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Warm, humid breath puffed out across Markus's fur. He shivered with the sensation, paw coming up to brace against the exterior wall of the manor here in the corner of the green, and tilted his head back; the gentle touch of the evening breeze spread down across his lower back, his bared rump, the base of his tail, and ran its fingers in beneath the waistband of his pants, hanging limp at his knees.

The sleek, enigmatic Lord Lura closed the distance to the foxwolf's loins, nose guiding his progress. First he nuzzled in at the side of the vulpine's sheath, eyes just barely open; then he turned his muzzle to the side, exhaled again across his sensitive sack tugging up towards his body in anticipation; then he tilted his head, dropped his jaw, and let his tongue swing out, to then slowly drag up in between Markus's balls. Again the foxwolf shivered, other paw slipping further back between Lura's ears, more to have something to hold on to than to guide the other male's focus.

It certainly seemed that Lura knew what he was doing. He remained there a moment, lips pressed into twitching firmness hidden within, tongue curling up underneath and in between, and then drew up further towards the slightly retracted rim of Markus's sheath, warm and wet with natural slickness. His broad nose tickled there with gentle breaths, the otter drawing in his scent, tasting it, learning it; then he wet his lips, swallowed again, and continued right up, dragging that warmth across Markus's half-revealed length.

Distantly Markus's ears flicked back towards the sound of the ball, and of other indistinct conversations following the line of the pathway off of which the two had deviated. Lura's strange grey eyes flicked open to glance over, then resumed their focus. He lifted up a bit, swallowed around the vulpine's shaft, and angled him down towards his muzzle, lips coming to wrap around the tapered tip, seal in place, and then dive slowly down…

And Markus shuddered, shifting his arm on the wall, leaning forward until his forehead bumped against smooth, cool stone. His own scent dominated their little bubble here off the side of the manor, but in between he managed to pick up small, bright sparkles of something new and unique: as he began to work his hips gradually forward and back, pressing in whenever Lura dove down towards his as of yet unswollen knot, he opened his eyes again to see the otter having slipped his paw into his own pants, arm moving with the distinct rhythm of his self-pleasure. Occasionally a flash of warm pink glistened in the shadows between his legs, then disappeared again beneath smoothly pumping brown fur.

Bit by bit their surroundings continued to trickle away into nothing more than a muted background. The crunching of footsteps along the gravel pathway, hardly a good stone's throw from where they currently stood – and knelt – yet still so far distant, did little more than tug at the foxwolf's ears; vaguely he followed the progress of the sextet lilting through an open window, having moved on to a steadier, statelier double concerto; and, most importantly, at least for a few minutes he could completely forget about the purpose of the night, and the reason for his required attendance.

There was no ball, no engagement, no Rhea Thorn and Viscount of Leyo and this and that. Instead all that mattered and existed to Markus was this growing, mounting, simmering pleasure, this wet heat pulsing in the base of his loins. Lura's head bobbed along his shaft from tip nearly to base, fingers wrapped behind the slight bulge of his knot, tugging there, pushing the supple, sensitive skin of his sheath back further, while the otter still pawed at himself. Their breaths mixed and muddled, Markus's coming out through teeth gritted between lips curled back, while Lura's went from flared nostrils.

Had Markus known that this was to come from the thief caught in the courtyard, he would have held on to the unexpected visitor quite a bit more firmly. He shuddered again, pressure pulsing down from his loins and into his knees, forcing him to bend his legs, curl his tail against his body, and strain to suppress a growing growl. His fingers tightened on the back of the otter's head; he thrust himself forward, care and caution disappearing over that burgeoning intensity and urgency; he trembled, sucked in a gasp, felt it burst from between his teeth –

-and then bucked, and again, and again, knot swelling up against Lura's lips, the otter halfway lifted up off of his haunches with his eyes wrenched shut and snout wrinkled in effort. His broad tongue cupped around the foxwolf's shaft as he pulsed his load into his throat, drinking down every spurt as it came, and still continuing at himself as he did so. Markus shuddered again when that pleasure began to trickle away into a resounding, lingering heat, punctuated here and there with the occasional sharp burst of hypersensitivity underneath a flick of the tongue, a squeeze of the lips, a tightening of the throat in another swallow, a slight, gentle graze of a tooth.

