The last thread snaps. It is not a thought. It is not a choice. It is instinct colliding with certainty. They are too close. They mean to be close. Their bodies, their posture, the way they stand as if the space around our table belongs to them by right. By history. By numbers. They are wrong.

  I feel them before they move. I sense the ownership in them, the assumption that this is their ground, that Master is just another traveller who sat where he shouldn’t. The lead Alderian shifts his weight forward, chin lifting a fraction, breath drawing in to speak again.

  I don’t wait. I move. The chair slams back as I launch, the table rattling hard enough to spill bowls and mugs. I drop my spear and shield without thinking, they clatter uselessly to the floor as my body closes the distance in a heartbeat. I hit him full force, shoulder to chest, driving him backward and down, the impact knocking the breath clean out of him.

  We hits the floor together. I’m on top instantly. My claws rake across his face, tearing at skin and eyes, ripping the helmet loose with a brutal jerk. It skids across the floor, ringing loud as a bell. He screams. Someone else shouts. I don’t hear it properly. My ears are full of blood and rage and the single, absolute truth that this one thought he could threaten what is mine.

  I snarl and scream as I strike again, voice raw and broken, all language gone. My claws find purchase. Blood splashes warm across my hands and forearms, across my chest and collar. I shove his head back with one hand and rake again with the other, not killing, not yet, just destroying the idea that he had power here.

  Around us, chaos explodes. Chairs scrape. Someone stumbles back. A mug shatters. I feel bodies recoil, hear boots retreating, the sudden sharp intake of fear from the room. The other guild men hesitate. They didn’t expect this. They expected words. Posturing. Maybe a threat.They did not expect a feral thing to leap across a table and tear their leader down in front of everyone.

  I hear Iron Guard armour shift sharply now. Orders barked. Steel moving. I do not care. Through it all, I feel Master. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t shout my name. He doesn’t reach for me or call me back. Through the bond, I feel his recognition of what I am doing like a cool acknowledgement, a note taken and filed away. No alarm. No command. No restraint.

  He continues to eat. The calm of it hits me even as I’m clawing, even as the man beneath me sobs and thrashes. Master sits there, chewing, swallowing, unbothered, as if this is no more disruptive than a loud argument at the next table. He knows what this is. He knows me. And he has decided this does not require intervention.

  That knowledge fuels me more than rage ever could. I lean down close to the Alderian’s face, my forehead nearly touching his, my breath hot and shaking. My eyes are wide, unblinking, my teeth bared inches from his cheek. “This table,” I snarl, voice shredded, barely human, “is not yours.” I slam his head once more into the floor, hard enough to make the message permanent but not fatal. Blood spreads beneath him, dark against the floor. He stops struggling.

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  They grab for me. Hands on my shoulders. Fingers digging into my arms. The second Alderian shouting something I don’t bother to understand. They think they can pull me off like I’m an unruly animal, like this is still a negotiation, like Master is still seated and neutral and distant.

  They are wrong. I feel it before I see it. The bond spikes. Not irritation. Not calculation. Not restraint. Pure anger. It slams through me like a blade of ice driven straight down my spine, so sharp and sudden it almost steals my breath. Master’s rage is nothing like mine. Mine is loud, chaotic, feral. His is silent, absolute, controlled to the point of terror. It is the kind of anger that does not shout because it does not need to.

  He stands. The chair scrapes once against stone. Clean. Deliberate. Before the guards or the guild men can even register the movement, before the hands on me tighten, Master moves. No warning. No word. No hesitation. His fist comes out of nowhere, a straight, brutal punch driven with full body weight into the side of the nearer Alderian’s face.

  I know what he’s aiming for before it lands. Jaw. Temple. Lights out. I see it in his thoughts the instant before impact, clear as a diagram. He’s not trying to kill him. He’s trying to remove him from the fight immediately. Efficiency. Control. End the threat before it becomes noise.

  The punch lands with a dull, final sound. Bone on knuckle. The man drops like a sack of grain, legs folding under him, eyes rolling back before he even hits the floor. At the same time, I move. The second Alderian still has one hand on me. I twist low and fast, dropping my weight and raking my claws down the back of his legs. Not random. Not blind fury. Tendons. Calves. The weak points that make standing optional.

  He screams and collapses sideways, hitting the floor hard, hands scrabbling uselessly as his legs refuse to do what he tells them.

  

  All around us, the inn’s regulars barely react. A dwarf by the fire pours himself another mug. The Embercrack men glance over and nod in quiet approval. Even the barmaid only lifts her eyebrows and sweeps some crumbs off a nearby table. This is just another night, another border dispute, another failed power play. Nobody dares to intervene. Nobody wants a piece of this.

  Then, a figure emerges from the Sapphire Guild’s corner, a tall Alderian in a blue jacket, smiling wide, eyes sharp. He steps around the bleeding bodies as if they were puddles, claps his hands once, slow, amused. “What a show,” he says, voice carrying enough that half the room hears. “I’ve seen plenty of newcomers try to make a name, but none quite like you. You two” His gaze lingers on Master, then on me, blood splattered and crouched, “are exactly the kind of trouble I’d like in my hall.”

  He leans in, lowering his voice just enough for only our table to hear. “The Sapphire Guild’s always looking for new talent. Not many outsiders have the spine to take on the Iron Guard’s lackeys or the sense to do it so efficiently. If you’re interested in work, in coin or just a place where nobody will ask what you’re running from visit our guild hall tomorrow. We’ll make it worth your while. Alderian like you” he tips his chin at Master “and a pet this deadly… we could do great things together.”

  He smiles, sweeps away, leaving a business card pressed into the wine stain on the table. Master sits, never looking at the mess on the floor, never breaking stride. I drag my claws clean with a napkin, never taking my eyes off the crowd. The adrenaline fades, but the pride lingers. I can feel Master’s satisfaction, the certainty that this is how power works here, not by law, not by tradition, but by force, by blood, by the willingness to draw a line and hold it.