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Markus tried not to scratch beneath the collar of his shirt again, after having struggled with the fitting of the outfit so much that he had had to call for the help of the carriage driver. As soon as he had stepped out, he could feel the difference in geography: the air smelled different, cooler, sharper, more stone and sea than forest and bayshoot; a certain, persistent chill lingered throughout everything, what he knew as humidity crystallizing into a slightly less pleasant wetness instead; and even with the sun having risen some two hands' breadths above the horizon, when he exhaled through his nose he could still see the little wisps of breath curling out into this thick air.

Wolves… he thought, tightening his collar, his cuffs, his coat. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Literally in my blood. Naturally his mother had arranged for regalia in House colors for his arrival, the gold, orange, and scarlet making him look like a walking flame, to say nothing of the ridiculous tassels and shimmering embroidery that both danced as he walked, striding up the smooth-cut stone steps towards the house. Unlike the Oryon house, the Thorn estate stood behind walls the same height as those that enclosed the rest of the city down below: Leyo had historically been an important trading hub between sea-facing Alenar and the rest of the continent, the first and only route by land that evaded having to ford the vicious river along most of the border.

That much he knew, and that was all he cared know. Something about a fertile economic corner here, wedged into the relatively small geographical span where four nations shared their borders – Alenar and Mora, which he had just crossed, and then to the east the smooth, low-lying grasslands of Loria a good hard stone's throw away, and then south of that the very edge of Maldeth… but no, he thought, bracing a paw on his thigh to continue up the stairs. I'm here instead. Do I just invite myself in? Am I technically, legally, family? I'm a Kalla. Until recently, and he gazed up at the small towers, the design of the house much more rugged, more functional and defensible than the vacation-home feeling of the Oryon manor, this literally was House Kalla. The Kalla house itself.

_ _

I'll be the only one here with the birthright…

“My Lord Kalla?"

The foxwolf jumped but tried to hide it. Reflexively he reached to scratch at his neck, then caught himself. “Yes?"

A white-furred fox, stout of stature – he couldn't tell if that was fur or flesh that rounded his figure – with paws clasped behind his back and ears held carefully upright bowed at the waist. “Very good," he intoned, then stepped up towards one of the great paired doors. The wood looked recently refinished. “The Right Honorable The Viscount Thorn and his daughter are expecting you. If you would follow me?"

Unbelievable. Markus nodded. “Lead the way." I may have to arrange for transportation home before night falls… “And my things?"

“I will collect them myself, my lord."

“Thank you…" and Markus waited for the servant's name, but received only a thin smile and a swish of the tail. “Where will I be staying?"

The doors yawned open to give way to a wall of warmer, thicker air inside, swirling with the kind of gentle, pleasant heat given off by carefully tended fires. It's spring, he thought, baffled; who runs a fire in spring? But tall ceilings, polished wood flooring, thick decorative tapestries hanging in the alcoves along the stone walls, reached out to greet him as the fox led him further into the house. At least that reminded him of home, though the spaces here on the ground floor of the house stretched wide open, enough to make even the luxurious furniture placed around seem measly.

“You are to have lunch with His Lordship, your fiancée, and their guests, and then you will be allowed to retire for the day."

I 'will be allowed'. Great. Good to know I need to have permission in what's essentially my own house. He swept his tail close around one of his legs, letting the movement redirect some of his restlessness. “Guests?"

“Yes. House Thorn – the literal house itself-" Markus grimaced behind the servant's back, “-connects with the guard barracks, and we also house the Ambassadors of Imports and Exports-"

“You have both?"

“Yes, my lord. I understand in your home, your mother the Honorable Countess manages such things?"

“Yes. She does. It stresses her out and I never see at her dinner."

“Indeed. Ah, we house two ambassadors within our walls," and the fox motioned for Markus to follow him around the next corner, “as well as any and all of their guests. Heads of trade, important diplomats, notable businessmen… have you perchance spoken with Avi Arro, of the Arro wineries?"

“Who hasn't?"