Before long Lura shivered underneath him as well, Markus able to watch the otter reach the peak of his pleasure. Mouth sealed around the vulpine's shaft with his knot still pulsing at his lips, Lura had moved both paws down between his legs, one squeezing the base of his shaft while the other stroked fast and hard. He swallowed again, took in another short series of sharp breaths, drew halfway back along Markus's length, held there – and then suddenly stopped. Then another half-second later his entire body trembled and heaved, and he pulled himself back off of the foxwolf's shaft just as he spurted out across the grass between Markus's footpaws, rope after rope of thick white glittering in the dim light coming through the nearby window.

He went on for a while longer, regularly pumping at his shaft, squeezing out the last of his load until all that remained was small, loose dribbles. Panting, the otter slumped back against the wall, mouth open, eyes dazed; he looked up at Markus and gave a quiet, tired chuckle, which the foxwolf returned alongside an offered paw.

Lura wobbled to his feet, taking a moment to balance against him, and then fumbled with tugging his pants back up. “We should get back soon," he murmured; suddenly the sounds of the rest of the night seemed so much closer. Both looked over towards the trail hidden between the trees. “They'll likely be missing the life of the party."

“Yes, well…" Markus held onto the waist of his trousers with one paw, the weight of his still-hard shaft causing it to hang away from his body. Still it twitched with the beat of his heart, and at another pulsing throb another spray of loose liquid jetted out and across the grass, and the forgotten wineglass that he had knocked over in his urgency. “This will take a few minutes to, ah, go down."

“Well, then," Lura said, wiping at his mouth. Even though his eyes still showed a complete lack of color, now they seemed to carry just a little bit of a charismatic sparkle that hadn't been there before. “It's a good thing we have the rest of the trail. Your manor is quite sizeable."

“My mother was queen, for a time." Markus shifted his pants along his waist, tugged up so that the fabric caressed the skin of his sack and folded up around it towards his sheath – then grimaced at the bump and tug behind his knot. Carefully, gingerly, he managed to work his length in underneath the material, then shoved both paws into his pockets to keep it away from the hypersensitive flesh, tapered tip still squirting down his leg. Perhaps he would say he spilled his wine, if the stain showed.

“It shows. Both in the exterior and interior."

Remembering the night before gave him something to focus on other than the sizzling sensitivity and occasional twitch and throb through his pants. Markus cleared his throat and stepped as calmly as he could back through the trees, briefly peered through the bushes to ensure they could make a clean exit, and then alongside Lord Lura returned to the trail outside the house.

“So – how did you even get in last night? Assuming that was you."

The otter reached up and scratched at a spot on his neck, briefly showing the silver chain again. “Hmm. I simply followed you on your return to the manor." Grey eyes flashed up again. “Assuming that was you. Of course I'd heard of the Ghost of Oryon. Your border guards make sure to inform every carriage coming through the town."

Markus grimaced again. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Ah. I'll have to speak with Mother about that. She wants to keep it as… small as she can."

“She knows? And approves of your behavior?"

“No! Of course not. Well…"

Lura nudged him. “She's your mother, so you figure she at least suspects?"

Markus looked down at the smaller otter. The two stepped to the side of the trail to let another pair of partygoers past, one of them dropping into a curtsy before the son of the countess. “Yes," he answered, after the two had left earshot. “Knowing what she did alongside Father, when he was Scheherazade's advisor – and seeing how she runs Oryon now? Certainly she assumes."

“Mm. Advisor first, and then King second, if I remember right?"

Markus scoffed. “For seven years. I was eight when he was assassinated. I remember him, but neither fondly nor well."

“Royal blood isn't all it's reputed to be, is it?" Lura had his paw at his chin, one finger curled around towards nostrils flared in slow, steady breathing. Markus glanced over and noticed – that's the paw he used on me. He's picking through my scent. The realization scent another twitch of arousal through him, though by this point he had come nearly all the way back down. “Son of a King, now the son of a countess, to be wed to the daughter of a viscount. What a mess."

“Yes. Would you believe I would rather have nothing to do with the entire situation?"

“After tonight?" Lura looked him up and down, eyes lingering at the bulge still visible in his pants. “Yes. I would. But – ballroom door's just over here. Shall I go in with you, or shall we part here so as not to invite undue attention?"

Markus thought about that for a moment. A pair of guards stood at either side of the door, nodding their greetings to new arrivals, offering well wishes to those departing. The foxwolf's eyes followed those as they left, mentally noting them for later: even if he wanted no part of it, this was still his engagement ball, and to leave before the actual announcement of the engagement did not shine well on them.

