Valen's fist slammed the table with a curse. Plates rattled. The whip coiled around his wrist pulsed. "We could have done more." He paced, hand in his hair.
Mona watched him, her tail thumping, steady rhythm against the chair leg. "Maybe we can still help," she said. Her voice held steady. "Can we find where they're taking them?"
Valen's gaze snapped back to the parchment. His finger traced the elegant script, the official seals. "Destination isn't listed. Just a 'private buyer.' Origin: 'private seller.'" A pause. "But the royal seal,"–he tapped it–"is genuine."
He stopped, eyes distant. Then began walking the room once more.
"No, no. This can't be." He wasn't speaking to Mona anymore. "Aldric outlawed this after the uprising. He swore—" His jaw tightened. "But if this caravan is connected to Calamor, it means someone close to him has their hands dirty." He turned to her, his expression stiffened. "Mona. I need you to stay here. Keep safe. I'm going into town to trace this caravan." His hand found the door handle. "Promise me you will not leave."
She looked up at him—this strange, stubborn human who had looked at a feral street cat and seen something worth teaching. "I promise." Her voice thinned. "Please be careful."
A nod. Then his boots were echoing down the road, and the door slammed shut between them.
***
The Crescent Moon wore its usual mask: low laughter, clinking glasses, the sweet scent of expensive perfume trying and failing to drown cheap ale. Valen pushed through the door, and the warmth hit him first, then the noise, then the inevitable blockade.
Pale blue eyes. A gown that caught the lamplight. Platinum hair spilling over one bare shoulder.
"Looking for something, dear?" The elf breathed out the words, walking her fingers up his arm. "Or someone?"
"Fioré." Valen kept his voice low, urgent. "Tell her it's Valen."
The elf's smile faded, and she melted back into the bustle, vanishing down the hall.
Fioré appeared as she always did: without sound, without warning, sliding into the opposite chair with the effortless grace of a woman who had spent decades learning exactly how to unravel men. "Qu'est-ce qui t'amène?" She saw his face—the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—and raised a manicured hand. "Ah. Private matters. Understood." She led him to her personal quarters.
Valen didn't wait for the door to close. "Fioré, I need your help. Something's wrong." He lowered his volume. "A shipment leaving the city. The manifest said 'livestock.' But the smell—it was beastfolk."
An eyebrow rose. She lifted her wine glass, studying him over the rim. "Mon cher. Your stories are as vivid as ever."
"This isn't a story, Fio."
"Valen." A gentle clink as she set the goblet down. "I cannot risk direct involvement like this without something more tangible. Sorry."
"I've taken in a stray catfolk." He leaned closer. "She's the one who tracked the scent. She said it was like Luna's." He searched, desperate for a crack in her perfect composure. "We need to know where they're being taken. Who's behind this."
Something flickered across Fioré's face—there, then gone. "I see." She took another sip, slower this time. "The little catfolk with the golden eyes. So curious, non?" Her smile thinned. "And you're certain it wasn't just a child's imagination?"
Valen watched the subtle retreat in her posture. "I feel she would know the scent of her kind better than you or I." Valen's hands tightened. "Need I remind you, Luna's part of Calamor too. If the imperial guard is involved, she isn't safe. Not here, not anywhere."
"Valen, you know that poking your nose where it doesn't belong stirs a hornet's nest. Even if this is true, what good will getting involved bring? We have all made our peace here, have we not? Carved a life from the shadows. "
"I know the risks. But if there's even a small chance someone is harming beastfolk again, I can't ignore it. You know that." His voice flared, going a bit louder than intended. "And if Luna's in danger, you won't be able to either." He surveyed her once more, this time searching for the woman who had once pressed bandages into his hands and refused payment. "I don't understand. I thought you were with me on this."
Fioré leaned back. Her eyes swept the room—the closed door, the velvet drapes, the shadows pooling in corners—before returning to him. "We are on the same side, cher." Her voice was worn smooth by years of compromise. "If you wish to be a hero, then go. But I have responsibilities here. Luna is well cared for." Her smile turned cold. "But poking this beast puts Mona in harm's way."
He returned the cold stare. "Mona will be fine." He stood, chair scraping the floor. "I can't sit idle here. Inaction is a mistake I won't make twice." He walked past her, eyes locked ahead.
Silence filled the growing space between. A click broke through, as Valen pulled the door open.
Fioré turned. "Very well."
The door thudded shut behind him.
***
Fioré watched the wood grain for a long moment. The claim was ludicrous. It had to be; she had built too much on this foundation to watch it crumble now. But Valen was not a man swayed by mere whispers. She had seen the hollows in his eyes when he spoke of what he'd witnessed in his years. Saw the way his hand always found his whip.
She rose, her gown brushing across the floor.
Luna's chamber was at the end of the hall, the door adorned with a small brass crescent moon. Fioré paused, then rapped gently. "Luna? A word?"
"Madame Fioré?"
The voice was soft, barely audible through the wood. Fioré heard the rustle of fabric. Luna opened the door, her large green orbs blinking up at Fiorè. Her sewing lay abandoned on the bed—one of the girls' dresses no doubt, with a hole half-patched.
