The checkpoint falls behind us, swallowed up by the noise and press of the city. My ears still ring with the threat of that guard’s hand, every muscle in my body primed to snap. The moment his coin touched the guard’s palm, everything changed, my tension slackened, the knot in my gut unraveled, replaced by the sharp rush of victory. We passed through, untouched, unbroken, the law bent by a flash of silver.

  Inside Merchant Cross, the air shifts. I can smell the city, the rich tang of stone dust, the stink of too many bodies in too tight a space. The streets here are more organised than the wild trade roads outside, four long, straight avenues crossing at the heart of the city, each lined with heavy timber buildings, market stalls, and a confusion of travellers moving in every direction.

  Master walks straight, never rushing, never hesitating. His thoughts are calm, practical, a low hum of calculation and caution, never letting himself relax, even here. He’s reading every sign, every guard at a corner, every merchant hawking their goods, mapping out the city from the moment we pass the gate. The bond between us is quieter now but always present.

  My tail loops once around his calf, half possessive, half for comfort. I keep close, eyes never still, watching faces, watching hands, watching the way people move around us. There’s a rhythm to this place, an order enforced by the sheer pressure of commerce, nobody lingers, nobody stares, nobody gets in your way unless they have business to do or a point to make. I see other catgirls moving through the crowd, collars plain and eyes low, never daring to meet my gaze. I stare at them anyway, daring them to look up, feeling the old flare of pride and spite that nobody wears a collar quite like I do, nobody is owned like me, and nobody owns like him.

  We pass through the outer streets quickly, Master’s path unerring as he threads us toward the centre of Merchant Cross. The buildings grow more substantial as we go, rough timber gives way to stone and plaster, two and even three storeys rising above the avenue, windows shuttered, doors painted in the colours of a dozen merchant families. On every corner stands a guard or two, blue and silver surcoats marking them as city sentries, but none of them spare more than a glance for us.

  Soon the street opens into a broad central square, a hub for the whole city, paved in worn sandstone, bisected by the four great roads. At the heart stands an ornate building, clearly the administrative centre. The structure is symmetrical and grand without being truly beautiful, heavy pillars, a tiled roof, banners hanging from the second floor balcony. City officials, scribes, and a few nervous looking merchants linger on the steps and under the awnings, arguing, haggling, shuffling papers. It’s obvious: if you want to move from one quarter of Merchant Cross to another, you must pass through this square, past this hub of power and oversight.

  I can feel Master’s eyes take it all in, the lines of sight, the side doors, the places where people gather and the gaps where trouble could start. His thoughts are methodical, as always, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction there too, the kind he gets when a plan falls into place. This is where decisions are made, where money changes hands, where permission is granted and denied, and where someone like him can slip through the cracks if he chooses. He never shows his pride, but I feel it in the bond, his certainty, his sense of control.

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  I let my senses stretch. The city is a web, and I’m tuned to every tremor. We cross the square toward the east, where a painted sign for “The Rook and Anvil” hangs beneath a heavy roof beam, promising food and shelter. But I linger just a second longer in the open, letting the noise swirl and filter through me.

  A cluster of merchants, three Alderian men in layered blue, a dwarf with a heavy signet ring, a catgirl clerk with a collar far plainer than mine, stand in the shade of the admin building, voices pitched low but urgent, the kind of tone that says they aren’t worried about being overheard. Their words cut through the crowd, clear to me even at a distance.

  “…if the Sapphire Guild pushes that contract through, the eastern caravans will lose half their cut by end of month. You saw what happened in Hill’s Market last year. Blood on the stones and no one paid the city guard a copper.”

  “The Iron Pact won’t let it stand. There’s too much money, and too many old debts. Half the officials in the north quarter owe their seats to a guild master.”

  “That’s what worries me. It’s not business, it’s a power play. One wrong move, and it’ll be another Night of Knives. I’d rather pay double tax than end up on the wrong list.”

  The dwarf grunts, eyes sweeping the square. “Doesn’t matter who wins. As long as the tax gets paid and the gates stay open, the Merchant Republic won’t care if there’s blood in the gutters. We’re all just numbers on a ledger here.”

  The catgirl nods, silent, her tail curled tight, gaze on the ground. Her presence is barely tolerated, her voice uninvited. The dynamic is all power and threat and caution, guild against guild, trade house against trade house, every word a negotiation, every smile a blade in the dark. It’s not so different from the streets I grew up in, but here it’s just bigger, more open, sanctioned by the Republic’s banners overhead.

  Master takes it all in through me, his thoughts overlapping mine, processing every detail, names, titles, hints of rivalries, the ebb and flow of power. He doesn’t need to speak. I feel the shift in his mind, cataloguing the information, weighing the risks, starting to map out who matters and who’s vulnerable. He’s already a dozen steps ahead, and through the bond, I see the world start to open in front of us, not just as a place to sleep or eat, but as a field for opportunity, danger, leverage.

  We keep moving, heading east as the sign directs, passing into a slightly quieter stretch of road. The buildings thin, giving way to low stone walls and clusters of smaller shops and homes. The smells change too, fresh bread, a sharper tang of roasting meat, sweet ale, wet wood. It’s almost enough to make me forget the tension in my shoulders, the lingering urge to lash out after the checkpoint. Master seems calmer too, his mind quieter, more focused on the present, on food and rest and the work ahead.

  The inn, when we find it, is solid and welcoming, lanterns burning behind thick glass, voices and laughter drifting from the open door. It’s the kind of place that’s seen every sort of trouble and still stands, a hub for travellers and locals alike. The sign above the door sways in the evening breeze, the paint chipped but still proud.

  I press closer to Master, claws flexing at the smell of food, stomach twisting with hunger and anticipation.