“We go in together," he resolved. “Many saw us leave, and if we come back side by side then they can assume it is precisely what it was: just a walk about the manor grounds. I am speaking with a representative from – Ryalon, you said?"

Grey eyes caught the lantern light. Lura pursed his lips. “Rowan."

“Rowan." Around them blossomed the presence of the party again: all the lights, the voices wrapped in conversation, the music of the sextet, the tapping of toeclaws on the tile floor, the rustling of fur and clothing, the mixing, swirling weight of so many different scents and perfumes and musks swelling together. Markus's nose reflexively twitched. “Well, Lord Strade – may I call you Lura?"

The otter chuckled and in a low voice ventured, “After tonight? I'm inclined to let you call me whatever you very well please." His little tongue flicked out across his lips again. The foxwolf suppressed a sweet shiver. “Markus."

Education let him know that he should have been enraged by that, by some minor, houseless lord from Rowan referring to him, the son of a countess, without the proper titles or honorifics, but instead he found the effect to be quite the opposite. He held the otter's strange eyes, paws coming up to grasp his; they were warm and soft, just as he had felt there behind the trees up against the exterior wall of the manor, and-

“Markus. Markus."

A familiar voice cut through the din. Ears perked, he lifted his head and saw there, striding through the parted waves of the crowd like a stately thing of the deep, a cross fox vixen small of stature and slight in build who nonetheless commanded a more forceful presence than the manor's master of arms. Fur shining beneath her dress in huge swathes bouncing from the sleek black of lacquered ebony wood to the sharp orange of a liquid flame, Markus felt himself draw back as she approached, though Lura alongside him remained steady.

Azura Kalla, Countess of Oryon, previous Queen of Maldeth, his mother, drew up before him and tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes.

“We've been waiting for you," she went on without any further introduction. Golden-amber eyes flicked over towards Lura beside him, standing respectfully with his arms behind his back and head up, his own gaze focused somewhere above and behind the Countess's shoulder. “It's time for the announcement and engagement. Rhea is waiting. We spoke about this."

Enjoyment turning to exasperation, Markus scanned the crowd. Everyone was looking at him. “Yes, Mother, my apologies, I was just-"

Lura bowed to the degree precisely proper for Azura's station. “Showing me around the manor grounds, Your Excellency. Lord Lura Strade, of Rowan." He straightened at the waist, then smiled at each of them. “And I was just leaving. Lord Kalla, trust I shall find you before the night is out; we have more to discuss."

Both of the Kallas watched as he slid back into the crowd and seemed to disappear. Azura shifted her posture, sighed gently, and leaned in closer to Markus – then paused, twitched her nose, frowned a little bit.

“You're covered in – what is this? Leaves?"

“Oh. Yes." Markus forced a chuckle. “Changing of the seasons, I suppose. You know."

She tilted her head up, nostrils flaring. “And you smell like…"

His heart thumped. “Mother, it's a party. I couldn't tell you what half the smells in here are."

Sharp golden eyes appraised him a moment longer, and then the older vixen huffed and turned on a footpaw. “Yes. Come with me. Aurelia will prepare you while I give the speech. You do remember the steps, right?"

On the way to the other halls he answered his mother's question with all the grace and respect he could muster, despite how annoyance and exasperation continued to simmer within his belly. At least, he figured, this means that the night will soon approach its end. Aurelia met him at the door to his quarters along the second floor of the manor, the countess's assistant, advisor, right hand, mistress of the house, et cetera, et cetera, bowing her head to the foxwolf who technically outranked her for his heritage.

“Mother-" Markus complained, “I can dress myself-"

“Not in formal dress, you can't. I've seen your attempts. Besides, Ellie's been dressing you since you were a pup. One more night of it isn't going to kill either of you."

The sleek, slim wolfess smirked as she opened the door to his quarters. She hailed from the far southeastern region of Dorian, all coastal highlands wedged between skies and seas equally grey and turbid, and generally kept to herself or to Azura in equal portions. Doriani wolves generally displayed a sleeker shape of body and muzzle than their Alenari cousins – Markus's family, on his father's side – and lighter coloration: Aurelia's shifted back and forth between smooth winter ice and then snow-dusted gravel, but never deeper. She had silvered a bit over the years, which if anything had only embellished her appearance. Azura never appeared in public without her, and it was her counsel that the Countess sought first and foremost.

