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“What's wrong, my lord? Is everything alright?"

The cheetah's eyes flashed back and forth across Markus's torn, dusty clothing, his rumpled fur, the scrapes along his arm and muzzle as he stormed back through the hall, not caring that he dragged his sword along the floor. Doren hustled to keep pace with him.

“What happened? Were you accosted?"

Accosted. He scoffed and continued walking, but slowed a bit so that the feline would have an easier going. Right. That's what happened. I'll report this to Thorn and demand that this wolf be brought in. So what if he's noble? I'm the son of a Countess. My word weighs heavier than his. I'll have him brought in and punished; I'm engaged to the Viscount's daughter. They can't tell me no. I can use my power and position, and I'll – I'll…

_ _

Gradually he slowed further, then finally stopped there in the lower annex of the hallway. Markus took in a breath of cool mountain air, filtered and scented with the essenced fires running throughout the manor, the touch of servant and noble wolf, lacquered wood and tanned pelt.

_ _

…I'll throw a tantrum, like some… petulant child. 'I don't know who you are,' he said, 'and I don't care to know.' And after he leaves, he'll forget about me in another few days, and then what good will this title and birthright of mine be?

When he lifted his head he saw Doren before him, the cheetah standing with his paws up and slightly out towards him, as though he wished to touch but held himself back. Worry zapped through the sleek, feline features; his little teacup ears flicked back and then came back, and his long whiskers slicked back against his muzzle as well. He tilted his head.

“A…" Doren cleared his throat. “A bath, perhaps, my lord?"

“I don't fancy wandering through the town at this time of night."

“Oh! Of course not. We have some of the springs rerouted here to the lower levels. We can provide your choice of oils and salts, whether you would prefer an attendant or not, towels or air-dry… Rhea does quite enjoy the special bubbling soaps, so his lordship the Viscount keeps much of that in stock…"

Is this genuine concern? Markus thought. While the cheetah rambled on he perused the cat's features, watching his eyes, the corner of his mouth… his shoulders. He had lowered his paws and now kept them clasped behind his back. How… strange.

“A bath sounds delightful," he finally conceded. Doren trailed off. “Lead the way?"

Still he felt out of place within these halls, though, as he walked behind the servant. By now he had learned his way around the manor, and the smells and sights let him know that he had returned to a place he could call home, but so far it still didn't quite feel like it. Markus raised his shoulders, shook himself out, and shifted his borrowed blade to his other paw.

I'm in a den of wolves, he thought, following Doren around the corner, down another flight of stairs hewn into the bedrock of the valley, around another corner into halls that completely lacked windows. The air hung thick with the scent of torch smoke leavened with dried herbs. Literally, in fact. Here there's danger around every corner, and I'm too thick to recognize it until it's already got me by throat. A trap was laid, and it caught a foxwolf – this is exactly what Mother wants, isn't it? I pushed Lura away and ran to Rhea, and now I'm here, and… and I don't know what I'm doing. I'm lost. I'm alone.

_ _

And I… could really use that bath.

_ _

“This way, my lord. Would you like me to-"

“Yes." Markus held one arm out. “If you would please."

He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, tilted his head slightly back, just as Aurelia had guided him for the fitting. These weren't those clothes, of course, but still it was much the same: Doren's deft, confident paws danced across him, undoing the buttons and clasps, unlacing other fastenings, drawing slack into the folds here and there, folding the fabric away.

Half Alenari mountain wolf and half red fox meant that Markus had a lot of fur: Doren took a half-step back as he worked with his shirt, Markus now dropping his arms down to the sides to allow the sleeves to tug off. The cheetah slid around to his side and then his back, carefully brushing his tail aside; Markus couldn't help but let it curl back around him, and felt the cheetah stiffen up a little bit at the touch.

What does he smell like? he thought, again closing his eyes, tilting his head over his shoulder a bit. There's the smoke from the torches… they have them burning with sage, mostly, and… a little bit of sandalwood, I think that is… and then Doren is…

A shiver vibrated up his body when those slim fingers tickled at his lower back, just above the base of his tail. Reflexively he arched there, pushed back, bumped against the cheetah again, felt him draw back – and then shivered again when the touch returned to his waist. His paws came around to the front, found the knot in his belt, began working at it-

Doren coughed quietly. “Is this – alright, my lord?"

