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A ghost swept between the trees, light and silent, little more than a gust of wind not even rustling the low-hanging branches. Overhead across a sea of blue-black velvet shimmering with reflected light the twin moons hung side by side, locked still in their ongoing dance. This had become something of a ritual for the ghost as it padded down the alleys in between buildings, as it swept its thick cloak close around its body and hoisted itself up windowsills, leapt across roofs, swung from trees and rolled down into tall grass alongside the field.

At night the world changed, and so did the ghost. It enjoyed the process and ceremony, from the adrenaline of the pursuit to the rush of the encounter, and finally the anxious excitement of the escape. The actual treasures came second to the experience itself, and even now its heart thumped in its chest wrapped beneath layers of cloak and cloth and fur, for this ghost held physical presence, while its breath puffed sweetly out into early summer evening air through the space cut into the mouth of its pale white mask.

The houses spread out, the fields widened, the moons coursed slowly across the sky… and the ghost followed the process of a lone carriage rocking along the cobble-paved road, the holt's mark for the limits of its boundary in lieu of an established wall. The light of a lantern flickered fitfully out from the swishing curtains inside; a pair of feral horses drawn by a sleepy driver clacked side by side in front; the great wheels turned, the pace slow for the carriage, fast for a ghost sweeping silently along in the night after.

Lungs heaving in slow, deliberate rhythm, the cool burn familiar and comfortable, the ghost reached out, wrapped its fingers around one of the rear handles of the carriage, and hoisted itself up, careful to twirl its trailing cloak out of the range of the crushing wheels. There it hung for a moment, looking out at the familiar, rolling shadows of Oryon all around, stars overhead twinkling like firelights in the windows of the townsfolk, with the golem silhouette of the manor house standing guard atop the terraced hill in the distance.

Waiting there, lurching with the motion of the road, the ghost tilted its head back, slid a leather-gloved paw beneath the rim of its mask, tugged the material away – and Markus took a slow, slightly unsteady breath of the nighttime air, warm and pleasant, soft and sweet like freshly whipped cream. Out here the air was heavy with the lush, cool spice of young bayshoot fringed with the cloying acridity of the livestock in the further fields, and if he turned his head on his shoulder and ran his nose up along the rear window of this carried, slats opened just enough to let the lantern light trickle out from inside… there was a sharper bite carried along the slightly warmer air, reaching out across the fur of his muzzle made sensitive from their confinement underneath the mask, tickling at his lips and nostrils, reigniting the coals that still simmered deep within him from the night before.

A day spent in formalizing the agreement and arrangement between himself and Rhea, now legally his wife-to-be, the future Countess alongside himself as Count Oryon – or, Count Leyo, or whatever his mother had in mind. Markus had never pretended to understand the intricacies of his heritage, and during the discussion he could tell that Rhea had held her attention out of duty rather than personal interest or involvement, and-

Another whiff of that scent caressed his muzzle and brought him back towards the window, the events of the day fizzling out in the face of that more enticing interest, that more pressing need. Rhea, Leyo, the County – that was later. This was now.

Markus wet his lips, took another breath, swallowed, and then fitted the fox mask down over his face again, the cool, untreated ceramic resting easily across the shape of his snout. The ghost waited, steadied its heart, reached to its side where its saber clattered softly on the rim of the carriage, then straightened up and reached around towards the far side. From this angle it had to shift, adjust, make a small leap, and hang perilously off the edge of the carriage, before reaching in towards the slats of the window, opened fully along the door as if in invitation.

Inside lounged an otter across the plush seating, resting against the opposite door with his head propped up in one paw and a book opened in the other, reading by the light of the lantern hanging over his head. The tip of his thick rudder swished and swayed across the floor of the carriage, his silky brown fur seeming to glisten in the orange light; occasionally he parted his lips in thought, or nibbled at his tongue, or flicked his whiskers or an ear, or tilted his nose up to taste the air as if picking up some distant, familiar scent. The ghost knew that its own breathing, the sound of its blade against the carriage, could not be heard under the clattering of horseshoes and the noise of the road.

So it curled its fingers around the rim of the window, tapped long yet manicured claws against the wood, and reached for the locked. Inside the carriage the otter blinked, looked up, turned his head – gasped and jumped, colorless eyes sparkling, then saw the pale image of the vulpine mask through the window slats. He closed his book, sat up, reached up to make a show of adjusting his shirt collar, then leaned in and knocked at the partition separating the car from the horse driver.