Fioré stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Her eyes swept the room: the neat bed, the single wilting flower in a clay pot, the small pile of mended garments waiting to be returned.
"Is all well?" Fioré asked.
Luna's ears flattened slightly. "Yes, everything's fine." The words came too quickly. Her paws trembled as she moved to the bed, settling her sewing in her lap. "What is it, Fioré?"
"Just a check-in." Fioré forced a smile. A small part of her believed him, but if this comes from the very heart of Calamor, she'd be risking everything. Luna, the safety of her girls, their stability. But perhaps… She crossed the room, settling onto the edge of the bed. "Luna, do you remember the night I found you?"
Luna nodded. Her tail tucked close to her body, wrapping tight around her legs.
"Yes," she whispered. "Two men... chasing me. They had ropes." A shiver ran through her.
Fioré reached out, stroking Luna's fur gently. "Do you remember anything else, darling? Anything that might tell us why?"
Luna's eyes clouded. The memory was fragments, shards of glass she tried not to touch. "It's... fuzzy. They talked about a 'big payout.' And 'rare stock.'" She swallowed hard. "That's all I can remember. I don't wish to dwell on it."
Something sharpened in Fioré's gaze. "'Rare stock?'" She leaned closer. "That's more than enough. It could mean the beastfolk being targeted around here are special." She took a breath, smoothing Luna's fur. She leaned down and pressed her lips to Luna's forehead. "Merci, ma petite. You have been a great help." A gentle pat. Then she straightened, smoothing her gown, and moved toward the door. "Now, get some rest. If you remember anything else—anything— come to me."
Her fingers found the brass knob.
"Madame Fioré?" Luna's voice was barely audible above the distant sounds of the brothel. Fioré turned.
"Oui?"
"Could I invite my friend Mona to visit again?"
"Your friend." Fioré studied her—the hopeful tilt of her ears, the nervous twitch of her tail. "The one with Valen?"
"Yes." Luna's voice grew stronger, edged with something that might have been desperation. "She's good company, I promise. And so clever! She taught herself to speak, you know. Well—"
Fioré raised a hand. Luna fell silent.
"I suppose." Fioré's voice was measured. "But only if it is safe for her.."
Luna's eyes lit up. "Oh, thank you, Fioré! Thank you!"
"D'accord." Fioré allowed herself a small smile. "Just remember, the world outside is not always kind."
She slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
***
The warning echoed in the sudden quiet.
'The world outside is not always kind.'
Luna sat very still. The words had unlocked something—a door she'd nailed shut with weeks of silence and the desperate act of survival.
The memories returned as a flood.
'Be good, brother.'
Blitz had always been the curious one. Even as a kitt, he preferred the healer's cottage to the training fields. He'd spend hours watching the man crush plants, asking endless questions until the old elf would shoo him away with a scowl that never felt truly genuine.
Luna remembered the pride in Blitz's voice when he'd identified his first correct ingredient by memory. "See, Millie? The stem is square, and the leaves are always opposite each other." Luna heard their sister Millie sneezing not long after. She was always his shadow, a fact Blitz would exploit to test his concoctions on her.
She never told him she'd overheard. Some things were too precious to disturb.
Then that night had come.
The cottage door slammed open. Their neighbor, Mr. Archwood stood wet and gasping for air in the doorway. His mouth moved, but the words were wrong, couldn't be right—
"Rinna! They've taken Millie! Four men, at the north edge of town!"
Their mother dropped her plate of food. "Stay with them, Archie." She barked that single order and then she was gone, a blur of snow-white fur swallowed by the darkness.
Luna stood frozen. "What do you mean, taken?"
"Traffickers." Mr. Archwood's voice cracked. "They're snatching the young catfolk women. They'll be back."
Millie. Sweet, quiet Millie, who spoke barely above a whisper. Who hid behind their mother's skirts when strangers came to the door. Who loved the simple, plain black hair tie more than any toy.
Mr. Archwood knelt beside a trembling Blitz. The old man looked at Luna, and his face held the weight of too many losses. "Your mother is a fighter, Luna. She'll be alright."
Luna didn't register his words. She took off into the rain, attempting to follow her mother. The rain had washed away any trace of her scent, and drowned out any hope of listening for her.
So she ran. Past the northern edge of town. Deep into the hillside.
Searching. Screaming. Crying.
Only the storm answered.
***
The next morning, Mr. Archwood kept a vain hope in his voice, trying to assuage the two remaining siblings. "Surely, she'll be back today."
Luna knew better.
Seeing the futility in keeping up the charade, Mr. Archwood told her of the beastfolk sanctuary in the forest near Calamor. They agreed that it was worth checking. Perhaps one of them ended up there's, o they'd offer some manner of assistance.
The following day, she would leave behind the shattered serenity of Jule. She packed light. As she grabbed the bag and began to leave, Blitz sat in the kitchen.