“Ah. Yes. Never have I heard a more truthful statement, my lord."

“Don't tell me he's here?"

“Just missed him, my lord. They are finalizing payment and delivery arrangements with his father, who is much more business-minded and much less… verbose, though he lacks the imagination characteristic in his son's mixtures; Rhea was quite pleased with the '20 offered at your engagement ball, and arranged for a special vintage to be made. With stormberry flavoring, my lord."

That actually made him pause. Markus frowned, and looked down at the shorter vulpine. “Stormberry?"

“Yes, my lord. Stormberry. They grow wild around here, rarely – better chances further north - and Rhea has taken to trying to cultivate them. She does love the, ah…"

“My brother calls it a zing," Markus finished. “They're a little sharp for me, usually. But the flavor's nice."

“Yes. They don't hold well under transportation, although the extra… zing… imparted over time is what a lot of consumers seek. I'm sure she would be pleased to share some of hers with you; when first harvested the sweet flavor is almost enough to overcome the mouthwatering sourness. Ah, here we are."

The fox strode up to another pair of double doors, flanked on both sides by dancing candelabra. The guard nearby stood at attention and, just as the servant had done, bowed at the waist.

Markus cleared his throat. “What should I expect?"

“Family, my lord. You are to live here as long as you desire. Make yourself at home, for it shall be your home."

“I mean for the food."

A white-furred ear flicked. “You have wolf in your blood, yes?"

“Yes." He tapped the side of his muzzle. “It's why my brother and I can't share shirts. My head is bigger than his."

“I would call it robust rather than big, my lord. But yes; you are a wolf, as are they." There was that thin smile again. “You will enjoy lunch." And he stepped back to throw open the doors, announcing as he did so: “His Lordship Markus Kalla ef Solm Maldeth, son of The Right Honorable Countess Azura Kalla of Oryon."

_ _

Markus had no idea what to expect. The dining room instead stood about the same size as the ballroom back at the Oryon Manor, with a single grand table waiting in the center. There were twice as many chairs as there were occupants, and in one sweeping gaze the foxwolf took in Lord Volo Thorn himself, Rhea at one side and then a broad-shouldered vixen he assumed to be the Viscount's advisor at his other; then a few seats down an older fox, the very image of Avi Arro from the engagement ball, had twenty years advanced in the three weeks since that night; and past him an assortment of others, likely his business entourage from the winery, including another otter of all things, this one dressed in what Markus could only assume was the colors of House Thorn given the tapestries and other decorations, bent over a sheaf of papers with the Arro fox.

A creak echoed about the room as Lord Thorn rose from his seat, wineglass held aloft. “Your lordship," he called, voice rich and full; he was well-built even for an Alenari wolf, easily twice as wide as Markus with likely three times the muscle. He held himself with his back straight, his ears perked, and his shoulders back, his blocky muzzle strong and full.

Though he maintained an open expression of welcome, Markus picked out the little flicker right then and there, the same way his mother looked at him: with much expectation, and little hope.

“We are pleased to host you at our table and beneath our roof," the older wolf went on. Beside him Rhea peered at the visitor over the rim of her glass, silver-blue eyes catching the light of the chandelier overhead. “My home is yours, for as long as you may desire it."

“Thank you – your lordship," Markus finished, stumbling over the pointless honorific. He tried to keep his tail from flicking. “Pleased to be here."

“Pleased that you have had a change of heart," Lord Thorn continued, retaking his seat. He grunted as he sat down, then waved to the servants by the back entrance of the room. “Lady Azura has informed me that you have been reticent to – ah, but that is a conversation for another time. We were just settling business matters with Lord Arro, you see…"

“Yes," said Markus, stepping forward towards an empty seat. One of the servants, a slim, sleek cheetah, strode up and pulled out the chair beside Rhea. “The… white fox who greeted me… informed me as such. Stormberry, I hear?"

“It won't work," called Arro from halfway down the table. The old fox leaned forward. “Avi's a dreamer, and his productions have soul but lack sense. You're familiar with the fruit, yes, Markus?"