A moment later, from outside: “All right, my lord?"

_ _

“All right. I will be practicing some of my magic for the next…" Lura eyed the Ghost hanging outside the opposite door. It imagined that it struck quite the figure in the darkness, cloak billowing out behind with the pace of the carriage, pale mask catching the light of the lantern dancing with that of the moons overhead. “…half-hour, or so. So if you hear any strange noises, no need to disturb me."

“Yes, my lord."

Lura slid the book beneath the seat, leaned in towards the door, flicked the locked with one finger, then nudged it just far enough open so that his visitor could slip a gloved paw into the space and pull itself in.

“My, oh my," the young Lord rumbled, leaning back again. The ghost struggled with pulling its cloak and its sword into the small space, then finally decided to unclasp both and let them drop to the floor. “Are you here to rob me?"

Sometimes the ghost would speak, but usually it preferred not to. It thought that it helped with the mood and the presentation: once the rumor had taken root and began to spread, just a suggestion of its truth often served as more than enough for the victim to do all the heavy lifting, so to say. But here, in the carriage following the southeastern road out of the limits of the city of Oryon, the Ghost instead leaned in, placed a gloved paw against Lord Lura Strade's chest, and gently pushed the otter back.

Hot breath puffed out across the rough ceramic surface, and in another moment soft, warm paws reached up, nudged its hood back, ran tenderly across the revealed ears. A shudder ran down the ghost's back, then a soft sigh trickled from lips parted beneath the mask as Lura continued down, one paw following the line of the neck, the other coming around to the front to begin undoing the buttons of the finery his visitor wore.

“Here I thought I'd missed you," the otter murmured, breath tickling those ears. Along the neck, up the line of the jaw, fingers nudged underneath the rim of the mask… “Or that you'd missed me. Oh, you're not so scary…"

And Markus closed his eyes under the sweet delight of Lura's scent washing over him, paw stroking his muzzle underneath the mask, thumbpad running along the base of his whiskers. Already the arousal thrummed within him; he lifted up, batted the otter's other paw away, and worked at undressing himself, leaving the coat hanging from his shoulders, untucking the billows of his shirt, redirecting exploratory otter paws into the voluminous ruff of fur pushing out from his chest and down towards his belly.

The mask was nudged up and slightly off from where it rested atop his snout, concealing just part of his upper lip and leaving the lower jaw free to move. Markus – the ghost – shook its head, shifted it a little further, let it settle back into place, and then moved its focus at the other Lord's clothing as well, Lura's slightly more reserved garb unfurling much more easily. A bump in the rode caused the figure to tumble partially forward across him, and Lura took the opportunity to slip a paw beneath the mask's cheek again and peel back the guise of the Ghost, then to draw Markus's mouth in against his own.

Electric pleasure sizzled between the two of them, Markus already grinding down between Lura's legs, weighing his arousal against the otter's, supple sheaths squishing and pressing together, balls tugged out from the confines of loose pants resting across one another, drifting, shifting in the humid heat between them. Lura rested an arm over Markus's shoulders, found the foxwolf's wrist with his other, and guided him down – to wrap his paw around both of them, stroking their shafts in rhythm.

Another bump in the road, a whinny from the horses driving the carriage, and the mask juddered up across Markus's muzzle. He reached out for it, missed, and heard it clatter to the wooden floor, but used the opening to turn his head to the side and work his tongue deeper into the kiss, feeling the roof of his mouth, the backs of his little fangs, the root at the underside of his tongue. The mustelid squirmed and grinded up against him, short claws pricking into the fabric of the seat, one leg struggling to wrap itself around his waist. He kicked against the door with a thump, making each pause for a second before diving right back in.

The desire simmered throughout Lura's body like steam from a boiling pot of soup, palpable across every inch of fur, every section of bared skin. He lifted himself up, thrust into Markus's paw, smeared himself against the foxwolf's length, bit at his lip and sucked at his tongue, then finally pulled out of the kiss with a wet pop and a rope of saliva hanging from his chin.

“You dirty thief," he purred, already panting. His tongue flicked out to catch that dribble, and again he lifted himself into Markus's lap where he knelt across the seat, just now switching arms so that he would stop bumping the back of the carriage with his elbow. As he did so he leaned perilously to the side, feeling blindly for the fallen mask. “Is mine the only heart you've stolen?"