He was still. Eyes focused on nothing but the horizon. He raised a hand as she passed. In front of him where piles of peppers, saw dust, and those plants with the three leaves. The kind that made you itch.
Luna stopped. "Blitz? What are these? This can't be for medicine."
He did not speak. Instead he rolled a small, fragile vial of a viscous, orange liquid her way.
She crouched down and hugged him. She held so tightly she felt his ribs beneath her paws.
"Be good, brother. For me."
No reply came.
Then she was out the door.
The journey was a blur. Fields and forests and the constant, gnawing fear of footsteps behind her. Days later, her legs gave out in a sun-drenched clearing. She collapsed into the tall grass and exhaustion won out, forcing her into a deep sleep.
A hand closed around her midsection.
She gasped, clawing. A musky, human stench filled her nose. Her claws found flesh—a curse, a sharp gasp. She twisted, bit down, and felt blood on her tongue. Her pads hit the ground. Two of them.
Her eyes locked on to the nearest face—harsh, bisected by a jagged scar. He spoke. "Easy there, kitten. Come quietly, and this all goes smoothly. We get out big payout. You get a nice, warm home."
His companion, fueled by anger at the retaliation, lunged at her legs.
She darted before he was off the ground. Toward the city lights, praying to gods she wasn't sure existed that she might find a friendly face. Turning down an alley, the memories began to melt together. Cornered. A struggle. Then Fioré.
The recollection released her as suddenly as it had trapped her.
Luna was back in her room. She shook the memories away, hugging her knees to her chest. "They're okay," she whispered. "They're okay." And she knew, with the certainty of a scar that never fully healed, that she was lying to herself.
***
Valen pushed into the quiet of his home. The day's failure sat in his chest.
"Mona?"
Nothing.
He kicked his mud-caked boots against the wall. Mud flaked onto the floorboards. "Nothing new on the caravan. But I'm not giving up. We will find them."
Movement, from the kitchen table.
Two yellow eyes gleamed in the candlelight. There, Mona sat, a piece of parchment clutched in her hands. The edges were ragged, crumpled from hours of gripping. "I've been busy." The parchment was covered in crude, earnest scratches.
Valen finally let his shoulders drop. "What have you been working on?"
He peered over her shoulder. The marks were clumsy, childlike—but they held the ghost of letters. H and V and desperate approximations of the shapes he'd been teaching her. "You've made progress." He crouched. "Can you read it to me?"
Her eyes stayed locked on the paper, as if the letters might flee if she looked away. "It says... 'Welcome home, Valen.'" A pause as she looked down at the scribbles, then flipped the page over. "I... I don't know if I'm doing it right."
Valen's heart squeezed. He turned it back over and could barely make out his name; the rest was a hopeful jumble at best. "You're doing wonderfully." His smile was warm, true. A soft chuckle escaped. "Such a quick learner." He reached out, ruffling the fur between her ears. This time, sure and confident. "Keep this up, you'll be out-reading me soon."
Mona's eyes went wide. "Really?" She leaned into his touch. "I wanna be smart as you, Valen."
He laughed. "I'm no scholar. But thank you." The weight of the day pressed down, demanding its due. "But it's time for rest."
Mona watched him stand. Her tail gave a tentative twitch. "Valen? Can I go see Luna?"
He paused. His expression turned thoughtful, weighing risks and distances. He looked to her old cowl. It had seen much better days. "We can try." A pause. "But you'll need a disguise. It's not safe for you in the city." He crossed to a worn chest in the corner, lifted the lid. After a moment's searching, he pulled out a cloak. It was slightly too large for her small frame, the fabric heavy and dark. "That should do." He wrapped it around her shoulders. "It'll hide your ears and much better." A pause. "Keep the hood up. Understand?"
She nodded, her small face half-lost in shadow.
Valen turned and ascended the stairs. "Goodnight, Mona. And thank you for the letter."
***
Sitting alone downstairs, Mona's thoughts raced.
"We can try" didn't mean "wait until tomorrow," did it?
Her eyes gleamed beneath the heavy hood. Her heart fluttered.
She slipped out of the house.
The night air hit her, cool and invigorating, The cloak billowed around her as she found her first handhold, her first ledge.
Then she was running.
Her muscles coiled and released with precision. Each bound carried her further. Rooftop to rooftop, shadow to shadow. The streets of Calamor stretched out below, a labyrinth of torchlight and distant voices.
The Crescent Moon's glow beckoned from across the district.
But as she drew closer, her eyes caught something else.
Below, in a narrow side street, several guards surrounded a transport. Wagon wheels. A canvas covering. The shape was familiar.
Like the one we passed earlier.
Before Valen, she would have written this off as human noise. Human business. Nothing to do with a stray cat who had survived this long by minding her own.
But now she understood. Her heart raced. She bit her lip, hard. If I tell Valen, I'll be in trouble. I promised to stay.
But if I don't—
Her instincts screamed at her to stay hidden.
Her newfound courage, fragile and fierce, screamed louder.
She shifted her weight, found her balance, and turned away from her original destination.
The guards below continued their work, unaware of the shadow above them—small, cloaked, watching.