The door clicks shut behind us, soft, the new hinges barely making a sound. Master doesn’t pause in the corridor. He just keeps walking, same unhurried stride. The pouch of fifty silver clinks faintly against his belt with every step, a quiet reminder of the errand we’re already on. I match him perfectly, two paces behind and half to the side, tail swaying low and slow.

  We reach the side stairwell, the narrow one that spirals down to the kitchens and the private courtyard exit. Master takes it without hesitation, hand trailing the wall for balance on the tight turns. I drop to all fours for the descent, easier, quieter, faster, palms and boots finding purchase on the worn stone.

  Halfway down, it hits me.

  A scent.

  Sharp. Sudden.

  CAT

  Not house cat, none of that soft fur. This is sharper, wilder, layered, the clean smell of fur warmed by skin, retracted claws and feline adrenaline. But.. underneath it, overwhelming it, is Alderian sweat, Alderian soap, the faint salt of skin that’s mostly smooth, mostly hairless. Ninety percent person. Ten percent or less CAT

  A catgirl.

  Here.

  In this guildhouse.

  My ears snap straight up, swiveling independently. Tail freezes mid sway, then lashes once, hard, whipping the air behind me. My nostrils flare wide, drinking the scent deeper. It’s fresh. Close. Not in the stairwell itself, but female. Young. Healthy. Not injured, but alert, there’s a thread of wariness woven through the musk, like she knows the building.

  Master feels the shift in me instantly. He stops on the next landing, one hand still on the wall. Doesn’t turn. Just waits. Through the bond I send it raw, unfiltered. Another. Like me. Catgirl. Close. Smells Alderian but real cat underneath. Ears. Tail. Claws. Fangs. She’s here.

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  His head tilts slightly. Not alarmed. Uninterested

  We step out through the guildhouse’s side gate into the narrow service alley behind the main building.

  The scent hits us both at once.

  Her.

  Stronger now, out in the open air, no longer filtered through corridors and incense. She’s crouched at the far end of the alley where it opens onto a small cobbled yard, probably the guild’s private herb garden, now trampled and dark. A shallow clay bowl sits in front of her on the ground, water lapping at the edges. She’s drinking from it, pink tongue curling in neat, deliberate laps, tail curled neatly around her haunches.

  Blonde. Same shade as mine, but longer, silkier, falling in soft waves past her shoulders and pooling on the cobbles around her. Ears twitching once at the sound of our boots, my boots, really.

  She’s on all fours. Completely comfortable there. No armor, no weapons visible, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the fabric fine enough that it catches moonlight and glows. Collar around her throat, simple black leather, no tag, no buckle showing. Claws retracted. Fangs hidden.

  Then she smells us.

  Her head lifts, slow, unhurried, like she’s been expecting company. Water drips from her chin in bright drops. Red eyes catch the moon and reflect it back crimson, slit pupils narrowing to threads as she focuses first on Master, then on me.

  Devileye.

  The name fits. She doesn’t stand. Instead she does what any pampered house cat does when the favorite Alderian walks in. She blinks once, slow, deliberate, eyes closing fully for a heartbeat before opening again. The feline equivalent of a smile.

  Then she stretches, front legs extended far forward, back arched high, tail lifting straight up. A soft purr starts in her chest.

  My ears flatten halfway. Tail lashing once. Another one. Not a rival, exactly. Not a threat. But here. Touching him. The bond flares. Master’s calm amusement washing through me like cool water. No jealousy from him. Just mild curiosity, the same way he’d watch two cats size each other up over a sunbeam.

  Devileye finishes her circuit and sits neatly in front of him, tail wrapped around her front paws, head tilted. Those red eyes flick up to meet his, unblinking, patient. Then she leans forward and butts the top of her head against his open palm, exactly the way I do when I want scratches.

  A soft mrrp escapes her, questioning, hopeful.