Markus nodded. “Mhmm." He pushed himself back a little bit further, then opened his eyes again and looked around the space for the first time. The servant had brought him to an alcove within the hallway, heavy doors spaced out along the other wall at regular intervals; underneath the torches he could also discern the slightly sulfuric scent of the spring water, also strung through with scented oils. “In fact, if you'd like, you could…"

A little flutter of the heart, a flick of the ear, the slight lurch of anxious nervousness – and Markus brushed his paw across Doren's wrist already there in front of him, gripped gently… lowered him down further, just as his pants fell. The thumb hooked around the back of his sheath and nestled into place there; the fingers cupped around his sack, pressed gently into the soft fur and supple flesh, squeezed in towards his body. The foxwolf breathed out a low, shivering sigh.

Doren allowed his pants to drop down to his ankles, then slid his other paw in as well. The first shifted down to rest Markus's balls within his palm, while the second teased in with a forefinger and thumb around the rim of his sheath, squeezing, rubbing, pinching just enough that his hips reflexively bucked. “You would appreciate accompaniment, then, my lord?"

“I… would…" and he rested his weight back against the slim cheetah, Doren's muzzle lining in along his shoulder. A little bit of spice, there, Markus thought, inhaling slowly. I noticed that the first night, I think. What did he say about the desert? Any other Maldethi could tell? Not quite sand, not quite cinnamon, but… a dry scent, and warm, and a little bit of a tickle, and… He bucked again, drew in a breath through flared nostrils, let it back out again. “Should we – move into the room?"

“Whatever you would prefer, my lord."

“I'm asking your knowledge and advice, Doren."

“In which case I would tell you yes, my lord."

And so he did, stepping forward to brush out of the cheetah's gentle yet firm grasp. Fingers brushed back across his sheath and sack again, flesh beginning to stir and plump; Markus looked down the dim hall one way and then the other, then strode across, swung the door open – inside simmered the thin steam of the spa, similarly lit by low-lying candles twirling out columns of scented smoke – and stepped in. The cheetah followed soon after him, head down and eyes averted, though with his ears up, whiskers forward, tail still except for a persistent flick at the tip.

Markus crossed his arms in front of his chest and stood, deliberately showing off his nudity, loving the way that Doren glanced again and again but tried not to stare. “You're excited for this?"

Those little ears flicked again. Doren straightened up, met his eyes, realized what he had done, glanced away again. “I – my lord, I…"

Up against the stone wall stood a reclining bench, similarly carved from smooth, soft stone. Markus stepped over to it, reached down to touch it; despite the general chill around, the still, thick weight of cavern air hanging down along everything, the stone itself warmed his fingerpads. He swung his tail to the side, sat back on it, pulled himself up… then sprawled back, let one leg hang off the edge, reached down to scoop his sack and sheath along his thigh so that they jiggled in coming back down.

Across the room Doren shuffled, a little uncomfortable. Markus paused in fondling himself: the pitch of the ears, the movement of the tail, the position of the whiskers, all of these read to him as interest and desire, but then… how he held his shoulders, the look in his eyes when he did meet the foxwolf's, the slow step across the stone as he approached. Doren wet his lips, offered a smile, dropped to his knees, slid to the side; he reached up with one paw, brushed through Markus's fur with those delicate, deft fingers, swallowed again, parted his lips…

“Hang on."

Markus drew himself up, deliberately moving so that when he draped his legs over the side of the bench, he sat alongside Doren instead of around him. The foxwolf rubbed at his muzzle with one paw and dropped the other between his legs to cover himself.

“I'm being a fool," he went on. “This isn't your responsibility, and neither should I expect you to do this with me. I-"

“My lord, I did offer, and-"

“I don't want to disrespect you, Doren, and…"

“Lord Kalla," said with a little, breathy laugh, “it's my duty to serve you. Please, let me-"

“Not if you don't want to."

“But-"

Doren straightened up again, fingers gripping the rim of the bench. He licked his lips, looked up at the foxwolf, then tilted his body, grabbed one of his footpaws, drew it up between his own legs – and Markus felt the firm heat of the cheetah's similar arousal throbbing there beneath his clothing. He grinded forward, let out a shaky sigh, drew back again.