Under any other circumstances Markus might have laughed out loud at hearing such a thing, but here the words just sent another surge of insatiable heat thrumming through him. He sat back, pressed himself up against Lura's shaft, and worked his hips in rhythm with his stroking – then nosed forward and down for the ceramic to settle itself atop his muzzle again, Lura drawing the string behind his head and tugging it into place.

And the ghost opened its eyes again a moment later, looking down at this otter before it, both of their arousals twitching against one another. A small chip had broken off the front of the mask's snout, just above the lip.

“Mmm…" Lura rested back, arms coming up behind his head. His eyes fluttered shut and his mouth fell open, unsteady breaths coming and going; as he squirmed Markus felt his throbs squeezing up against him, urgency steadily growing. Between them stirred that rich, intoxicating mix of scents again, Markus's familiar musk intertwining with the otter's brighter, sharper touch. “What else will you take from me, I wonder?"

If only there was more space in here, but every time the ghost moved it bumped its head on the roof, or its shoulder against the door, or its elbow against the seat. Little huffs of urgency became entwined with grumbles of annoyance.

“I know, I know," the otter went on. He gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring. “That's fine, just-" Then, suddenly, his arms were around Markus's – the ghost's – neck again, pulling him back down; instead of diving into another kiss, though, sharp breaths puffed out across his ear, making it flick. “Keep on – going and you'll get – ah – hah-"

_ _

Delight and passion surged. The sensation of Lura's arousal, throbbing hot; the sounds of his enjoyment, the squeezing of his muscles, the tightening of his legs around the ghost's waist to tug himself closer, to press sheath to sheath and sack to sack, vibrated up through the cloak, the costume, the mask, and drew Markus back out from underneath. He looked down at Lura underneath him, short-clawed paws scrabbling up towards the opposite door, eyes squeezed shut, lips curled back around gritted teeth-

-and then a shuddering buck, a burst of hot, dank scent, and one fresh white spurt across the otter's chest, and a second, and a third, and a fourth, each one yanking his hips up again as though tugged along a string, his legs kicking behind the foxwolf's body. Lura groaned out with the sensation, breathless moans sputtering from between his parted lips: Markus continued stroking at him, drawing out each and every last bit of his finish, then leaned over him again and pressed his mouth against the other Lord's, pulling in Lura's exhausted breath while he continued at himself.

Just a few more seconds of this, suckling at the otter's lip and tongue and breath, feeling the firm heat of his body underneath his own, tasting his still unfamiliar musk filling out the confined space of the carriage, and then Markus grunted, gritted his teeth, straightened up, tightened down – and gave a few quick, urgent bucks where he sat between the mustelid's legs, paw pressing his sheath back past his swelling knot, forceful throbs pulsing through him and emptying out across Lura's already-painted fur, adding further streaks of white to the soft cream and cinnamon there.

As he unloaded, his paw pressed up along his muzzle, fingers sliding underneath the rim of the mask and lifting it slightly away from his muzzle. Sizzling pleasure continued to reverberate through his body, resulting in a few extra, shaky thrusts, his hard shaft resting out across Lura's. Grey eyes fluttered open, dancing across the figure of the ghost atop him.

“Do you…" Markus fumbled with the mask, reaching back for the string and lifting it up and off. The chip had come cleanly off in front, thankfully without any excess cracking. Then he swallowed, once more returning his gaze to Lura. “Do you have to go?"

“No." Quick and decisive. Lura let his paw drift down his body, ran his thumbpad through the various streaks already matting in his fur, and spread them out further. “But neither can I stay. I told you, my lord: my title is my own, and nothing else. You know what it is I do to earn my keep." With a smirk he tapped a claw against the surface of Markus's mask, held off in one paw. “You do it yourself. Only with… a bit more flair, I should say."

“So then you could stay with us." The carriage rattled over another bump. “Oryon was built while my father was King of Maldeth. We'll have the room to accommodate you, and besides, it's one of our responsibilities to host favored guests."

“Lady Azura doesn't trust me. She would not allow it."

“What? Why wouldn't-" Anther side-to-side rock, with a murmur outside from the driver to the horses. Both of the lords lifted their heads and flicked their ears. “-well, then you'll be my guest, not hers. The manor has plenty of hidden passages and rooms. She doesn't even have to know."

