. His vision cleared. Madame Fiorè's face hovered inches from his. Her creamy skin was dusted with freckles, fiery locks escaping their pins. His gaze dipped, tracing the emerald silk straining over her ample curves.
She clicked her tongue. "Eyes up, Valen." Her sapphire glare held no flirtation, only frustration. He flushed. Beyond her shoulder, an unfamiliar face polished a candelabra, pointedly ignoring them. The whip's absence at his hip felt like a chipped tooth.
"Looking for this, mon loup?" She dangled the coiled whip. Its leather grip had left a ridged welt across Valen's cheek. He touched it, wincing. Around them, the brothel's parlor glowed: gaudy wallpaper, crystal decanters catching dawn light, the murmur of departing clients. Valen's side throbbed where the dream's pain lingered. A hiss escaped his lips as he sat upright.
"You drooled on my best divan," she said, but her eyes held concern over his discomfort. "You're as pale as the moon above..."
He waved her concern off with a cracked smile. "I'll be fine, Fio," he repeated, finally pushing himself upright. Velvet cushions sighed beneath him. His gaze swept the room before locking onto her. "What's festering in the city's gut?" The question hung between them. "Heard any new rot? Beastfolk vanishing into cellars?"
Fiorè's fingers drummed her thigh, silk whispering. "You know I hear things," she said, eyes narrowing. 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 exactly 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? Valen turned.
In the doorway stood a catfolk girl, all silver fur and charcoal-skin. Moonlight from a high window caught her frame as she shifted weight from foot to foot, a dancer's poise with feline silence. Her eyes, wide and jade, fixed on Valen. No fear. Just assessment.
Valen's eye darted to Fioré, a hint of accusation within. "You get a new girl?"
Fiorè stepped between them, a peacock-blue barrier. "This is Luna," she said, voice tight. Her hand settled on the girl's shoulder. Not possessively, but like a shield. "Found her in the alleyway behind the brothel. Those vermin you hunt had her cornered."
Valen's jaw clenched. His gaze cut from Luna's wary stillness to Fiorè's defiant glare. "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? He thought to himself. That's no better.
Valen's voice dropped, roughened by memory. "You know what they mean to me." He saw his old comrade's grin, now a faded memory. "Don't make her…" He choked on the accusation, gesturing vaguely at the velvet-draped room. Luna tilted her head. Her gaze held no fear. No pain. No secrets. Only a sharp, feline curiosity. She sniffed the air, nostrils flaring as if testing his scent. Valen's righteous fury faltered.
Fiorè's laugh was a short, sharp bark. "Imbécile." She shoved Valen's shoulder, with none of her usual tenderness. "Luna scrubs pots and linen, not backs." Her peacock 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, 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 Valen's throat tighten. Guilt cooled his flame.
Valen's sigh shuddered through him. He met Luna's gaze, the gentleness there surprising even himself. "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, unreadable. "My reasons run deep," he said, buckling 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 needed. Luna's soft "Thank you" followed him into the alley's chill.
The stone roads gleamed like coins under the gas lamps. Valen drew his cloak tighter, the wool damp and heavy. Calamor's night breathed around him with distant laughter and the clinks of glass. He turned down a narrow alley, his shortcut to the city 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. Valen's lip curled. Fiorè's little ghost? He stepped deeper into the gloom. "Not my circus," he muttered. The clamor faded just as quick as it arrived. 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 rotting cabbage and wet wool choked her. Then she saw it: the stack of crates beside the shop, wobbling but familiar. She leapt, fingers scrambling for leverage on slick wood. A crate shifted. She hauled herself up, the fish now between gritted 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 under her teeth. Cold, briny, and delicious. Juice dripped down her chin. But it's not enough. Enough to survive, but to live? Hardly. Below, the market stalls lay shuttered, lanterns extinguished. Emptiness gnawed deeper than hunger. She wiped her mouth with a torn sleeve. "Tomorrow," she whispered. But the word felt hollow. Drizzle began to fall again, thin and icy. Rooftop puddles mirrored the city's distant glow. A thousand golden eyes…watching. She pulled her knees to her chest, small against the vast, wet dark.
The drizzle needled her skin, colder now. Refuge. The word felt foreign, dangerous. Like trusting a raised hand not to strike. She gnawed the last shreds from the fishbone. I've survived pickpockets, winter frost… why not this? A memory surfaced: a human baker once tossing her a stale roll, eyes soft. No trap. Just… kindness. She tucked the bone into her pocket. Waste nothing. Then curled against the chimney's residual warmth. Sleep tugged at her. In her dream, a hearth glowed. Her lips curved, just slightly, before the rooftops swallowed her breath into the city's chatter.
