Mother… please free me.
The voice isn’t sound. It’s psionic weight. It slides into my thoughts like silk over steel.
I think back.
Yes. The thought trembles faintly, hopeful. You have come to free me, yes?
I glance at the bindings—massive, runed, almost humming with mana. I reply, my tone thoughtful.
The Leviathan rumbles, a deep vibration that shakes the chamber. It purrs—a sound so low it feels like thunder under my skin.
Thank you, Mother.
I mutter, hopping from the conduit to the floor.
I pad forward, slipping between the creature’s titanic coils. Beyond the glass walls, I catch sight of men in lab coats moving along observation walkways. One turns, gaze flicking toward me, but I duck behind a bony ridge before he can focus. After a moment, he shakes his head and looks away. Humans never trust their eyes.
I reach the nearest chain. Up close, it’s monstrous—thick as a tree trunk, covered in etched runes that glow faintly from the ambient fume. I raise a claw and scrape the surface. Sparks flicker, but the metal doesn’t give. I could shift into my Fenrimorph form and tear at it, but in this atmosphere? The fume would kill me.
I move around the chamber, inspecting the chains that pierce Kalphe’s body. They’re ancient, corroded but still strong—anchored deep into flesh and glass alike. None of them are designed to be removed. They’re part of the prison’s design.
Except…
The chains near the Leviathan’s head. They’re newer—gleaming, polished, maintained.
I send,
They are replaced regularly.
I narrow my eyes.
Kalphe’s many eyes blink slowly.
They become brittle when I move my head too much.
Brittle. A mana saturation issue, then. The fume’s concentration probably powers the older chains but the new ones aren't bathed in gas.
No.
I sigh, hopping back toward the conduit.
.
I assure him.
I wave a paw dismissively, even though he can’t see it.
Then I leap back into the conduit, the violet light swallowing me whole. The flow carries me outward until I reach the place I first entered. I rap on the glass sharply.
A few seconds later, the cover shifts—and Daiyu’s face appears, eyes wide. She pulls the cloth away, and I crawl out into open air, shaking off the residue.
“Back already?” she asks, voice low and wary.
“Yep,” I say, tail flicking. “And I need explosives. Let’s head back to the laboratory.”
Daiyu covers the opening in the pipe with practiced precision, sealing the hiss of leaking fume. “We can,” she says, “but would it be alright if we stopped at the Mercenary Guild first? My lodging is there—and I’d like to claim the bounty for killing Corvin.”
I blink. “He had a bounty?” My tail arches. “Do we need proof?”
She shakes her head. “The Guild employs those with the [Sense lie] skill. They’ll know if I lie. As long as I tell them I ended his life, I’ll receive payment.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “I’ll have the proceeds sent to your ship. It was your work that made it possible.”
“Don’t need it,” I say, waving a paw. “Use it for supplies. You’re part of my crew now—better outfit yourself properly.”
Her lips curve faintly, a rare, soft smile. “I can do that. What position will you have me take aboard your ship?”
I shrug from her shoulder. “Not sure. Probably Artillery Chief.”
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A laugh slips out of her—low, almost nostalgic. “Same as my sister,” she murmurs, then straightens and shakes her head. “Alright then. The Guild’s only five minutes from here.”
“Perfect.” I yawn and stretch across her shoulder, settling in comfortably as she starts walking. “Let’s go collect your pay, Chief.”
The tunnels echo faintly with their footsteps as they head toward the Mercenary Guild.
________________________________________________
The Mercenary Guild stood out even before we stepped inside. Most buildings in Fumehold were carved into the cavern walls, their faces swallowed by stone. This one, though—it was built from the ground up, cobblestone and mortar stacked proud against the gloom. A fortress pretending to be a tavern.
“Nice place,” I say from my perch on Daiyu’s shoulder, tail swishing idly.
She snorts. “If only that were half as true.”
Inside, I immediately groan. Beige carpet. Always beige.
“Who keeps decorating criminal institutions with this color?” I mutter. “Is this city sponsored by boredom?”
The smell hits next—cooked meat, stale ale, and sweat. The Guild doubles as a tavern, apparently. Mercenaries fill the tables, some laughing, others nursing bruises and beer mugs. A cook at the counter flips something greasy and glorious that makes my stomach growl.
“Daiyu,” I say, hopping down from her shoulder, “handle the receptionist stuff. I’m grabbing a table before I starve to death.”
“Wait—” she starts, but I’m already gone.
I hop onto an empty table near the bar, sniff the air, and study the menu nailed to a post. Most of the dishes involve meat—rare, roasted, fried, or “still screaming” according to one charming option. Perfect.
Before I can call for service, three men approach and drop themselves into the seats across from me. Rugged types—scarred, unwashed, carrying the confident stupidity of men who think they own the room.
“What’s with the cat?” one grunts.
“Don’t know,” another says. He leans forward and tries to shoo me off the table. I dodge neatly, flicking my tail in disdain.
“Oy,” I growl, “this is my table. Go find your own.”