To his surprise, then, Lura tossed his head back and laughed. With some squirming the otter managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, the warmth of their half-naked bodies simmering through the air between them. Markus suppressed another shiver and throb as he drank deep of the mixed aroma.

“Look at you, Lord Kalla," he rumbled, grey eyes sparkling. “Opening your home to someone you barely know, someone you met only the previous night, of whom you had never before heard."

“Yes, but-"

“Someone," he went on, “with whose loins you are already better acquainted than the rest of him."

“Well, sure, that's part of the reason, but-"

“You don't even know who I am."

Markus reached out for Lura's paws and took them in his own. “I don't care who you are," he murmured, voice just barely audible over the noise of the road. “I don't care if you're a Strade scion. I don't care if you're from a nameless family off the streets of Solm. I don't care if – I don't know – you're the son of some king somewhere. Gods know I am. You caught my interest, and my attention, and it's you I wish to know, and…"

Words trailed off. Markus wet his lips, swallowed, looked to the side; he shifted, adjusted how he sat, and managed to scoop everything back into his pants and redo the fastenings, in as nonchalant and self-assured a way as he could manage.

“And I would really like it," he finished. “It would make things… easier. For me."

Lura stared at him. He frowned. “You know," he began, “I could be lying to you about all of this."

“Are you? Would it matter?"

Brows furrowed, whiskers twitched, and Lura turned his head to the side, chin in his paw. For a fraction of a second Markus thought that he saw a flash of unidentifiable color shimmer out from beneath the cool, soft grey, but then decided it was just the reflection of the lantern instead. Then when Lura once again looked at him, the tension had melted away from his muzzle, and once more smiled the sly, knowing otter who had accosted him in the ballroom the previous night.

“Okay." He closed his eyes, took a breath, let it back out, and reached up to feel at his neck, feeling for his ring beneath his shirt. “I take it you'll show me some of these secret passages?"

~ ~ ~

Behind one of the tapestries down the hall from the entrance to Markus's quarters, set behind an alcove surrounding where another stone bust should have stood, a false panel had been built into the brick of the wall, lurching open with tug against the nearby candle scone and a firm shoulder against the surface itself. By no means was it a quiet entrance, scraping open across iron tracks left unoiled for unknown years, but ever since the foxwolf had discovered it as a pup he had never known anyone else to enter.

It was where he kept the more telling spoils from his expeditions as the Ghost, the items whose theft began to suffuse the town as rumor, and those for the return of which the owners placed a public bounty. This had begun as the petty interest of a child with too much time on his hands, but as he grew up Markus started to draw a rich, enticing exhilaration from the act, much like what he felt from dueling with the manor's master-at-arms out behind the house, or dancing with strangers at the occasional ball held up here. Always the thought, the wonder, of how far can I go?

As they had departed the carriage, quick and quiet, Lura had paused and looked back at the receding vehicle. Upon Markus asking, he responded that he wished there was more he could do for the driver: “poor fellow cannot read," he explained, “so leaving a note would be useless. But, I suppose it's not the first time I've disappeared…"

_ _

“You mentioned magic," the foxwolf had murmured back. “Would he believe that you had, ah…"

_ _

“Teleported?" And Lura had smiled, soft and sweet in the light of the moons. “Perhaps. Such a thing is, to our knowledge, impossible, but – non-practitioners don't know that."

“Really?" Markus had entwined his fingers with Lura's as they walked back towards the city, Oryon rising slowly out of the distance like a sea creature breaching the waves. “My mother would tell me as a child that if I misbehaved, she'd zap me away to the roof and make me climb down on my own. Terrified me. But I suppose looking at where I am now, the threat didn't last…"

Like a scene from one of those awful romance novels that Aurelia read, Markus led the otter by the paw through the darkened hallways, ears alert for the sounds of the patrolling guards, heart pounding in his chest even though he had done something like this countless times before. Only – always with someone else's property, instead of just someone else. When he glanced back it was only Lura's eyes that caught the light of the low candles, flickering and dancing; the young lord grinned, winked, and nodded him forward.

