My senses sharpened with the shift, ears angling forward, tail bristling once, every instinct sliding into hunting mode as we stepped out of Vigilance order and into a neutral zone where chaos had teeth.

  Perception check 17, enhanced senses +2, wisdom +0 = 19

  Footsteps in too many rhythms. Ren thugs, barefoot or in thin sandals, dragging their weight, loitering in clusters. Embercrack dwarfs, heavy boots, metal studs, disciplined but irritated. Vigilance patrols, so precise it hurt my ears, a uniform click of armour plates. And the quiet travellers, murmured trade deals, the faint rustle of coin pouches and worry.

  Ren musk first, sharp and feral, all unwashed aggression and adrenaline. Embercrack forges smelted into their clothes, burned metal, coal, sweat. Travellers carried the tang of surface wind, cold stone tunnels, spice sachets from distant vendors. And the Vigilance lieutenant in front of us smelled of discipline and insecurity layered so thick I wanted to laugh in her face. She was trying not to be afraid of me.

  She was failing.

  Ren daggers half-hidden under crates. Vigilance guards pretending to relax but gripping spears too tightly. A dwarf woman slipping Embercrack green under her cloak. A catgirl kitten crouched behind a fish stall, wide eyes fixed on Master with confused hunger.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  My tail flared and snapped tense.

  The atmosphere here was a powder keg soaked in oil. Three factions who hated each other standing elbow to elbow at market stalls, acting civil only because this stretch of the Maw Mine was the last place left where trade happened without bodies dropping.

  The Vigilance were supposed to be the enemy of the Ren. Clan Embercrack were supposed to be enemies of everyone. Travellers were supposed to be terrified of all of them. Yet here they were, sharing space, sharing coin, pretending not to glance sideways every heartbeat.

  Master halted beside me, posture calm in that way only he could manage. I felt the sharp edge of his scrutiny through the bond, the tug of his thoughts as he mapped the room through my reactions. I turned slightly, voice low enough for him alone. “They’re not fighting, Master. They’re waiting. One spark and this market becomes a grave.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  The lieutenant gestured stiffly. “This way. Don’t stray. This sector isn’t forgiving.”

  Noir humour curled inside Master like a knife sheathed in velvet. He walked on without slowing, boots brushing soot from the floor as if the entire world should tidy itself for him. We pushed through the last row of stalls, fish, bone carvings, cheap copper tools, dried moss ropes. and stepped into the open plaza.

  And there it stood. The Catgirl Headquarters. A barn-like fortress built from timber and scavenged metal plating, reinforced beams crossing like ribs beneath a heavy roof. Every inch of it breathed purpose and authority. Torches burned in shielded sconces, directing light downward just like the Vigilance do, Kaelenna’s influence stamped in architecture.

  Guards circled it in a half-ring, catgirls in leather and makeshift armour, tails high, spears braced, vigil sharp enough to cut stone. Their reactions as we approached were immediate. Shock. Recognition.