She was as much a fixture in the manor as, simply, the rest of the manor. Markus rolled his eyes and stepped into his champers, then turned and held still to allow the wolfess to remove his more casual garb, though it likely costs more than what half of the townsfolk make in a year, he thought, and then help him into the stately, proper formal attire in which he would remain for the rest the night. Aurelia's proximity as family doused any and all concerns of any embarrassment occurring here, but still he noticed that she, too, wrinkled her snout when tying the laces at the hem of his shirt, and her nose twitched as though she had caught some strange scent on the air.

After another fifteen minutes she swept him over towards the full-length mirror to look himself over. Sharp shoulders and sleek lines, fitting his form where the slenderness of fox swept in, caressing the wider joints and sharper angles where wolf shone through. Rich orange cloth draped down over his shoulders and cinched at his waist, while shimmering scarlet velvet hugged his legs; cool yellow sash, belt, accoutrement and embellishments.

He looked ridiculous. But, he understood, that was part of being the son of a countess. And, he realized with a sigh, being a Count. He nodded his thanks to the Oryon attendant, adjusted the fit of his shirt collar, and took a moment to steady his breathing. There had been practices both in the various etiquette courses his mother ensured he took, as well as in the sparring and weapons classes hosted by the master of arms…

“Alright," he resolved, and when he opened his eyes it was the Oryon Ghost unmasked who looked back at him in the mirror. Confident and self-assured, broad shoulders thrown back to gladly bear the weight of his own reputation, tail swept down and to the side, posture relaxed yet still ready. “Thank you, Aurelia. Is there anything else?"

The wolfess nodded towards the vanity at the other wall. “The rings, my lord."

“Really? We have to do the rings?"

Amusement once more flashed across her muzzle. “It is an engagement, Lord Markus. Of course we have to do the rings. And you do remember the steps?"

“Yes," he huffed, crossing the room, “I remember the steps. You two made sure to drill them into me so that I can't help but do them in my sleep."

“Would you like to practice one more time before you go out there?"

He glared at her. “No, but I would like to ask Mother if she's considered getting a new assistant."

The Doriani's sweet little chuckle followed him out of the room, paired rings in his pocket, the foxwolf going over the dance in his head on the way back to the ballroom. His fiancée-to-be would surely have been instructed in the same motions: it was less the words and jewelry and more the tradition itself that sealed the engagement, between the two sharing the precise, specific course of their first dance together, in perfect sync despite never having done so before, from the first step to the last breath. Across all the times that Azura had overseen Markus's practice with Aurelia they had always omitted the final step of course, a simple twirl and dip, so as to avoid an implicit engagement to the mistress of the house.

It was all nonsense, and he didn't believe a word of it. But it was what his mother wanted and, even worse, what she expected, so he had to go through with it. By the time he pushed through the great doors into the ballroom almost all of Markus's practiced composure had simmered away back into that same annoyance. With effort he unclenched his fist from his side.

Rhea was waiting for him. Where he had had to change, she still wore the same outfit she had shown up in, and Markus had to admit it did look wonderful on her. The wolfess dropped in a curtsy with her head bowed, again to the degree precisely acceptable for the difference in station between the two of them; Markus also responded appropriately, being with an upward nod of the head before continuing across the ballroom towards her.

Already he had resolved how he would treat this whole debacle, which mattered to everyone else far more than it ever would to him. He stepped up towards her and looked her up and down, pretending that this was his first time seeing her for the sake of the show, then reached out, took her paws in his own, and led her right into the dance.

It was like the swordplay of which he was so fond, predefined steps malleable and adjustable based on context and situation, and he felt restricted, constrained from knowing he had to follow a specific pattern tonight. Less a conversation and more a play, an act: he performed his moves and Rhea performed hers, the ghost of amusement tickling at the corners of her lips, her tail swaying behind her both for balance and for display. Off to the side of the ballroom the sextet had picked up a new tune, the very same one that Azura ensured they always played during his interminable practices of the dance.

Swing to one side, then back in towards the center; twirl, twirl, part, twirl again; stuttered steps this way, smooth movement that, blending waltz and tango and certainly a few other types with which Markus was unfamiliar; then up towards the front, twirl again. He bit his lip, trying to stave off the frustration that had grown from a simmer to a boil. Rhea's paw drifted down to his waist, igniting an unfamiliar sweet shiver there; briefly knocked off-balance Markus stumbled and then caught himself, blinked, then moved her into the final steps.