“I do want to. My… station simply prevented me from saying anything." Then he released his footpaw and squirmed in along himself a bit. “And even now, I know I step too far in asking without asking…"

What am I supposed to do? Markus thought, the warmth of that touch still tingling along his bared pawpad, his toes remembering the sensation of the firm, virile twitch. He chewed his lip, looked to the side, brushed a paw out along the stone… and then slowly dropped his other away from himself, and reclined again. Then the foxwolf scooted forward, far enough to roll onto his side; in front of him Doren perked up, brought himself forward, reached out to touch, paused.

Markus nodded his approval, then closed his eyes… and sighed as the cheetah's paws resumed their work. Slow and tender, careful yet still confident, fingers slid up between his sack and his thigh, squeezed softly, tugged at the slack skin between there and his sheath; the other came up and resumed at his lip, forefinger and thumb pinching just slightly, then tugging the supple, slick skin back, just far enough that his nerves tingled and twitched and he jerked his hips forward. Then again, and again – and he felt soft, warm breath shivering out around him, a gentle swish of inhalation… and Doren closed the distance to him, lips pursing against his tapered tip, then pressing in so that his sheath bunched up against itself.

And Markus sighed and relaxed where he lay, his mouth falling open, one paw drifting out to grip between the cheetah's ears. He couldn't help but rock himself in rhythm with the movement of his head, tongue sliding out to swirl around him, slipping out from within his sheath to trail down towards his sack and then back up. Doren bobbed slowly, coaxing him out further, drawing him along as he went; the cheetah's breaths puffed out in hungry little sighs as he worked, and his paw squeezed in at Markus's thigh for support, and the foxwolf could hear his eager enjoyment in his breath and the little moans that worked their way out of the corners of his mouth.

Then the servant drew back, wiped his mouth, swallowed, and glanced up at Markus. When he met his gaze Doren motioned down at himself. “My lord, may I-?"

A little flutter of excitement punched through the foxwolf. He sat up a bit. “You may."

Doren stripped down smoothly, easily, efficiently. Recognizing that he would be the focus of this show, he turned himself halfway to the side, let the fabric of his shirt drop down one shoulder while he worked at the fastenings, turned further… and bit by bit revealed to Markus the plaint-splotch array of shadow speckles across his golden fur, his spots arranged seemingly at random yet still guiding each other down along his arms, his back towards the base of his tail… around his rump, along his legs.

His pants dropped as well, and then he turned himself to face the foxwolf and stepped out of them. Cream-colored sheath and sack hung in the cool, humid air of the spa, the lip of the former pouching out around his full arousal, luxurious pink tapered to a point, glistening wet, textured with the soft little barbs characteristic of his species.

Markus waved him forward. Doren dutifully approached, paws behind his back, shoulders relaxed; his balls bounced as he walked, shifting from one side to the other, as did the heft of his shaft.

“My lord," he murmured, then stiffened in reflex when the foxwolf's fingers wrapped softly around his sack from underneath. “Surely you would-"

“Mhmm," Markus breathed, and with that tender leverage tugged him forward again. Doren stumbled, braced a paw on his shoulder, jerked it back. “I would…"

Different smell. Sweet almost, still with that heady richness and warm acridity; lulling, intoxicating, invigorating. Markus swallowed, mouth open, and snugged his nose into the soft divot between sheath and sack, then drew up from there: the barbs across Doren's length folded and shifted beneath his touch, soft and pliable, more like little folds of calloused skin rather than true spikes. He took them across his lips, felt them brush and bend and gently poke, then slid his tongue out, tasted them, dug further.

Above him the servant shuddered. His tail flicked behind him, then curled around his ankle; his paws splayed out in the open air, seeking something for support, unable to find it; he tilted his head back with his mouth hanging open, gasped, sighed. “Ah – Lord Kalla, I've… never…"

Markus half-opened his eyes, glanced up, and dove down further, until the slick skin of the cheetah's sheath bunched and folded against his lips. “Mmh," he replied, then closed his eyes again.

What a taste, he thought, what a scent, unlike any I've had… but still undeniable in what it is. He turned his head to the side, swallowed, felt the characteristic sticky slickness coating his throat; one paw on the servant's waist, he dropped the other between his legs, fondled his own sheath and sack, resumed stroking. Although, is this really the first time he's-?