First name. The foxwolf nodded his thanks to the cheetah and slid in beside Rhea. She smelled as she did at the ball: gardenia blooming in the depths of the woods, wrapped around the sweet, peppery spice of unbridled wolf. Markus did not quite want to look her in the eyes.

“With the candy," he said, then murmured thanks as a full plate was set down before him. Rich, intoxicating scent of roasted meat tickled his nose; there was rosemary, and sage, and another, brighter, almost pungent touch underneath. “My brother Mercutio appreciates it."

“Bah. The candy. Sweetened beyond compare because the fruit is far too sour to be palatable otherwise." Arro took a sip of the wine, likely one of his own. “The acidity will ruin the culture. But it's your money, Lord Thorn, not his, so I-"

“Lord Arro," Rhea interjected, her voice sharp, clear like a mountain stream. “You forget that it is also my idea, not your son's."

The fox fumbled to a stop. “My apologies, my lady, I was simply-"

“Pardon him," the wolfess rumbled to Markus, just loud enough for everyone else at the table to hear. “I'm to understand that his winery's experiments with the fruit have treated it identically to their usual stock in grapes. So he simply has never learned that, harvested early and particularly in a cooler climate closer to its origin, the intense…"

“Zing?" Markus offered.

“…zing for which it is known, is almost entirely neutralized by the sweetness-" She poked her fork towards the fox. “-naturally found in the candy. From the reputable producers, that is."

In the meantime Arro had bent back over the paperwork with the Ambassador beside him. Markus looked from fox to wolfess and back, then focused in on his meal again. What have I gotten myself into? he thought, knife sinking first through the roasted crust – and then much more smoothly along the half-cooked flesh inside. Glistening, greasy juice oozed out onto the bed of vegetables underneath; when he lifted a piece free a single white tendon pulled, tugged, then broke, and hung limp like a desiccated worm.

His stomach rumbled. The smell was divine, all sharp, meaty richness, salt and spice and flavor. The cook had left the bone in each slab of meat as well, marrow liquefied to a jelly; beside him Rhea, posture prim and proper, not a strand of fur out of place, picked the eye of the bone out along the blade of her knife, hooked her fork along the inner rim, then lifted that to her maw-

-and Markus recalled his fantasy in the carriage, thick saliva-spattered feral lips curling back to show glistening pink gums and broad, sharp fangs yellow-white in the light, the smooth, flat muscle of the tongue pinching up at the corners, coming forward, and swirling around, leaving strings of sticky, frothy white where they went-

-and the wolfess placed the now-emptied bone back down along the edge of her plate, her tongue flicking out over her lips once more to catch the remnant dribbles of flavor. She swallowed, audibly so, then dabbed the folded napkin to her lips – and over the fabric glanced at Markus. Gentle, curious questioning shone behind her eyes.

He focused back on the meal again. The conversation rose and fell throughout, Lord Thorn inviting Markus to discuss various points of running a county with him, though quickly discovered that this was nearly a pointless endeavor. Neither did Rhea have anything more to say, instead picking her way smoothly around the meal, waving down the attending servants for a refill of wine – which of course drew Arro's attention, and Markus at least enjoyed hearing about the differences in the wine – but still the foxwolf found his appetite waning, and before long folded his own napkin over what he had left behind.

When he pushed his chair back he promptly bumped into another servant who had come up from behind. He glanced back, muttered an apology, looked to the table, looked back again, frowned; “do you… need something?"

The servant blinked, surprised, then motioned towards his plate. “I may take that for you?"

Markus glanced back down. “Oh. Oh, yes. Please. Um-"

Lord Thorn was watching him from the end of the table, paws clasped in front of him, eyes tired yet still attentive. He nodded slowly. “You may retire for the day, your lordship, should you so desire," he rumbled. “Your things are in your quarters, and I believe you'll find everything to your liking. If not, feel free to ask one of the attendants, and they'll sort everything out with our master of the house."

