We push out of the room just as the first weak rays of morning claw through the guildhall windows, the broken door scraping uselessly behind us. The leader trails a few steps back, muttering something about schedules and briefings, but I ignore him, my focus locked entirely on Master. My tail snaps around his wrist the instant we hit the corridor, looping tight.

  He's half asleep still, eyes hooded, steps dragging in that uncharacteristic haze that makes my fur bristle with worry. He bumps into a low bench first, knee clipping the edge with a dull thud, then veers into a hanging tapestry, the fabric against his shoulder as he rights himself without a word. My ears flatten, a low whine slipping out before I can stop it, his brain isn't what I'm used to prowling through. I lean in close, nose twitching, drawing in his scent deep and deliberate, letting it flood my senses until I can taste the edges of his thoughts through our bond.

  It's... empty. Not crowded, shadowy or full of secrets and schemes where I love to lurk. No, this is a vast, echoing room, plenty of space to roam, walls stretching endless, but barren, no furniture to hide behind, no whispers to chase, no dark nooks to curl up in and watch his mind spin webs. Just quiet, sleepy void, and it makes my chest ache with a frantic need to fill it, to wake him up, to make him whole again so I can dive back in and never surface.

  I press tighter against his side, arm sliding through his, tail squeezing his wrist harder, rubbing my cheek along his bicep. My purr starts low and urgent, vibrating against him, willing some of my manic energy to seep through the bond and spark him back to life. "Master," I murmur, voice soft but edged with that desperate adoration, "watch the corner, there's a crate." I guide him with a gentle tug, body molding to his like a second skin, ears swiveling to catch every shuffle of his boots.

  We reach the council chambers without more incidents, the heavy doors creaking open under the leader's shove. The room is dim, morning light filtering through high windows in pale shafts, the long table still scattered with last night's maps and empty goblets. A few councilors mill about, faces turning our way with wary nods, but Master doesn't acknowledge them. He heads straight for the sideboard where a steaming pot of embercrack tea waits, fresh, sharp, the bitter, mushroom scent.

  His movements are automatic, foggy, and I watch with wide eyes as he grabs two shallow bowls from a stack, strangely two bowls instead of the usual mugs or cups, like his hands forgot the shape of things. He pours the dark, steaming liquid into them with a slow tilt, overfilling one until it sloshes over the rim, dripping onto the wood. The councilors exchange glances, the leader clears his throat awkwardly, but I don't care about them. My tail lashes once, then curls back around Master's leg, anchoring me.

  I snatch one of the bowls before he can set it down wrong, inhaling the steam deep, letting the embercrack bite wake my senses sharper. But my free hand reaches for him, claws grazing his knuckles, rubbing slow circles over his skin. "Here, Master," I whisper, voice trembling. "Drink. It'll chase the fog away." I nuzzle his shoulder, purring louder now, body leaning into him.

  We settle at the long council table, Master dropping into a chair. I slide in right beside him of course. My spear and shield lean against the chair leg within easy reach, because even in the heart of the guildhall I trust nothing that isn’t him.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  The bowl of embercrack tea steams in front of him. He wraps both hands around it like it’s a steaming mug of broth, lifts it to his lips, and just… sips. Slow, messy sips, head tilted forward, elbows on the table, hunched over it like some back alley goblin nursing the only warm thing he’s seen in days. A few drops spill down his chin, he doesn’t bother wiping them. The sight punches me straight in the chest.

  Mire Point. The memory slams into me. Back home in the fetid heart of Bogclutch, Master looks just like one of them right now, my brilliant, lethal, untouchable Master reduced to a sleepy goblin slurping his breakfast.

  I stare, transfixed, claws digging lightly into the tabletop. The councilors are talking, something about routes, schedules, hazard pay, but their voices are just buzzing insects. All I see is him, all I feel is the bond thrumming with that strange, hollow quiet still echoing inside his head.

  My own bowl sits untouched in front of me. I could drink it properly, lift it dainty in one hand, sip like a civilized thing. Or… A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face, sharp and feral.

  I slide off the chair without a sound, dropping to all fours right there on the cold floor beside his seat. Tail high, ears forward, I crawl under the table’s edge until I’m between his boots. The councilors falter mid sentence, someone clears their throat. I don’t care. Let them watch.

  I lower my head to the bowl he pushed toward my place, front braced on either side of it, and lap. Long, deliberate strokes of my tongue, gathering the hot, bitter embercrack straight from the surface, purring loud enough that the vibration hums through the table legs into his shins. My eyes stay locked on his face the whole time, slitted and glowing, daring him to notice, to wake up, to give me even a flicker of that sharp mind I’m starving for.

  I lap until the bowl is half empty, until the taste burns sharp down my throat and the steam bathes my face, until my purr is a constant, rolling growl of devotion and mischief. Then I sit back on my haunches, lick my chin clean with slow, exaggerated swipes of my tongue, and rest my cheek on his knee under the table.

  My pupils blow wide open, blue irises shrinking. My tail bushes out huge, thrashing so hard it knocks over a chair with a crash that echoes off the rafters. I surge up from the floor in one explosive leap, landing on the table itself, boots thudding onto polished wood, bowls rattling, papers . The councilors jerk back, one of them actually falling out of his seat, but I don’t see them

  My heart is hammering so fast it feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest and into his. Every nerve is singing, screaming, alive. My claws scrape deep gouges into the tabletop as I stalk straight across it toward him, tail lashing wild arcs, ears pinned forward, grin splitting my face so wide it hurts.

  “Master..Master..Master..Master..”

  The word runs out of me in a manic rush, high and breathless and cracked with pure, unfiltered delirium. My face is inches from his, nose almost brushing his, eyes huge and glowing and completely, gloriously wrecked on caffeine.

  I can’t stop moving. I press my forehead to his, panting hot and fast, tail coiling around his wrist and yanking his hand up to my throat because I need him to feel how fast my pulse is racing.

  “Master,” I whine, the sound breaking into a manic giggle that bubbles up and spills over, “too much embercrack and not enough you, fix it fix it please.” I’m shaking, grinning, wild, every inch of me buzzing with a frantic pulse.

  Master’s hand settles on my head, fingers dragging slow and firm from top to bottom in that single, grounding pat that cuts through the caffeine storm, and then he turns to the leader, voice already sliding back into that cool, wakeful noir drawl: “Alright. Talk.”