Doren shivered again, one paw coming out, fingers splaying apart. He shivered, shook, then balled it into a fist and dropped it to his side again. Markus bobbed his head in rhythm now, tongue swirling out across and around those barbs, slipping just slightly beneath the rim of his sheath; then he came up, swallowed again, and opened his eyes, daring the cheetah to look at him. Doren did so and then immediately looked away again, embarrassment touching his gentle features; he half-raised that paw to his chest, unsure what to do with it-

-so Markus reached up, seized it, and forced the servant to press it down against his head, and coaxed him into guiding his rhythm there. Unsure fingers dug into soft, thick fur, shaky as though Doren feared touching the foxwolf this way might burn him. Then Markus dove down again, and brought him into the back of his throat, and cupped his shaft in his tongue and suckled, and his body shook with the pace of him pawing at himself, and finally that grip tightened.

Just like the first night I met Lura… Markus thought. He wrenched his eyes shut a little tighter, dove down until his shoulders bucked, held there, drew back. Got a taste of him before I really got to know him. Or was that mostly him…? Gods, but it's been hard to feel that good since then, even when…

Again he drew back to the cheetah's tapered tip, held himself there, swirled his tongue back and forth, swallowed again. Markus parted his lips, sighed out, dove down again.

I forgot about it. On the ride over, in the carriage, that… dream about Rhea. Or, it wasn't really Rhea, but… wolves in the woods, and then there was her, and… but the way she smells; it's everywhere, I can't get away from it, and the more time I spend in it the more it… seems to… Again he swallowed, tasted the rich spice of feline musk smeared across his tongue, drew back, let his tongue flop out of his mouth as he panted. Still he stroked at himself, though found the energy, the enjoyment, gradually dwindling.

The warmth of Lura's tongue and mouth against him, on his upper lip, his neck, his shoulder… his chest, his belly, the lip of his sheath, that spot just behind his sack. Short, webbed otter fingers pushing through his fur, bearing none of the fear or hesitation of a house servant touching the son of a Countess. Even just thinking about the otter sent another jolt through Markus's body, and he shifted both his paws to Doren's waist, tugged the cheetah in against him, and dove down until his nose pressed into trimmed pubic fur and he breathed deeply of his warm musk, when he could breathe.

It was just something about the touch, the closeness, the familiarity… even though I suppose I barely know him, and at this point there's little to be done about that. Markus drew back again, flicked his tongue around his lips, sighed out. He could taste Doren on his breath. And then Rhea? The way she looks at me, the way she speaks to me, it's like I'm… like I belong here, too. I suppose I do, in a way. And then she-

Then another flash of quick thought: Rhea waiting there for him out in the hallway, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Rhea bending forward in her quarters tending to her plants, gaze focused, lips just barely parted in concentration.

Markus imagined running a paw up along her arm, feeling the way her fur angled itself along the way, how the silken velvet of her pelt smoothed beneath his touch. The way she turned her paw to grip his, how she would tilt her head to peer at him with that half-smile, affectionate warmth buried beneath a constant judging, an ever-present appraisal, as though always daring him to do something else, something more.

And then in the dream when she had taken his muzzle in her paws, and leaned in, and spread her legs around him, and sank down onto him, her breath catching in her throat from the sensation, Markus's back arching underneath her…

The foxwolf wiped at his mouth, sighed, and then sat back, only there was nowhere for him to go. Doren's paw dragged along his head and then dropped in front of him, and then the cheetah, dazed, opened his eyes and looked down at him, hips still thrusting into the open air. Then the self-consciousness swept in against him like a wave: the servant blinked, glanced down, blushed, and shifted where he stood.

“M-my lord?"

“Thank you. Doren." Markus avoided meeting his eyes, braced his paws on his knees, and rose to his feet. He brushed past the cheetah towards the bubbling surface of the bath. “I think I can handle it from here."

“Is everything-"

He raised a paw to dismiss him. “I can handle it." The heat of the water seared in through his fur, the oils already working their way through to the skin underneath; Markus tilted his head back, breathed out another sigh, and continued to step further in, letting the water brush up across him like so many more fingers, sinking into and around these sweet, sensitive spots. “Thank you. Goodnight."

And he waited until the servant had dressed himself and closed the door to look back into the room. Just me, he thought, and took in a breath of the steam-thick air. Still he could taste cheetah on his breath. What happened? I'm still – worked up. Why didn't I…?