“Thank you." Markus bowed again. “I am in your debt."

The older wolf waved him off. “Not at all, not at all. As I said, this is your house as much as it is mine."

“Ah-" Markus's ears flicked down to the sound of the servant swiping the half-empty plate away. “Actually, my lord, I was wondering if I could… explore, the grounds?"

Thorn glanced up at him, as did his daughter, and Arro, and the Ambassador. The wolf cleared his throat. “Explore?"

Did I say something? Markus shifted. “Yes. Familiarize myself with the manor and grounds." He paused. “If you would so permit."

“Of course, of course." Lord Thorn raised a paw again. In a flash of light there Markus noticed his claws were painted, though could not see the color from here. “You would like an escort, I assume?"

“Actually, I… er, yes, an escort would be welcome."

Hopefully not the fox from before. Speaks too much. Gods, but there's so many servants here…

The slim cheetah at Lord Thorn's side bowed to hear his instruction, nodded, then swept smoothly around the table for Markus. Long, gentle fingers brushed at his elbow, and bright blue eyes bid him follow. So he did, and immediately the noise and clutter of the dining room closed behind the two of them, the unfamiliar space, unfamiliar voices, unfamiliar faces disappearing if only for the afternoon. The foxwolf breathed a sigh of relief, unknown tension simmering out of him as he strode at the cheetah's side.

“Stressful journey, my lord?"

Markus blinked. His voice was smooth, sweet, yet carried a certain tantalizing warm spice to it. “Aren't they all?"

“True, sir. Here we have the receiving room – House Thorn lacks the great hall one would expect in most manors, as it was the guardhouse that stood first with the manor then appended onto it. But it allows for those arriving from Loria to the east to enter the house directly, instead of having to trek through the city itself. Did the meal treat you well, my lord?"

“Hmm?" Now that he had the time, he looked over the tapestries throughout the halls alternating between what he could only assume to be the Thorn crest of arms – he still had not learned the proper heraldry; it looked to him like blue on the left and grey on the right, with a silhouette of a wolf's head craned back, mouth snarling open. Simple. Effective. Much more clear than the Kalla's 'crescent sun'… “Oh. Yes. It was…"

“I understand the taste for the meat itself," the cheetah continued, quietly, “but I personally would appreciate a bit more spice. Pardon if I say so, my lord, but you seemed a little… unsettled, by it."

“Hm? Oh. Oh, yes. It was delicious. I'm just – never too hungry after traveling. Oh – you come from Maldeth, don't you?"

Little teacup ears perked. The feline's whiskers came forward, then pinched smoothly back again. “Of course," he purred; “you do too, don't you?"

“Yes. But I barely remember it."

“The sand stays in your blood as much as it does your fur, my lord. Any other Maldethi would be able to see it in you."

“What brings you here? Surely it's far too cold in Alenar?"

The cheetah waved his arm around the next room, the wide annex connecting the various wings and the stairs leading up to the next floor as well as down to the insulated basement. “Year-round winter coat, my lord. My kind actually does quite well in colder environments. You are… of Doriani heritage?"

“Alenari. On my father's side. But you're probably seeing the fox in me."

“Aah. Thinner muzzle."

“And the sharper ears, the lighter coloration." He tapped the side of his muzzle, at the little dark marks near the roots of his whiskers. “But these usually give it away."

“Ah. My mistake."

“Not at all, not at all…" This one still says a lot, Markus thought, nodding along at the explanations of the house in between their conversation, but at least he is far more pleasant to listen to. Downstairs held the wine cellar – naturally kept stocked by the nearby Arro vineyards nearer the shore – as well food storage, then the servants' quarters as well; much of the house's first floor had been designed with optimal military and security movement in mind, the long, wide hallways connecting guardhouse to watchtower along the exterior walls, with the rooms in between slapped on as an afterthought.