Still Markus walked with care, though no sound whatsoever pattered out from his footpaws across the tiling. His mother could wield some small, insignificant magic, barely enough to stir the water in a stew pot from arm's length – still, learning this had seemed to shock the otter, as they had climbed the low wall surrounding the manor green outside – while Lura held somewhat more strength and dexterity: after a moment of concentration and an odd sensation like stepping into a thick fog, he informed Markus that he was able to suppress the sound of their footsteps, and at least so far he seemed to have told the truth, in exchange for each step feeling as though the foxwolf was stepping on bare earth after a long rain.

As the two reached the alcove Markus released his paw and swept the tapestry aside. He nodded Lura forward, motioned to the cleverly-hidden hinges at the top and bottom of the false panel, then the lock, the mechanism, and the hint of the rail visible beneath the section.

“Can you muffle this, too?" he whispered; Lura reached forward, touched at the spots, frowned, then shook his head.

“Too much," he answered. Markus nodded again, then both grimaced at the clunk and crunch and shift, but then they were inside and safe.

“I can keep you here," the foxwolf went on in his full voice. “Until we can figure something out. I can bring you food and water, and – I don't know, some books. I'm sorry I can't be more accommodating…"

Lura walked the space, arms crossed, attentive eyes taking in the surroundings. “You'd bring me into your own bed if you could, huh?"

“Yes! I would. And you know it. Is that – what's funny?"

“Nothing, nothing. I'm just… getting a kick out of this situation." With a wave of his paw that odd sensation about Markus's footpaws dissipated, and then when Lura approached him he heard the small, gentle tik-tik-tik of his claws across the tile floor. “Just… you, son of the Countess, running off with a paramour on the night of his own engagement ball. Then sneaking out the following night," with one arm hooking around Markus's shoulders and the other paw drifting down to his waist, “in the guise you wear for your side hobby as a… ravishing masked highwayman," that paw coming forward, flipping up the hem of Markus's shirt, and fingers spreading in the short, soft fur of his belly, “and returning home with that paramour in tow, seeking to secrete him within the walls of your own manor."

A shiver zapped down the foxwolf's back, flicking his ears back and sending a tingle through his tail. “My mother's – manor," he breathed. “As the Countess."

“Well. Yes. Either way, not mine. And, who knows…" Lura had to stand on his tiptoes, then, to lean in and gently shovel his nose beneath Markus's chin, warm breath trickling out across his neck. His paw turned, claws poked underneath the waistband of his pants, and then sank slowly down underneath. “I went nearly undetected on my second course of the grounds. Perhaps on the third, only those I want to see me will do so."

“Lura-" Markus shivered again. Finger and thumb slid down alongside his sheath, pressing in against the supple, sensitive skin… “I have to – get back to bed; Rhea is departing tomorrow and Mother wants me there to – discuss-"

“Oh, my. Already feeling the-" Further down the otter's paw went, fingers scooping around and caressing his sack, rubbing the soft fur and skin, giving a little squeeze into his palm. “-weight of your responsibilities? I suppose I am at your mercy."

“Yes. You are." Markus licked his lips, took Lura's muzzle in his own paws, and then bent down for a quick yet still hungry kiss. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth; still the paw remained in place, pressing, squeezing, rubbing, stroking. “I'll return afterwards. Do you need anything? I can-"

Then Lura slid his paw back out, a little dribble of sticky wetness clinging to the pad of one finger. He brought that finger to his lips, touched it there, then lapped it off.

“Don't worry about me, my Lord Kalla. I'll get by."

“Alright. Um…" He so, so wanted to grab the otter's wrists and tug him down the hall to his own room, though feared the folly of such a thing. Markus scratched at a spot behind his ear. “Goodnight."

“Goodnight, Markus."

Lura watched as the foxwolf stepped back out of the secret room, then grimaced again at the grating of the door. On this side it was all metal and mechanism: old gears and levers strained, shifted, clunked back into place, the device much more easily opened from this side than the other. He waited a moment longer, took a breath of the still, slightly stale air, and then stepped over to the back of the room, where an unloved cushion from some chair sat forgotten atop a wooden crate. The otter tugged this off, dusted it off, tossed it to the floor, then sat down atop it.

Then he took in another breath, held it, and dropped his muzzle into his paws, the sigh trickling shakily back out between splayed fingers. Already he had released the maintained spell to muffle his and Markus's footsteps, but now he gladly let go of a second, welcoming the relief and release of tension across his muzzle and the gentle tingle before his eyes, like a thin spray of mist. It took concentrated effort and focus to hold a spell like this, constantly sapping the caster's energy, and today he had held that one for much longer than he was accustomed: the otter had intended to step out of the chamber to “source" some more comfortable bedding for himself, but now feeling the weight slide out of his essence, he slumped forward right then and there.