But as he sank deeper into the water, one paw flat against his lower belly, the other sliding between his legs, he danced back through those thoughts and memories and new, fresh imaginings. Markus tilted his head to one side, imagining soft breath and sharp little mustelid teeth nipping at his neck; he swallowed, pretended that instead of cheetah, this was the rich sting of otter smeared across his lips and coating the back of his throat; and as he felt himself, paw squeezing, sheath tugging, nerves tingling, he found some of that energy to sear back through him.

The water itself slowed his movements somewhat, his paw having to slosh back and forth beneath the surface, his shaft warm within the weight of the bath. If he were still here… he thought, and spread his legs further, imagining the other male to straddle his lap, paws on his shoulders, and then sink slowly back. He imagined his hips rocking atop him, the familiar tense squeeze of tight tailhole around him, the suck and slurp of luxurious wet meat sleeving snug, paired with that irresistible urge to press up deeper, faster, harder…

And still it fizzled away from him, shaft already retreating into his sheath, unswollen knot remaining as such. Markus wet his lips and sighed, ran the pad of his forefinger beneath the lip of his sheath, tugged it up in the water, and dropped it again.

What's wrong with me? Slowly he sank down further, until just the top half of his muzzle remained above the surface. Mother was right, I suppose. I really don't know what it is I want. And then Rhea said that too, didn't she? But she already has it all figured out. She knows what she wants, and knows what she doesn't want, and still knows what it is that she's going to do regardless.

_ _

He opened his eyes again and looked up towards the ceiling the chamber, similarly hewn from the natural stone upon which the manor house stood. In the dimness Markus followed the line of a crystal intrusion, pale milky white fulminating through the smooth green-black rock.

But she doesn't want to do it. Markus slopped his paw out of the water, shook it off, and dragged it across his muzzle, flattening down some of his fur. The steam sizzled sweetly at his skin through his pelt. So I guess that just leaves her in exactly the same spot as I am. And then there's Lura… wherever he is. What was it Rhea said?

_ _

Things will never sort themselves out. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. So then what do I want? I want him – and it felt good to admit to himself, dangerous, like throwing a great, dry log on the still-burning coals down in his heart – but then, also… I want to get to know her better, too. And he found that this, too, was true.

And that frightened him somewhat. A noise by the door startled him; Markus drew himself up in the water, leaned over to the side to look, and just in time saw the door latch shut again around a tray of things prepared for him: washcloth, sponge, brush, the cream-like whipped shampoo that the Thorn family used up here, a bar of soap. He stood up, brushed his paws across himself against the relative chill of the space, and padded over to fetch the tray.

The soap smelled of warm almond crossed with floral undertones, and the rich spike of some familiar yet distant herb cut through everything else. When he opened his eyes again he almost expected to see the wolfess here across from him in the bath.

Markus settled back in again, another sigh escaping his lips.

~ ~ ~

“…And as such," Lord Volo Thorn was saying, “my daughter often takes up that task herself. It is good for the people to see her."

She is good to see, Markus thought, before he could stop himself. Still somewhat groggy with sleep, he shook his head, stifled a yawn, and rubbed at his eyes in the same move. On his way down from his quarters he had passed by the Viscount on the way to breakfast, garbed in a much more casual attire than in which he had usually seen the older wolf. All of this had begun as a somewhat awkward back-and-forth, good morning, my lord_s and _how did sleep treat you? and such, then wandered into odd silence, and then expanded from there with the Viscount outlining the hearings in the manor's grand hall.

“We don't have anything like that back home," Markus rumbled. “Though I have had to do something like that a few times before."

“I suppose it might not be necessary." As the two walked through the halls, the nearby servants pressed themselves up to the walls and bowed their deference; Lord Thorn would smile and nod a greeting, but never say a word to them. “Though we are no Kaylor, we still see quite a bit of traffic coming from the south and east. It's only natural for some of those travelers to settle here, and then for further disputes to crop up – and with us as their leaders, it's up to us to help work through and settle those disputes. Rhea has a kind voice but a firm hand, and the people genuinely value her input and decisions. From what I've seen in the reports and correspondence, Oryon simply doesn't have that issue."

“That may be correct." Markus stifled another yawn. This early in the morning he was in no mood for the parley. “I admit, I just… don't really pay that much attention to it. Mother has it well under control. And when she doesn't, Aurelia does."

“Aurelia?"

“Our mistress of the house."

