I sprawl across the captain's table, tail thumping like a drumbeat of doom. The parchment in front of me is an insult of the highest order.

"A barge," I hiss, dragging the word out like I'm coughing up a hairball. "Not a sleek warship. Not a corsair dripping with menace. A floating barn. For. For Potatoes or something."

Irmgard doesn't even look up from polishing her rapier. The woman could watch the world end without blinking. "You complain too much," she says in that flat tone of hers.

"I complain exactly the right amount," I snap, leaping onto the table so she can properly see my outrage. "What am I to do with this thing? Paint eyes on the side and pretend it's scary?"

Myers, the old salt in the corner, chuckles slightly. "You can't weaponize a barge. Round, wide, slow. Built to carry, not fight."

"Then we sell it," I declare.

That's when Cillian, already red in the face from drink, slams his bottle down with a grin that belongs on a man about to rob his own mother. "Sell it? Ha! Are ya daft? That beast's hold is a bloody fortune. Fill it wi' arms, fill it wi' drink, fill it wi' grain-doesnae matter. It'll pay itself back tenfold."

I narrow my eyes at the drunk. "You just want to smuggle more barrels of alcohol, don't you?"

He burps and chuckles. "And swords. Also guns. Armor too." He wiggles his bottle. "There's profit ta be made!"

Irmgard finally sheathes her rapier with a soft click. "Cillian is right. Sell the Timbergrove instead. The Peregrine can tow the barge. We'll maximize profit on our travels."

Profit. Always profit. I want glory, cannons, the screams of my enemies, not-

"Coin can help buy even bigger, better ships," she adds without blinking.

Myers leans forward, sipping some whine. "Selling is probably the best option. Barges tend to attract [Pirates] since a lot of profit can be made."

I stop mid-tail lash. My ears swivel. "[Pirates]?"

He nods, grim as ever. "Yes. If you don't have a sufficient fleet to accompany the Barge, you'll be swarmed by [Pirates]."

A slow grin spreads across my muzzle. Oh. Oh, I like that. "So you're saying… they'll bring their ships to me. With treasure. And corpses. And I get to keep both?"

Myers squints. "That's..."

Decision made. "Excellent! The barge stays. Let the pirates come gift-wrapped. Finally, some sense!"

Cillian slaps the table and howls with laughter. Irmgard just nods. Myers mutters something about madness and doomed voyages. I ignore him-madness is just genius that bothers the old.

I hop down, flick my ears, and stretch. "Now then. If you'll excuse me, Sparkhold awaits. Reconnaissance calls."

And that's when the child barrels in.

"Fluffy!" Clay all but skids on the floorboards. "Take me with you!"

"No," Myers barks, snapping the word like a whip.

Clay pouts. "Grandpa-"

"No buts. Sparkhold is dangerous."

I can't help myself-I chuckle. The old man is a wall, and walls are meant for climbing. I pad over, tail curling. "The kid will be fine with me. I'm sightseeing, not razing a city."

Myers snorts. "Sightseeing? You cause trouble standing still."

I place a paw delicately over my chest. "I'll have you know I am very responsible. I've yet to cause any problems since we got here."

"We got here yesterday." Myers scowls while clay giggles.

"You coop the kid up too much," I press, stepping closer. "He's a cub, and cubs need to see the world. To sniff market stalls, to chase rats in alleys. Keep clay locked away and the kid'll go mad."

"He's not a gull," Myers growls.

"Worse," I shoot back with a grin. "Clay's a child. Children find trouble whether you let them or not. At least with me, it's supervised trouble. Not that I aim to cause trouble, nor can I not handle such trouble."

Clay's eyes are wide and pleading, bouncing between us. I can practically hear the kids' heartbeat thudding against ribs.

Finally, Myers exhales hard through his nose, like a storm breaking. "Back before nightfall."

I salute with my paw. "Agreed."

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And with a leap, I land in Clay's waiting arms, perching on the child's shoulder like the crown jewel clay deserves. "Adventure awaits, my apprentice. Let us terrorize Sparkhold with curiosity!"

Clay beams, holding me like a champion. Together we stride out, leaving Myers to grumble, Cillian to laugh into his bottle, and Irmgard to plot whatever it is she plots.

Perfect. Everything is going according to plan.

Sparkhold is wrong.

Oh, it looks right-bright streets, polished stone, neat lines. Too neat. Too clean. Even the smells are off. Cities are supposed to stink. Tar, sweat, fried fish, spilled ale-honest odors. Sparkhold smells like polished glass and lightning.

Clay walks wide-eyed beside me, his head craning at everything. He nearly trips three times because he's staring at the lamps. Streetlamps. Actual, functioning, rune-powered lamps. Each one connected to the next by a glittering arc of blue-white energy that hisses and pops in the evening air. A perfect grid of pylons stretches down every avenue, like someone carved the streets with a ruler.

It sets my fur on edge. Nothing this orderly is natural.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Clay whispers.

"Mm." My whiskers twitch. "Pretty things are often poisonous. Remember that."

We follow the lines of lightning toward the city's heart, and there it is. The source. A giant building that makes everything else look like toys. Its walls loom, its roof disappears into shadow. But I know what's inside.

Leviathan.

Even the thought of it makes my claws itch. Chained. Bound. Forced to power lights for a city of mortals and their spikes.