Tomorrow, he told himself. One day at a time. As always.

~ ~ ~

The days passed, as always they did. In the morning Markus overslept and would rather have forgotten about breakfast with the Thorn entourage, until Aurelia herself came knocking on the door to his quarters and shouting for him. Over the meal itself Rhea continually eyed him and smirked, as though repeatedly remembering a joke that only she found funny: she sat next to him, as close as befitted an engaged pair, yet never made any attempt to speak with her fiancé other than when the conversation outright demanded.

This was, thankfully, quite rare after the first few attempts, when she likely put together that Markus knew next to nothing about the administration and responsibility of running the county itself. By the time the foxwolf and his mother saw them off, Rhea's tone and body language told him of warmth and gratefulness, while her scent simmered with amusement, annoyance, and a touch of disbelief. The Countess stood next to him as they watched the Thorn carriage rumble off along the road, departing the town by the northwest exit to cross through the mountain pass that marked the border between Mora here and Alenar to the north, Leyo resting just across the other side.

Then, in a low hiss from his mother: “you are to come to the library tonight, Markus, and receive instruction from Mercutio on the basic fundamentals of what is to come from your impending title."

It was intended as an insult, just as it was received as one. Markus had felt his fists clench at his sides, and he gritted his teeth so hard that he thought he felt one of them crack, but he managed to rein himself in just enough to give a curt nod, bow to Her Excellency the Countess Oryon, and then swung around and departed back towards the manor. In through the halls, back to his quarters, leaning with his shoulder to the door to listen to the patrol of the guards outside, and then back out again, around the other way towards the alcove with the tapestry…

…and then the next half-hour disappeared in a cozy swell of scent and heat and relief, Lura coming in against him, asking him about his morning, his plans for the day. Time and time again Markus stepped out from the hidden room to return later with his arms full of something or other: newer bedding, better candles, a stack of books, a set of playing cards. Later on he realized he had completely forgotten about his compulsory appointment, and rather than leave Lura with some hurried kisses, instead he settled in against him and dozed off.

On another visit the following night, the otter requested to see the mask, cloak, and sword that he wore out as the Ghost. Slightly embarrassed, Markus complied, but Lura felt over the ceramic, the fabric, the steel with quiet interest and something close to reverence.

“There's power in this," he murmured, fingers splaying over the vulpine silhouette.

“Like, magic power?"

Grey eyes flickered up to Markus. “What? Oh. No. I mean in the belief. In the… character." He swallowed, turned the mask around, peered at it from inside. “It's fun, isn't it? It's exhilarating. You get a little bit lost in it. Right?"

Sitting cross-legged in front of him, Markus tilted his head, idly reached for the otter's other paw, and thought. “Yes. It's a little humiliating, but-"

“No. It's not. Not really. I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? You, here, Lord Kalla, son of the Countess. Everyone knows your name and your heritage, but nobody knows you – and when they finally get to know you, when they hold you against your mother, your father, the things that came before, they find you… lacking. And that hurts." Then around again, thumbpad rubbing across the chipped section of the muzzle, another little flake peeling off. “They expect the name, the position. And then it's like it's a personal insult against them when you deviate from that…"

Markus frowned. Lura of Strade, a minor noble house from Rowan, upriver from our capital… what did he say at the ball? Son of a middle-class mother and a delinquent father? The foxwolf cleared his throat. “Do you – want to wear the mask?"

“Huh?" Lura blinked and looked up at him, then down at the ceramic. “Oh. Not at all. I want you to wear the mask. After all, it's not me; it's you." He held it out to him. “You didn't tell me there was another passageway outside the grounds, in the back of the wine cellar."

“What? I didn't know."

“Well, then. Would you like me to show you?"

That night – and the following night, and the one after – Markus would return to Lura's adopted quarters there in the space behind the tapestry, the otter busying himself during the day with sneaking around undetected and uninhibited. Everything he took back with him technically belonged to Markus's family, but he just couldn't find it in himself to feel offended by the theft. Quite the opposite, in fact: every time he returned to find Lura with something else new, or bearing further knowledge of the manor house which the foxwolf himself hadn't yet discovered, his respect, his admiration, his affection for this strange, baffling Lord continued to grow.