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 like a beacon. 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 scattered like emeralds. 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 memory, bright and reckless. "Hope you're not dead in a ditch, lynx," he muttered. Firelight glinted on a mounted crossbow, a dwarven shield dented by arrows.
Movement. Behind him. Reflected.
He spun, chair scraping stone. Not Elana's hazel gaze. These eyes were wide with panic. Hooded, dripping on his rug. His whip was in his hand before he breathed. Silence. Rain hammered the roof. Her stare dropped to the salmon, hungry and terrified. Not an assassin. A thief.
Water pooled around her boots, ink-dark on the hardwood. Her soaked undershirt clung to her, revealing orange swirls on her arms and stomach. Tattoos? Bruises? No, those seem to be natural markings, like marble. She froze mid-reach, fingers inches from the fish. Valen's growl spun her around. Claws unsheathed, glinting. One leap to the window—
Kind humans. The whisper halted her. Firelight kissed her cheek, drying damp fur. Her gaze flicked from Valen's whip to the steaming plate. Hunger won. She took a trembling step back, her tucked-away tail lashing underneath her clothes. "I… smelled it," she rasped. The admission sat between them, raw and desperate.
Her hood shifted. Ears? Valen thought to himself. She's beastfolk, but just what is she? That forced smile was… awkward, too sharp. It twisted something in Valen. Whatever she is, she's no threat… just starving. He'd seen that look on Elana's face, too.
With the speed of a bolt, she scrambled onto the sill, rain slashing her back.
"Wait." The word left Valen before thought. He laid his whip on the table, slow and raised his hands above his chest.
Her wide eyes tracked the movement. "Take it." He nudged the plate forward. Salmon glistened. "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. Valen's stance eased. Fiorè's fish thief is 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. The salmon's scent was a living thing between them. "Mona," she whispered, as if testing the sound. Her eyes never left his. Yellow. Feral. But now, curious.
Water darkened the rug in messy footprints. Mona winced. "Sorry 'bout… the mess." Her voice wavered, young. "Just… smelled it." Her gaze snagged on a mounted dagger. "You hunt monsters?" she blurted, forgetting the salmon. Her fingers twitched toward a wolf pelt. It was real. Not just another overheard tavern tale. She caught herself, cheeks flushing. "I mean… I'll clean it. Promise."
Valen nudged the plate closer. Steam rose, fragrant. "It's quite alright. Please. Eat." No command, just offer.
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, fur clumped with rain. "Just a stray." Mona's gaze darted to the rattling window. Rain lashed the pane. "Hate bein' wet," she mumbled. Then, softer: "Can I… stay? Jus' tonight?" Her claws tapped the table. She was nervous, like a trapped bird's heartbeat. Firelight caught the gold in her short hair, the charcoal swirls on her skin as light shivers shook her body.
Stray? The word pricked Valen. That confirms it. But her shiver left no time to pry. He fetched a towel, thick and sun-bleached, and a wool blanket smelling of cedar needles.
"Here." He held them out, careful not to crowd her. "Dry off first." Rainwater still dripped from her sleeves. Fire crackled, spitting embers.
Mona clutched the towel, burying her face in its roughness. A muffled sigh escaped.
"How old are you, Mona?" Valen asked, leaning against the hearthstone. Warmth seeped into his back. Her youth unnerved him. She was far too small for Calamor's teeth.
She pondered Valen's question. "Dunno," she mumbled. Then, chin lifted: "Seen twenty winters, though!" A tiny small graced her lips. "That's old, right?" She spoke with a child's bravado, thin as a blade of grass. But to her, it was the only measure of time that mattered.
She peeled off her hood fully. 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 in the black markets. Some skin them alive for trophies. Others wish to conquer and claim their bodies."
He cleared his throat, rough as gravel. "You're a catfolk?" Idiot. You see the ears. "Just… never seen fur like yours." The compliment felt clumsy, but true. Light from the flames caught the strands, turning them molten. He forced his gaze away, scanning the shadows beyond the window. Who else knows she's here? "Striking," he added, softer.
Mona tugged at a wet strand. Valen's stare prickled her skin. "Is that why?" Her voice frayed. "People… stare. Throw stones." She'd thought it was the ears, the claws. Not her hair. The blanket scratched her neck. She pulled it higher. "Am I… bad luck?" Her yellow eyes fixed on his, wide with a child's dread. No pity wanted, just truth.