The trio blink at me as if I’d just recited a sonnet.
“You can leave anytime,” I add, waving a paw.
The third man squints. “Did… did that cat just talk?”
I stare at him. “No. You’re hallucinating—simultaneously—with your two friends. Congratulations. Medical journals will weep.” I roll my eyes. “Now shoo. My lover’s on her way, and she doesn’t take kindly to ugly mugs like yours.”
The first man’s grin splits into something sharp. “How much do you think a talking cat would sell for?”
“A lot,” the second says. “Especially if it keeps mouthing off.”
The third reaches for me. I hop aside and rake my claws lightly across his cheek—a quick, clean line of red.
“Hands off,” I warn. “This fur is reserved for far more feminine fingers.”
“Fucking shit!” The man staggers back, hand pressed to his bleeding face. His expression curdles into fury. Chairs scrape, fists tighten, and the smell of violence starts to rise like cheap perfume.
_____________________________________________
“Corvin? As in Corvin Malvek? You killed him?”
The secretary blinks at Daiyu for the time, voice wobbling somewhere between awe and disbelief. “That’s… how?” She shakes her head sharply. “Nevermind. I’ll need to get a screener.”
“That’s fine,” Daiyu replies, arms crossed, voice calm. The armor and guns help.
The woman rushes out and returns moments later with a middle-aged man—square shoulders, hard stare, and a glistening spike protruding from his collarbone like a grown horn. Most likely runed with the [Sense Lie] skill.
He sits across from Daiyu while the secretary hovers to the side like a nervous lamp.
Daiyu focuses on the man.
Her eyes widen imperceptibly. The head of Fumehold’s branch personally screening her? Why?
Averon steeples his fingers and speaks plainly. “My secretary informs me you terminated Corvin Malvek. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Daiyu taps the revolver at her hip. “Through the skull.”
Averon leans back, face tightening—not relief, not admiration.
Annoyance.
“…Is something wrong?” she asks.
A weary exhale escapes him.
“Yes. You’ve just made Fumehold dangerous.”
Daiyu frowns. “How?”
Averon waves it off. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” He rises. “Come. I’ll fetch your pay.”
Confusion still tugging at her brow, she follows him out.
They don’t make it far.
A chair splinters. Someone screams. Someone else laughs.
Averon stops mid-stride, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Another fight. One moment.”
He turns toward the tavern area. Daiyu follows—and instantly recognizes the voice echoing through the hall.
Of course.
Furniture shatters. Plates scatter. People cheer.
Three mercenaries swing wildly at a fluffy cat who bounces between tables like a drunk acrobat.
“Are you trying to break furniture or actually hit me?” Quasi taunts, somersaulting over a thrown mug. “Because right now it feels like you’re flirting, and frankly, I have standards.”
“Stand STILL!” a merc roars.
“Make me, bitch!” Quasi fires back, tail flicking with malicious joy.
The crowd roars with laughter. One guy’s got money in the air. Someone else yells,
Averon stares. Slow blink. Long inhale. He looks like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
“ENOUGH!”
Averon’s shout cracked through the tavern like a whip. The noise died instantly—chairs half-lifted, mugs midair, even Quasi frozen with one paw raised dramatically. Every mercenary in the room stopped moving.
The guild leader’s voice carried the weight of command. “What,” he said slowly, eyes sweeping the chaos, “is going on here?”
Quasi immediately pointed a paw at the three mercenaries. “Them! They took my table!”
One of the men spluttered. “It’s a , sir! Talking or not, it doesn’t need a damned table!”
Quasi gasped as if personally insulted. “Excuse me, ? As the clearly superior species in this room, it is only that I have the best table. Preferably with proper service, thank you.”
Another merc, face still bleeding from Quasi’s earlier scratch, glared. “Oh yeah? You even got coin to pay for it, fuzzball?”
Quasi rolled his eyes. “Please. Carrying coin is beneath me.” Then, with perfect timing, he turned and gestured toward Daiyu, who had just caught up. “That’s job.”
The entire room went still for a different reason. Dozens of eyes slid toward Daiyu.
Averon followed suit, one eyebrow twitching as Daiyu’s face flushed from embarrassment. “He’s not—” she began, cutting herself off with a sharp exhale. “He’s exaggerating. And for the record, that ‘cat’ nearly wiped out all of Corvin Malvek’s elite guards .”
That gave Averon pause. He studied Quasi, then Daiyu, then sighed and rubbed his temples. “Of course he did.”
Finally, the guild master turned to the trio of mercs. “You three—clean this mess up. Now.”
The men grumbled but obeyed, stooping to pick up shattered wood and scattered glass.
Averon straightened, adjusting his coat. “And you—” he pointed at Quasi “—with me. We’re going to have a talk.”
Quasi’s tail flicked, smug as ever. “Ah, an interrogation. How romantic.”
Averon didn’t dignify that with a reply. He just turned on his heel, muttering under his breath, “Why do I always get the lunatics?”