The upstairs felt much more comfortable to the foxwolf, clearly designed more for cozy habitation. It smelled of wolf up here, strong and rich and a little disconcerting, a bit dizzying. Down this way held Lord Thorn's wing; over here was Rhea's quarters and those for 'honored guests', originally her mother's; then down and around the other wing of the house, overlooking the courtyard – far sparser, thinner, and less welcoming than the Oryon manor – the general quarters for other guests.

“You will be staying here," the cheetah explained, and opened the door for Markus.

“What, I'm not an honored guest?" He looked about the entry room, slightly smaller than his own back home, more sparsely furnished. The positioning of the window was better, though; he strode over and peered down over the sprawling courtyard, the trails set in paving stones snaking their way in and out of low brush, painfully tended flower gardens, evergreen trees. Off to one side was the bedroom, mattress suitably sized, with the washroom near the head; then the other must be the dressing room, and over there-

“Of course you are, my lord. But it's simply not proper for you to stay across the hall from your fiancée. She was overjoyed to hear you were coming, you know."

Markus paused in his inspection of the candelabra atop a table. “Was she."

“That is what I was instructed to tell you, yes."

Claws tapped along smooth silver, the metal cool in the late spring air, ridges and corners just beginning to curl over with dark tarnish. Markus turned, slowly, and looked the cheetah up and down: the feline also wore the House colors, mainly navy slashed with grey, struck through with shimmering black velvet embellishments. Curls of silver chiffon lined the sleeves, dancing lightly across the patterned fur beneath; those colors clashed somewhat with the servant's pelt, desert gold bearing twisting, airy shadows throughout. Feeling the investigation, those long whiskers twitched up, pulled back across the dark tear-tracks pulling down from the corners of the eyes, to the edges of the mouth quirked in a small, respectful, slightly amused smile.

Markus sighed through his nose. “What's your name?"

The cheetah blinked. “Name?"

“Yes. Certainly you have one?"

The feline's mouth fell open to show little needle-sharp teeth, sandpaper tongue, warm pink gums. He blinked again. “Doren. My lord. My name is Doren."

“Doren." Markus reached forward, took the servant's paw, and clasped it in his own. For a moment large claws pricked into his pawpads, then adjusted back. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. So far you are the only one to truly help make this place feel like home."

“Ah – honored, my lord." He bowed at the waist, tail lashing. “Is there anything else I might help you with? A tour of the courtyard, perhaps, or the – exterior grounds, or-"

“I can handle myself on those, thank you. But I do… I am wondering about one thing."

“Yes?"

“What do you know of – secret passageways, within this house?" The foxwolf couldn't resist smirking at Doren's expression. “Do not tell me there are none. This placed housed others of the Kalla family for generations. Of course it has some."

“I – apologize, my lord," long tail flicking to curl about his ankles, “there may be some, but I do not know of any."

Markus nodded. “Servants' passages?"

“Well, yes, but – it would not be proper for someone of your respected stature to-"

“No, no, I know. Thank you, Doren." He looked him over once more. “You may go."

The cheetah blinked, bowed, then turned to leave. Once he had gone Markus straightened up, peered about the quarters again, pulled in a breath… and let it back out, the air just as chill as when he had inhaled it.

So then, he thought, and shuffled over into the bedroom. His luggage rested at the foot of the bed, untouched. Here I am. I suppose it's up to me for how long, though. Did I really make the right decision? It was… on a whim, and I was upset, and…

And when he opened the first bag, the smooth, sweet scent of otter wafted up around him. He sank his paws into folded clothing cold with the mountain air, willing them to heat, to stir… to pulse, and breathe, and reach back out for him, short arms wrapping around his shoulders, stout muzzle coming to brush against his own. Eyes grey like the stones of House Thorn… but not actually grey.

The frustration welled back up, and with a huff he tossed his clothing back into the bag. He might not love – like – me at all. If he's willing to lie about so much, then where's the line? Everyone knows Mother used to be Queen of Maldeth. We only keep guards for the repeated theft attempts. And that's literally what I caught Lura – whatever he said his name was – doing, that first night.

_ _

How could I have been such a fool?