The last twirl and then the dip, bringing his muzzle close to her neck, just bared beneath the ruff of her dress's collar. Again gardenia and pine, cool and sweet spiked with the bite of a wolf. Markus wet his lips, swallowed, let his breath out through his nose in a slow sigh, and then straightened back up. Then, just as smoothly, he untwined himself from her, dropped to a knee, and slid the ring box out of his pocket, one ear briefly flicking in the unattained fantasy of Lura having somehow pickpocketed them from him during the dance.

It was over in a minute. He recited the lines that had been drilled into him alongside the dance, Rhea had accepted in an equally emotionless tone, and the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, and then the night was over. With a sharp glance Countess Oryon reminded Markus that he was to stand by the door alongside his fiancée and wish everyone well on their departure.

It felt odd to stand beside Rhea. Still she was some unknown quantity in his life, this stranger he had never seen prior to letting her down from her carriage earlier in the night. The wolfess stood very slightly taller than him, her heritage evident in the shape of her face, the set of her shoulders, the angle of her muzzle, and in the array of colors visible across her arms: where Markus had inherited some of his mother's stark contrast of the cross fox though muted to browns and tans, Rhea displayed all the stone and soil tones of the classic Alenari.

“Thank you," the pair intoned time and time again to those less familiar faces departing the ball, who had likely shown up simply for the status of doing so. “Have a wonderful night." “Farewell." Her manner of speaking was soft and reserved, almost deliberately pitched. Markus kept one ear perked her way.

Then Avi Arro, who bowed to each in turn while bubbling over like one of his sparkling wines. “Lord Kalla," he went on, “I'll contact your House upon my return to see about sending over a complimentary case of the 20, free of charge-"

That made his tail sway. He dipped his head. “Thank you, Avi. That would be delightful."

“-and Mistress Thorn-" The fox's ears flicked and he paused. “Ah. Excuse me. Lady Kalla-to-be, perhaps? You said your father enjoyed the sweet red? I'll reach out to the Viscount's aide and see what can be done about that."

“Your service is appreciated," Rhea offered, and nodded her farewell to the exuberant fox on his way out. Once he had left, though, Markus felt a slow sigh trickle out from the wolfess beside him. “Rhea Kalla," she mused, too high to be talking to herself, too low for anyone other than him to hear. “I'm not certain I like the sound of that."

Suddenly the rest of the room fell away. Markus became sharply aware of her presence here beside him, her warmth, her scent, her figure. Silver-blue eyes half lidded in nonchalance flicked his way, then looked back to the crowd of nobodies stirring around them.

“Rhea Thorn just sounds better," she went on, then swiftly switched back to that crowd-pleasing thank you that she had offered the other partygoers upon another passing by. Markus kept his ears perked waiting for more, but none came. Part of him thought about reaching over to entwine his fingers with hers, to take her paw in his own and give it a squeeze – but what would be the point? He didn't want to be here, and for the first time he realized that she didn't either.

That shone an entirely different light on the situation. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and straightened his back, looking back to the crowd as they passed by. “Yes," he finally managed, voice similarly low. “It does. I-"

Then a slight, sleek figure threaded through towards them, bearing brown fur and oddly colorless grey eyes against a warm smile. A puff of familiar aroma cradled around Markus's awareness, beating back the high, airy, perfumed touch that Rhea had spread about him. His nose tickled and he drank it down, flashing straight back to just earlier in the night up against the exterior wall of the manor, and-

“My lord and lady." Lura bowed at the waist, the front of his shirt pouching out around the weight of the signet ring borne inside. “Wonderful night. Pleased beyond words to witness the beginning of your union; surely only great things can come from such an arrangement. Lord Kalla? I shall be remaining in your lovely town through tomorrow, then departing in the evening right after sunset." Something glittered behind those eyes. The otter paused to wet his lips. “Along the southeastern road. Perhaps we shall meet again." He offered another bow to Rhea, then swept out of the room.

The wolfess watched as he departed. “Who was that?"

“Lord Lura Strade."

“Hm. I'm unfamiliar with a House Strade."

Markus was too, but he held this back. He also hadn't known that Avi Arro was from the same Arro family providing the wine.

“Of Ryalon?"

“Rowan."