Valen's shoulders relaxed. Scaring her like a fresh recruit. He sank into the armchair opposite, leather creaking. "Nah," he said, softer. The fire's glow smoothed the scar on his cheek. "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, still partially-eaten. "Tell me, what's a day like for you, Mona?" He pried further, careful not to alarm. Rain blurred the window behind him, turning the city into a watercolor smear. His tone held no judgment, only the quiet of shared shelter.
Mona tucked her knees up, tail wrapping tight. The rug's scratch felt good. "Hard," she said softly. "I gotsa be quick. Sneaky." She nibbled her lip. "But I manage." Her eyes wandered over Valen's things: the broken shield, the flute with dents. "Why'd you come way out here?" She gestured vaguely toward the window's dark blur. "The city's… loud. But warmer."
Valen leaned back, the chair groaning. "Solitude's… simpler," he said, eyes fixed on the flames. "When I adventured, there were six of us. Packed like sardines in wet tents and hay bales." A smile touched his lips for a fleeting moment. "Never quiet."
He pushed up, crossing to Mona. His hand rested lightly on her damp hair. A pat, brief as a sparrow's landing. She needs stability, he thought before speaking. "You're free to come whenever," he offered. "Stay out of the rain, grab a snack… But, only if you swear, 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. No salmon. No window.
She studied his face, scanning the silver creeping into the black his temples and the shadows in his gaze. "Your friends," she ventured, softer. The orange glow caught the wet tracks on her cheeks. "Did… did they leave?" Her claws pricked the blanket. Like mine? The unspoken question hung, fragile and strained.
"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 fire casting long shadows. "The uprising about two decades ago? Ancient history to most now. But not to us, eh?" His eyes held hers, steady and unflinching. "Scars linger."
Mona set the salmon aside, her appetite gone. "I know 'bout scars," she murmured. She parted her hair further, 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 as she traced the scar. "Those stories? Where humans take us in? I used to believe 'em." Her yellow eyes searched his face, hopeful and wary. "Do you think they're real?"
Mona stared at the floor, eyes wet. "I've… had to hide who I am," she said, voice low. "Hood over ears, tail stuffed in pants. Watched humans. Learned." She breathed deep, chest tight. "Even when I blended in... they found reasons to be mean." Her gaze darted around the room, searching the walls for answers that never came. "Slept in alleys. Fought for scraps. Stole..." Her cheeks twitched as she bit into salmon. The rich flavor fought her bitter memories. "Better than… The other stuff." She didn't say it. Didn't need to. Valen knew.
Valen nodded slowly, He'd seen it in his own past. A constant shifting of alliances and identities. "I understand, somewhat," he said. "The adventurer's life is not far from a drifter's." He stretched his arms, the leather of his shirt creaking. A yawn escaped him, the weight of the day's events pressing down. "Mona," he said, his voice gentle. "I think I'll be turning in for the night after I eat. You're welcome to the couch." He gestured to the well-worn piece of furniture. His eyes were tired, but there's a softness there. Underlying kindness, despite his rough exterior.
Mona looked up at Valen. "Thank you… But…" She wasn't used to such kindness from humans. Mona's claws dug into her palms. The fire's crackle was a lullaby she couldn't trust. "Humans who help… get hurt," she whispered, eyes fixed on Valen's scars. She forced her legs to move. One step back from the warmth. "I bring trouble." Her tail wrapped around her ankle, a damp anchor. "Don't wanna see you get more scars 'cause of me." A tremor ran through her. The terrible, unfamiliar ache of wanting to believe. "I'm gone by mornin'. Promise."
Valen watched her, eyes lowering. "If that's what you want," he said, the sadness in his voice rougher than he intended. He moved closer, boots silent on stone. The offer stayed: You're always welcome.
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, thumb stroking. "But, I'd enjoy the company," he murmured. The fire crackled. Rain whispered against the roof. Her breath caught once more, like a knot loosening.
Mona's gaze lingered on Valen's half of the now-shared salmon, a flicker of longing in her gaze. She turned away. The couch swallowed her, wool blanket rough but blessedly dry. She tucked her tail under her legs, the tip twitching once. Valen's movements blurred: click of a lock, clink of a dish, splashes of water.
"I'll keep that in mind," she breathed, the words slurring. Sleep dragged her under, heavy and sudden. The rain sang a lullaby on the roof. For the first time in years, no worry chased her. Just warmth, deep and thick as honey. Her claws relaxed against the cushion. Safety.
Valen watched Mona's tail curl tight around her ankles. He cleared the plate, salmon bones gleaming. Upstairs, his bed waited, cold and narrow. He paused at the stair's edge, gaze drifting back to the couch. Mona's breath came soft and even. 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.