He reached forward, spread his paws out across the crisp sheets, pressed into the mattress. The material was different from what he had back home; thicker, drier somehow, a little bit less malleable. Less used; less slept-in; less loved. With effort he pulled himself up, scooted over to one side of the bed, fluffed the pillow beneath his head, and turned onto his side to peer across all the empty space.

Good, he thought after a moment, pulling closer to himself. I want to be alone. Just for a while. No Lura, no Rhea… no Mother, no Mercutio. I didn't even say goodbye to him, did I?

_ _

He'll understand. I'm sure. I'll write.

~ ~ ~

He awoke again in midafternoon groggy and disoriented, unfamiliar with his surroundings, the space, the arrangement, the scent. His quarters here were a near perfect mirror of what he was used to in Oryon; Markus stumbled over to the window half-asleep, realized this was a chest of drawers instead, and then turned to make his way over to the other side of the room instead. Outside things looked colder, not by much but still noticeably so.

Strange how much such a relatively small change can affect everything…

Unsure what to expect or how to fill his time, the foxwolf dressed in some of the extra clothes provided for him – mainly the coat to pull over what he already wore, slightly rumpled from his nap – and stepped back out into the halls. There he wandered back and forth, learning the layout and the different sections, finding out that Doren had left out at least three other stairways leading up and down in his quick tour; and the courtyard itself was unenclosed, opening out into a small hill that rolled down to overlook the rest of the city of Leyo itself.

Buildings cut from stones of various types and hues stretched out before him, the streets much slimmer as they snaked around the undulating land here between the mountains and the sea. A much older, much busier place, certainly an actual city instead of the small town in which he had grown up… Markus bundled the coat tighter around himself, trying to ignore the clash between Thorn colors and Kalla, and leaned his weight against the handrail here. His tail curled around his leg; his ears flicked back; his whiskers dropped forward, and he pulled in a breath, held it… tasted the swirling differences of the people, the salt of the sea slightly more nearby, the spice of bare stone, the smoky heat of the different food wafting up from the streets, the different species, the different foliage, the different everything.

Markus let that breath out. It wasn't quite cold enough outside to fog up in the still air here by the manor, but still he was glad for the coat.

Down there in the streets were doubtless thieves, doing whatever it was they did. Not storybook highwaymen, clad in mask and cloak, dipping back into a fencing posture with saber extended, more for show than use, but just regular people. Doing it out of necessity, or for fun, or to fund something or other, or just because… and what's wrong with that, really? he thought, resting his chin atop his paw. When I'm old, will anyone care that I used to be the Ghost? Will anyone even know?

_ _

Perhaps I could write about it. A collection of stories, like myths. That could help to spread the tale, too. I'll become a figure of legend that way, more than I already am. More than just a small annoyance to note in Mother's economic meetings. That could be fun, couldn't it? Where it's more of a performance instead of… a…

His tail slowed its wagging, then once more wrapped around his ankle. He sighed again and turned his head to peer down one of the streets visible from here.

But it won't, will it? I'm gonna end up as a stuffy old stuck-up Count, married to a wolfess I neither like nor even know, and will anyone care then? Or… He drummed his claws on the handrail, smooth wood regularly lacquered against the encroaching humid chill from the sea. No. I won't. That won't happen to be, because I won't let anybody guide my life other than myself. I'm gonna continue doing what I do, and Mother will have to find somebody else, and…

_ _

…and… what is she going to do about Lura? It's clear she knows more than she lets on. That talk was… just… Another sigh. His ears perked forward with an idea, then slid back once more. Testing the waters. Wanting to see what I knew. Perhaps she knows about the Ghost, too, and simply keeps up the façade for my sake. But if that's the case, then why even bother? Is she insulting me? Letting me do my thing so I don't suspect, but actually tightening the reins further?

That very same annoyance began to well up all over again. Markus discovered that his claws had pricked into the resin surface of the rail; he straightened up, huffed out into the afternoon air, and spun on his heel to stomp back into the manor, not even so much as nodding to the servant who had come out to keep an eye on him.