“Ah. That explains it. The two are practically identical for accent." Rhea tapped her chin and pursed her lips. “You bear his scent, Markus. And he yours…"

Ice shot through his veins, then suddenly melted to liquid fire. His ears flicked and twitched under the phantom tickle of a blush. “We – went on a walk around the grounds."

“…particularly about the muzzle," she finished. “Not quite the part of your scent I'm familiar with, but close enough that I could fill in the blanks."

“I-"

Then she grinned, first to him and then to one of the last batches of visitors on their way out.

“So," she went on afterwards, the ballroom eerily empty and quiet after such an event, “show me around the manor?"

~ ~ ~

And so he had. Through the halls and across the various rooms, introducing them as he knew them – the kitchens, the annex for the servants' quarters, the barracks, out there's the courtyard, here the stairs – but keeping the most interesting bits for himself. Rhea did not need to know the presence of the false wall behind the tapestry outside the servants' quarters, nor the trapdoor in the back of the closet beneath the western stairs, nor did she need to see the courtyard itself. Azura had explained earlier that the entourage from Leyo would remain the night and then depart in the morning, and that under no circumstances was Markus to even attempt to bring her to his bed tonight.

Not that that was a worry. Rhea seemed as relieved to leave for her own quarters as he was, and when the foxwolf retired to his rooms he stepped out onto the balcony, looked out over the dark stillness of the courtyard below, and waited. No shape wove through the shadows tonight, though; no footsteps crunched along fallen leaves and rough gravel. With a sigh he straightened back up and began the arduous process of undressing from this formal wear.

Throughout the rest of the night the wolfess hadn't brought it up again – how she could smell him and Lura on each other. Markus hadn't even considered it, perhaps since there had been less risk on himself, but for the otter… standing before the mirror where Aurelia had dressed him earlier, the foxwolf shifted the coat off his shoulders, then undid his shirt button by button. Two minutes spent attacking the belt, then he shimmied out of his pants as well; the simple undergarment dropped at a slight touch, and as he ran one paw down across his belly to pick out a fragment of a leaf he closed his eyes, took in a breath, gently bit his lower lip… and pretended, imagined, remembered that one to be Lura's paw instead.

Fingers wrapping around the base of his sheath, other paw coming in to caress his sack from underneath; a squeeze at the supple lip of skin, pushing back across the slick, tapered tip, tightening there, drawing forward again. Wet sheath drew smoothly back and forth until his hips carried the rhythm through on their own, and bit by bit his length grew out into the air of his quarters. With the window open he could feel the gentle breeze tickling through his bare fur, and suddenly he was out there again beneath the trees, bent against the wall.

The mirror creaked as he leaned in against it, and his eyes flickered open just for a moment to see his own muzzle obscured behind the puff of breath misted across the glass. Markus widened his stance and bore down a little bit, paw already moving swiftly along himself; he swallowed open-mouthed, wet his lips again, and dove deeper into the scenario.

His head bobbing along me, his fingers squeezing and tugging… but what if I had pulled him back instead, and lifted him up, and – held him to my waist against the wall? What if I had tugged his pants down, and spread his legs around me, and lifted up, and…

Within minutes he had straightened up, bucked, and barely suppressed a panting snarl of need, body jerking on its own beneath another pulsing wave of pleasure. The foxwolf's claws scraped along the floor where he stood, and he wobbled in place as those peaks pounded through him – and out across the mirror in front of him, splattering it in foggy white streaks that quickly rolled down the smooth surface.

In his post-pleasure daze Markus looked over the mess, flung more of it off of his fingers, and then straightened the rest of the way up, chest heaving in steady panting. He looked down across himself, then forward at the mirror, then down at himself in the mirror, and reached that slightly sticky paw up to his muzzle. Definitely his own scent, so familiar after so many years with it; the thought had never quite struck him before, but his musk really did carry the same notes as his natural scent, only deepened, sharpened, broadened in so many ways. Like the scent of basil freshly cut from the garden, compared to that of the sprigs hanging in the kitchen to dry.

His ears flicked at a sound in the corridor. Realizing he was still standing completely naked and dribbling out onto the floor, the foxwolf padded over, threw the lock and bolt to ensure he would have no unwanted visitors, and then headed back over to draw the curtains and ready himself for bed. As he was lying down he made sure to remind himself of Lura's words:

“Departing in the evening after sunset, along the southeastern road. Perhaps we shall meet again."