Master says it out loud, not through the Bond, not filtered, not softened. “So my cat?”

  The sound of his voice snaps my world into a single point. I stop dead. My head tilts slowly, ears angling forward, tail going still. Everything else fades. The square, the temple, the keep on its ridge, the guards, the market stalls, all of it becomes background noise. My eyes lock onto him, unblinking, focused with that unnerving, predatory intensity he knows so well.

  He keeps talking, calm, tired, that familiar noir resignation threading every word. “We can do this two ways. First, we kick the front door in. Second, we put that animistic instinct of yours to use.” He exhales, slow, controlled. “But alas… these are mutually exclusive.”

  I listen. Properly listen. Not just to his words, but to everything beneath them.

  He doesn’t want blood here. Not yet. This place is different. Maw Graven is Dalkurharn ground, borderland politics stacked on top of old grudges and brittle alliances. They sent us here to find someone, not to ignite a border incident that ends with House Serrean asking uncomfortable questions. The guards didn’t recognise us, but that doesn’t erase the reality, technically, we are allies. Kicking the door in would solve nothing and poison everything that comes after.

  I straighten slowly, stepping closer to him, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm. My tail resumes its slow, deliberate motion, tip flicking once as I inhale deeply. The city smells old. Stone dust. Iron. Incense from the temple to the south. People who don’t travel much. People who watch. And underneath it all, faint but present, the thing we came for, movement, intent, something out of place. Someone who thinks they’re hidden.

  I smile, small and sharp. “Master,” I say, voice low, steady, none of the earlier feral edge spilling over. “You already know the answer.”

  I turn away from the keep, deliberately not looking at the front doors, the stairs, the obvious symbols of power. Instead, I lower myself slightly, posture shifting without thought. Not crawling, not submissive, just… hunting. My ears pivot, catching echoes off stone walls. My nose works the air, sorting layers the way only I can.

  “We didn’t come here to make noise,” I continue. “We came to find someone. And whoever they are, they’re not living in that keep like a bannered idiot waiting to be announced.”

  I take a slow step toward the northern edge of the square, where the clustered houses press closer together, where light thins and alleys begin. My tail points, subtle but precise. “They’re avoiding attention. That means routine. Habit. Scent trails that double back. Someone who thinks blending in is safer than hiding behind walls.” I glance back at him, eyes bright, fixed, loyal.“Let me work. No violence. No doors kicked in.” A pause, then a faint, dangerous curl to my smile. “Yet.”

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  I can feel him weighing it. He always does. He trusts me, but he never stops calculating the cost. That’s why we work. That’s why we survive. I turn fully now, committing to the hunt. My senses widen, the city unfolding into layers of information I can feed him piece by piece. Foot traffic patterns. Recent disturbances. Scents that don’t belong. The kind of quiet panic that clings to someone who knows they’re being sought.

  I move first, slow and deliberate, never more than five feet ahead, always within reach. “Front doors are for people who want to be seen,” I murmur. “We don’t.”

  I stay close to him, but my focus shifts outward, the city unfolding into a pattern instead of a place. Master doesn’t need theatrics, he needs signal. He needs the dirt under the nails, the quiet truths people don’t realise they’re leaving behind.

  Black market work always leaves the same scars. It doesn’t matter the city, the clan, the faith plastered on the walls. You look for movement without announcement. Goods that don’t go through the market stalls.

  I slow, head tilting, ears pivoting independently as the square breathes around us. I catalogue without staring. Noir work isn’t about charging ahead, it’s about letting the city confess by accident. What stands out immediately is what doesn’t belong. The temple smells pure. Incense, stone, old faith. Too clean. The keep reeks of iron discipline and old sweat. Expected. The market stalls are honest chaos, grain, fish, leather, animals.

  But the northern cluster of houses… there’s a seam there. A thin, ugly seam running under the surface. I breathe in. Metal shavings. Not from smithing, not enough smoke or slag. Refined metal. Worked elsewhere. Stored here. Ledger ink, fresh. And something sharper beneath it all, fear that’s learned how to stay quiet.

  This is where I stop thinking like an animal and start thinking like his animal.I focus.

  The city gives it up. Three houses, not adjacent but linked. One near the northern edge of the square. One halfway up the slope toward the bailey. One tucked behind a tannery that’s “closed for repairs.” All Alderian owned. All with minimal foot traffic during the day and very specific movement at night.

  I hear i, boots that don’t linger. Doors that open only enough to pass something through. A cart with iron rimmed wheels that avoids the main road despite being heavy. Someone counting softly under their breath in a back room. A guard cough that happens at the same time every quarter hour.

  I smell river mud on someone who hasn’t been near the fountain. That’s not coincidence. That’s routing. I step back to him, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm again. I don’t look away from the houses as I speak. “There,” I say quietly. “Not the keep. Not the temple. Not the market.” A pause. “Mid-level operators. Local cover. They’re moving something valuable enough to hide but not valuable enough to risk the keep. That means steel, chemicals, or people. Given why we’re here… steel or production.”

  I flick my tail once, precise.

  “If we kick doors, they scatter and burn records. If we stalk, they lead us to whoever they answer to.” I glance up at him now, eyes sharp, steady. “And if the Crimson Swarm has a footprint here, this is how it breathes.”