She's dangerous, isn't she? They all are, a little bit. I bet Lord Volo Thorn – he glared disdainfully at the crested tapestry, fluttering in the breeze from his stride – has plans for me, too, now that I'm here. Young, impressionable, irresponsible Markus Kalla. I'm not clay to be molded. Lura had the right idea, running away, hiding from everyone who knew him…

_ _

Perhaps I was too hasty. Perhaps…

_ _

Eventually the foxwolf found the library, and there pored idly through whatever was available to him. He could make neither heads nor tails of the genealogical texts, immediately losing interest when the blood left the country; Rhea apparently had a younger half-brother on her mother's side, though lacking the honorary nobility from a granted title, he earned nothing more than the two words of his given name and the date of birth.

For a moment Markus wondered what things would be like if he were born to a similar situation, as just another foxwolf from another village from somewhere else out in the world. What is it they even do? he thought, looking around the spacious room at the tall shelves, the carefully bound volumes, the small desks, the scribe and her assistant. Not read, certainly. Perhaps sit outside and spend all day weaving at a loom. Cutting and casting bricks from mud dredged from a nearby marsh. Working the fields, feeling the sun on your fur… but no.

_ _

Because I was born a Kalla. And what good is that when I want none of what it entails?

Just like his wanderings through the manor hallways Markus worked his thoughts into a circle, his hackles once rising and prickling out, then smoothing back down as his tail swayed with contentment, then back and forth again. He explored the sub-level of the building, accidentally poked his nose into one section of the guard barracks smelling richly of sweat and steel, admired the lesser-appreciated paintings and tapestries in the lower levels, then made his way back up to the domestic hallways on the upper floor as well. From there the foxwolf managed to make his way out to the balconies, many of them looping around the exterior boundary of the house to look over the city down below; the wind up there bit straight through his coat and clothing both, and as such he spent fairly little time before returning downstairs. At this point the succulent smells of dinner had begun to permeate the halls, and within another half-hour he found himself in a much smaller, closer, more comfortable dining room instead of the initial banquet hall.

Rhea had taken her dinner to her quarters. Hearing this pushed a wave of relief mixed with anticipation through the foxwolf, and he found he had quite an easier time relaxing when sitting a few seats down from the relatively silent Lord Thorn and the other attending individuals, whom he could only assume to be family but did not care enough to ask. Still they eyed him throughout the meal and murmured among themselves while Markus focused in on stripping the meat from a rack of ribs bathed in a thick, sticky sauce that he could smell on his whiskers even after cleaning his plate, and then he was off to his own devices once more.

Perhaps… and as he passed by one of the hallways he slowed to a stop, paws in his pocket, tail swishing around him. But no; he had left his mask and saber at the Oryon manor.

Idiot. Markus sighed and continued on his way. Maybe I could find someone to spar with. One of the guards… well, no, that'd likely be too much. And it's getting late. Tomorrow, then. So I suppose I just…

Not only were the surroundings unfamiliar, but he quickly discovered the difficulty of compounding this with trying to sleep alone once he returned to his quarters. The mattress felt wrong on his back and shoulders, and every time he threw his arm out expecting it to wrap around a warm, dense body, there was nothing but more open, chill space. Each time he opened his eyes, the light of the moons cast across his muzzle from the window had shifted slightly; tonight only Big Sister was visible in the sky, poking out from the edge of the window at the time the foxwolf peered over at it. Down below the city twinkled just like stars overhead.

I wish he were here, he thought, over and over, and then tried to push the feeling away. I shouldn't have told Mother that I don't care what she does with him. I do. I really do. Is that so bad? What happened? I just wished that we had… spoken about it more, I suppose. I wish it had come up earlier. The foxwolf balled his paw into a fist and pressed it to his forehead. That would have made it easier. Then I wouldn't have been so shocked, so… deceived. Here I am, Markus Kalla, nobody else. I can never be anyone else, as much as I might want it.

_ _

…Could I be wrong?