During the days, all this nonsense drivel about responsibilities, and expectations, and the implications of title, as his mother so ineloquently put it. Before Lura, Markus just floated from day to day, never really having anything to look forward to other than when he could call upon his brother for a sparring session, or slip down to the town to visit one of the taverns, or when he donned the mask and cloak again. And now he caught himself daydreaming of the slim, smallish otter, of his breath on his neck and shoulder, of stout webbed fingers intertwining with his own, of the way that thick rudder felt curled around one of his legs, of the short muzzle pressed against his own, his tongue dancing across sharp fangs, breath puffing out into his mouth, hungry wet saliva dripping across his chin… and then after he had finished what few duties he had about the town, he would creep back down the hall and sometimes find Lura there in the hidden room, sometimes not.

The longer he thought about it, the more he realized how silly it was to assume that the otter would be safer back there. So one night Markus avoided the tapestry entirely, and this time when he dressed as the Ghost he prowled the halls of the Oryon manor instead, staying out of sight of the guards, keeping his paw hovering over the handle of his blade – until at one point he noticed that it was gone. When he looked back through the hallway he was still alone, and the deepest of focus could bring no hint of footsteps anywhere nearby.

Only when he returned to his quarters did he find the blade resting across his bed, along with the otter who presumably had taken it from him. Lura acted the same as he had in the carriage that first night, playfully throwing himself around, overplaying his shock and surprise, “oh no, oh dear, oh my, it's you, it's the Ghost, whatever am I going to do…" and then with his head hanging backwards off the foot of the bed he pressed his muzzle up against Markus's – the ghost's – sheath and sack, and nuzzled and nosed and huffed and slurped and suckled until heavy, urgent grunts filled the room, to be followed by soft, relieved panting.

That was the first night Markus spent with his arm wrapped around the slim, sleek musteline form, to disappear before he awoke for the sake of secrecy. Then again every night for a week after, the foxwolf's engagement completely forgotten save for when his mother mentioned it, when his brother brought up some other obscure, senseless rule or expectation, when Aurelia bugged him about getting measured for the proper attire.

Markus couldn't understand the rush: the marriage ceremony itself had been arranged, by tradition, a full year from the date of the engagement, and spring still made its lazy, languorous swell into summer, at night requiring the Ghost to depart on its expeditions without its usual cloak. Besides, he had a closet full of various regalia that he didn't wear anyway, why shouldn't any of those serve the purpose? But the mistress of the house had clucked her tongue and turned her muzzle up at him, and shooed him back on his way again.

Upon returning from one of the semi-nightly “explorations" of the town with Lura at his side the idea came to him, a way to release the tension surrounding the otter's origin and fully integrate him into the household. Along the cobblestone streets of the city the Ghost tugged the young Lord off into an alley and slid its mask off – and Markus drew a slow, sweet breath of the warm evening air, strung deliciously between spring and summer. Lura had been right, that one night in the secret room: when he wore the mask he felt, he thought, like someone completely different. As the Ghost of Oryon he could forget about his responsibilities and instead get lost in what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be; and removing the mask, throwing back the hood, looking out at the city through his own eyes instead of the slits cut into the shaped ceramic of the mask, always imparted the same sense of distant, twisting vertigo that came with waking from a long dream.

But then there was Lura before him, eyes as grey as the stones beneath his footpaws, looking up at the foxwolf with concern across his muzzle. He pursed his lips, frowned, furrowed his brow – is everything alright?

Markus swallowed, wet his lips, and squeezed at the otter's shoulders. When he leaned in it was so, so hard to resist brushing his lips along that little teacup ear, and he found his fingers naturally squeezing in at him, running up towards the back of his neck, reflexively tilting his head up and towards him.

“I have an idea," he murmured, and then gave in to his desires there in the alley. Lura shuddered and shivered against him as he listened, lips fluttering between soft, pinched moans and little noises of understanding and acceptance of the plan, responding where appropriate – and then clamping his teeth down along Markus's other paw while his body jerked and thrust against him.

On the way back to the manor house, the Ghost slunk alongside the sleek silhouette of a noble otter oddly suited to such a life, suddenly much lighter both for the future and for the fact the two had left their spoils back in the alley, along with a few thick, milky streaks painting the opposite wall.