We push through into a meeting room. The table stretches long and dark between us and the guild master, polished walnut, candles in iron holders are everywhere. The guild master sits at the far end, elbows planted, fingers down. Guards line the walls, eight of them, Sapphire blues and chainmail, hands resting on sword hilts, postures rigid but eyes flicking between us and their boss. No one speaks. The room feels like it's holding its breath.

  Master doesn't pause. He walks the full length of the table calm as if he is taking a causal walk. I follow half a step behind, tail low and slow swaying, ears forward, every muscle coiled under the surface. He reaches the chair opposite the guild master, high backed, carved with the Sapphire crest and drops into it without ceremony, leaning back just enough to look relaxed, one hand resting loose on the armrest.

  I don't sit.

  I vault onto the table, boots thudding light on the wood as I land in a low crouch. My knees bend deep, back hunched forward like a cat that's decided the table is its rock and the room is its territory. Kite shield rests easy on my left arm, angled up just enough to catch light on the edge, it's semi raised but lazy, almost arrogant. Spear in my right hand, tip pointed down and forward, not quite threatening the guild master but close enough that if he so much as twitches wrong, I can drive it through his throat.

  My tail lashes once, slow and deliberate, brushing the table's edge before it curls high behind me. My blonde hair spills wild over my shoulders as I hunch lower rolling forward. I must look completely egotistic, entitled and utterly unapologetic. This table is mine now. This room is mine. And the man at the far end better remember who guards the one who actually matters.

  The guild master stares at me for a long beat, jaw tight, then shifts his gaze to Master. "You let her stand on a council table like it's a scratching post?"

  Master doesn't even glance my way. His voice stays that same neutral tone as always, "She stands where she wants. You want her down, ask her yourself." A pause, deliberate. "Or try to make her. See how that goes."

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  I bare my fangs in a slow lazy grin, tail flicking once more. The guards shift, subtle, uneasy but no one moves. They remember the courtyard. They remember the blood on my claws from the ones who touched him.

  Master leans forward slightly, elbows on the table now, fingers interlaced. "Warehouse 12 is still burning, blue tarps, alchemical crates. Manifest's in my pouch, ledgers, seals, shipment logs. All yours. Proof the cartel proxies just lost their biggest score of the month." He pats the pouch once, casual. "Crimson's fingerprints are all over it. They're using the Cartel to squeeze you without getting their own hands dirty. We interrupted that. You're welcome."

  The guild master's eyes narrow, flicking to the pouch, then back to Master's face. "You burned a warehouse on Sapphire adjacent without clearance. Started a fire that could draw Republic watch scrutiny. Could drag Crimson retaliation straight to our door."

  Master shrugs, one shoulder lifting lazy. "Or it forces Crimson to rethink using proxies. Makes them show their hand. Either way, you get the manifest, the Cartel bleeds, and Sapphire looks like the one who struck first without starting an open war." He reaches into the pouch, pulls the folded pages, and slides them down the long table, slow yet deliberate.

  The guild master stares at the manifest for a long moment, then looks up at me, hunched, spoiled, wild, spear half raised like a queen on her throne. His jaw works. "Get her off my table."

  Master's hand lifts and settles on my back, fingers pressing once. "She's fine where she is." Then, softer, just for me but loud enough the room hears, "Good wife. Stay pretty."

  My tail lashes once in pure euphoria, ears flicking forward, body arching slightly under his touch.

  “So one gold piece for what I paid Reed,” master says “and payment for the logs. At the end of the day I got the job done. Doesn’t matter how.” He lets that sit a second and then yawns. “So stop being scared little Alderians and instead. If you want them gone, then take them. At the end of the day a merchant republic works off coin. Or are you not a big guild?” Another pause, shorter this time, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Huh? Or do you really not know whom me and the cat are?”