Ah yes-the spikes. Everywhere I look, people wander about with gleaming protrusions jutting from their shoulders like grotesque jewelry. Some decorate them with bands of copper or etchings, others leave them untouched. They bustle around in their colorful clothes, too polite, too clean, too strange. Clay stares, fascinated. I keep my tail curled close, memorizing the way they move, the doors they use, the guards they don't look at.

We circle the massive Leviathan-house like carrion birds. I map every entrance, large and small. Human-sized gates. Service doors. Vents. And there-narrow cracks, drain channels, perfect for a clever cat. I file it all away. Tonight, when the city sleeps, I will slip inside.

But for now, the sun droops low, and my reluctant babysitting duties call. I herd Clay back toward the Timbergrove, ears flicking with every step.

That's when we take the alley. Narrow, shaded, littered with crates and the faint drip-drip of water. The rune-light arcs don't quite reach here.

That's also when I smell it.

Odd. Sharp. A tang I can't place. My nose wrinkles, and I draw in another sniff.

And then-yawn. A big one, jaw cracking. I shake my head. Strange.

"Fluffy…" Clay rubs his eyes. "I'm… sleepy."

My ears snap upright. Sleepy? At this hour? My fur prickles.

The smell isn't odd. It's poison.

"Clay-" I begin.

That's when it hits. A clatter, then a whistling snap, and suddenly metal rains down. A net, glittering with cruel precision, slams onto us. I twist, claws flashing, but it isn't rope. It's living meta-snaking, tightening, hardening. In seconds it's no longer a net but a cage, clamped tightly around us both.

Clay yelps. I snarl, tail lashing. My claws scrape, but the bars only grow firmer, biting against my fur like iron teeth.

"Damn," I mutter. "This isn't good."

_____________________________________________________________

Clay snores softly, head pressed against the bars of our shiny little cage. He's out cold-dead to the world, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The poison clings to him like a blanket, smothering his senses.

Me? I'm awake.

It burned through me fast. My body twitched, my jaw stretched with more yawns than I care to admit, but the effect didn't last as my fur took on a slight hew.

Even so, I'm forced to sit, tail curled, ears twitching in the damp alley, staring at the shadows gathering at the far end.

They come.

Boots scrape on stone. A figure emerges first, tall, shoulders squared, his face hidden behind a black mask fitted with ridged filters that hiss faintly with each breath. Behind him slink a half-dozen others. Their movements are sharp, almost too sharp, their silhouettes wrong in the dim light. And then I see it-veins. Purple, swollen veins crawling down their throats like writhing worms under the skin, pulsing in rhythm with their hearts.

The leader halts before me. His mask tips slightly. His voice comes muffled, distorted through the filter.

"Well. That's odd. Poison doesn't seem to work on you."

I blink, then bare my teeth in a lazy grin. "Oh, forgive me. Was that supposed to be poison? I thought it was just the local cuisine. Strong aftertaste, but nothing a furball can't handle."

A nervous laugh escapes one of the goons. "Boss… that's-uh-that's the talking cat, isn't it?"

"Yes," I purr, stretching inside the cramped cage. "The talking cat. The one who just might forgive you if you release me right now. Otherwise, I'll have to reduce you all to meat paste. Moderately, of course. I'm a merciful creature."

That gets them laughing-ugly, barking sounds bouncing off the walls. The leader chuckles low, shaking his head.

"If you could beat us," he says, "then it's best you stay in the cage."

"Oh, clever line," I drawl, tail flicking. "Did you rehearse that in the mirror, or is improvisational villainy your strong suit?"

The laughter grows, one of the goons actually doubling over. I keep spitting venom, words as sharp as claws: their posture, their smell, their mother's questionable choices, even the ridiculous wheezing sound the leader's mask makes every time he inhales. I keep it up until the sound of wheels drowns me out.

A carriage rumbles into the alley. Big. Heavy. Its frame groans with etched runes that glow faintly, thrumming with a power that makes my whiskers tingle. Two hulking beasts harnessed at the front snort steam, their eyes glazed.

The door creaks open. Inside, shadows.

"Oh good," I say. "Transportation. I was worried I'd have to walk to my impending doom. This is much more civilized."

They grab the cage, metal shrieking as it's hoisted. Clay stirs but doesn't wake. I curl tighter around him as they haul us into the carriage, tail shielding his slack face. With a heave, we're shoved inside.

The door slams.

And just like that, silence.

The market noise, the footsteps, even the steady hiss of the leader's mask-gone. The world outside is erased, cut clean away. All that remains is the faint hum of the runes etched into the carriage walls, thrumming like a heartbeat.

The leader climbs in after us, shutting the door behind him. He reaches up, unfastens the straps, and removes the mask.

I almost wish he hadn't.

His face is a map of corruption. Purple veins pulse and bulge across his skin, running from his temples down his neck, throbbing in time with his breath. His eyes, once human, glow faintly with the same sickly hue, pupils swimming in violet light. The sight of him makes my fur stand on end, but I don't look away.

He smiles-or tries to. It comes out twisted, more vein than flesh.

"Don't worry," he rasps. The words buzz in the silent space, too clear, too close. "You'll understand soon enough."

He leans back in his seat, eyes never leaving mine.

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