The words ripple through the Bond, good kitten, not spoken aloud, just a thought, but it hits me with all the force of a command. I shiver, eyes fluttering closed, letting the warmth of it spread from my chest to the tips of my ears and down to my twitching tail. There’s no greater reward, no richer pleasure, than his approval. It’s a pulse of belonging, a golden thread winding tighter through every part of me.

  I press in close, never more than a step from his side, my head brushing against his arm, tail curling around his wrist, as if I could weave myself into his very skin. The night feels less cold, less empty with him beside me, every shadow, every gust of wind, every lonely patch of flatland transformed into home by the certainty of his presence and that quiet, unyielding praise.

  My heart hammers with joy, possessive and bright, the Bond full of the wild, simple happiness of knowing I am seen, recognised, wanted. I let myself revel in it, purring quietly, every muscle relaxed, every step a dance of devotion and pride. I nuzzle his sleeve, claws kneading the air, body humming with the contentment that only comes from being exactly where I am meant to be.

  

  

  

  We move steadily along the well-trodden road, its gravel packed flat by generations of boots and wagon wheels. The world is shadowed and damp, every sound magnified by the hush of night. The pale glow of Maw Rest is long behind us now, and the country has grown wild and empty, just open flatland rolling away beneath the sky, broken only by scattered trees and the skeletons of old farm fences lost to grass.

  Ahead, the path splits, a broad fork. To the left, the road continues its slow curve south, hugging the edge of the flatlands, marked by ruts and the distant, lonely creak of a signpost. To the right, the track bends east, narrower, the ruts less deep, the grass rising up along the shoulders, half-swallowing old footprints and the memory of wagons long gone.

  Master stops at the fork, tall and silent, his silhouette stark against the moonlit gravel. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t fumble with uncertainty, his mind is already on the next problem, his thoughts slipping into mine through the Bond like a knife sliding into silk. I sense his intention before he even glances my way, east, always east, toward Maw Graven and the answers waiting in its shadow.

  I look east as well, down the thinner, wilder branch of the fork. The night is heavier in that direction, the trees beginning to cluster nearer the road, their limbs reaching out in knotted, tangled fingers. The breeze carries a whiff of water, a cool undercurrent of Maw Lake, still hidden behind the gentle rise of land and the first fringes of forest to the north. The scent is clean, a little wild, promising rain and secrets.

  He takes the lead again, without a word. I slip to his side, tail brushing his leg, matching his stride, always within arm’s reach, always alert. The world narrows to the sound of our footsteps on gravel, the rhythm of your breathing, the pulse of the Bond connecting every sense, every instinct.

  As we move, I scan the air, eyes darting from shadows under the trees to the moonlit sweep of open ground. The night animals retreat as we pass, some small creature scurries for shelter, startled by the cadence of boots and paws. An owl blinks at us from a leaning fencepost, round-eyed and silent, its wings flaring as it launches into the dark.

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  We move past the fork, down the eastern path, the road slowly losing its discipline, the grass and wildflowers closing in on the edges. I can feel his focus, the constant pull of his mind through the Bond, searching for threats, for signs, for anything out of place. I send him what I sense, no bandits, no sign of hostile eyes, only the honest hush of wild country, the air thick with the promise of lake water and the distant calls of creatures who have never feared the hand of man.

  He doesn't slow. He doesn't falter. He moves like the road was made for him, and I follow, held to him by more than the Bond, by need, by loyalty, by the old, unspoken promise that I will never be more than five feet from his side. No matter how deep the night, no matter how wild the world becomes.

  To the north, the world softens, the wild forest from before grows dense and dark, the trees crowding close as if to defend the land from the open plain. Their branches twist and weave together, ancient oaks and towering pines, the ground beneath their roots thick with old leaves, brambles, and the glint of dew. The air is cool and green, alive with the whisper of wind, the soft chorus of night insects, the faint scent of moss and distant rain. I hear foxes moving in the brush, the call of an owl echoing deep inside the woods, their voices blending into the rhythm of our footfalls.

  But what draws the eye, what draws every sense, every instinct, is the structure at the centre of it all. Rising from the flatlands ahead, surrounded by the open sprawl of marsh and meadow, is a palisaded settlement, its wooden walls standing tall and tight, sharpened at the tops, their shadows forming jagged teeth against the softer hills. To the edge of the palisade, surrounded by a wide, muddy moat glimmering silver in the starlight, stands a stone keep, thick walled and square, its base sunk deep into the earth, its roof crowned with banners limp in the still night air. Torches burn on the battlements, throwing flickering gold across the worn faces of the guards patrolling the parapets.

  Below the keep, a bailey stretches out, a low enclosure, the ground churned by hooves and boots, dotted with buildings. I catch the sound of distant laughter and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer within the palisade’s protection.

  It’s a place built for defense, for hard lives and harder wars. The palisade’s timbers are old but cared for, lashed tight with iron, the moat wide enough to swallow carts and careless men alike. The keep’s stones are ancient, maybe older than the mines themselves, weathered and pitted, marked by centuries of siege and storm. Flags fly above the tower, but in the night I cannot see their colours, only the dark shapes they cast against the stars.

  Master surveys it all in silence, eyes drinking in every detail, every approach, every threat and opportunity. I pass him every scrap of information I can gather, the number of torches, the routes the patrols take, the hint of voices from a guardhouse near the main gate. He doesn’t need to ask, I offer it, pouring the whole of the world into his mind, making sure nothing can surprise him, not while I breathe.

  The Bond is alive between us, humming with anticipation and the sweet, electric certainty of purpose. Whatever waits within that keep, enemy or ally, secret or slaughter, he will face it with me at his side, senses sharpened, ready for anything.

  We slow as we approach, the open land narrowing to a path cut by wagon wheels and the memory of old armies. The fortress rises before us, silent but watchful, the gateway between one world and the next.

  I keep close, never more than a heartbeat away, tail brushing his coat, every sense tuned to his needs, every instinct focused on the long shadow of the keep as it waits for us to step into its circle of firelight and danger. The night is alive, and so am I, so long as I am here, guarded, needed, his.