“Ah. Yes." Lord Thorn motioned around the next corner. Markus dipped his head and followed. “I recall. You do not employ many servants, but she is a… close acquaintance of your mother's."

“Something like that." Their footsteps tapped along the tile floor, then were muffled beneath the thick plush rug leading to the dining hall. Markus reflexively set his shoulders, perked his ears up, tried his best to at least look like he was awake; the guards on either side of the great double doors straightened, saluted their greeting, then moved to let the two in. “She's quite nice. Known her all my life. And I-"

Markus froze at the movement from the other side of the table. There was Rhea already in attendance in her usual spot, paws folded patiently in her lap, head turned to view the new arrivals; then the usual cycling array of visitors and diplomats, this morning down to an arctic fox and a jaguar that Markus had seen in the various rooms of the manor; and then rising from his seat near the head of the table, finery threaded in gold, posture prim and tight despite the age silvering his fur, the other, older wolf grinned and bowed his head. Along his shoulder shone the traditional coat of arms patch, his a shield in forest green crossed diagonally with a sword below and lily of the valley above.

“My Lord Viscount Thorn!" he called, tail swaying behind him – and then his gaze fell on Markus. The foxwolf recognized those eyes, remembered them glittering in the dim light of night just outside the city walls; he recalled the way they had sized him up, how they had judged him. Even as the wolf stood here before the table, the evidence of his fighting skill was evident in his posture, how he held one paw at his side where he usually kept his blade, how his ears remained effortlessly upright, his whiskers forward. His tongue flicked out across his lips; yet again he looked Markus over. Recognition similarly shone in his gaze. “And your… attendant."

Volo waved a paw. “You may be seated. It is good to finally see you, Kole. I present to you-" He took a step to the side. “-Markus Kalla ef Solm Maldeth, son of the Countess Azura Oryon. He is to wed my daughter, and with their union will House Thorn finally begin its climb to its proper station: first Oryon, and then Ryalon, and then…"

Oryon? Markus frowned. I thought she planned Leyo for us. Has she been lying to me?

_ _

“And then," interjected the other wolf, “you will find that blade of ambition buried in your own back, my friend. Will you not introduce me, as well?"

“Ah." Lord Thorn waited for the nearby servant to pull his seat back, then settled in. He glanced across his breakfast, licked his lips, and had picked up a fork even before he had motioned back. “Markus? This is Kole Lan. Of House Lan. Perhaps you're familiar?"

The foxwolf slid down into his own seat, then scooted forward. Beside him Rhea leaned over, nodded at her father, rolled her eyes; beneath the table her paw found his leg and patted gently. His fingers twitched. Markus looked back across the table, towards Lan directly across from him, and deliberately held his gaze. His eyes glittered green in the light coming down through the windows set high into the manor ceiling.

“I can't say I am," he drawled, and made sure to blink while Kole watched him. The wolf's lips twitched up at the corners.

“I'm surprised." This from Rhea beside him, with another nudge to his leg. “I know your economic knowledge is somewhat lacking, but House Lan is the fourth most profitable merchant family to come from Mora."

“Burls, specifically, my Lord Kalla." Kole leaned in to resume his meal. “About… oh, a half day's ride east from your Oryon. Speaking of which, on your return, would you please give the Lady Azura my greetings? I unfortunately could not attend our dinner; I was waylaid on the way out of Mora, and then upon my arrival…" His fork screeched across the plate. “Waylaid again."

At the head of the table Lord Thorn nodded. “So I was informed. Any losses?"

“None at all. Just some ruffian." Green eyes flashed Markus's way. “Embarrassing, really. Bested by such an old dog as myself. I just hope his hubris took the hit it needed when his muzzle met the road."

“Well, that is good to hear. And good to have you here now. A rest after breakfast, and then we may convene for our discussion?"

“Of course. It would be my honor."

Breakfast began, continued, and concluded without much further issue save for the occasional small quip or nonsense question; Doren was the one to clear Markus's things away, and the foxwolf pointedly avoided meeting his eyes as he did so. Still the cheetah's scent tickled at him, though, and brought back that familiar stir.

It did so strongly enough for Rhea to notice on their way out of the dining hall. Markus hustled to try to keep ahead of her, though the wolfess quite easily kept pace.

“You and that cheetah-?"

“Nothing."

“Markus…"

“I don't want to talk about it."

Only then did she slow, hanging back behind him a bit. Then in another few steps she had reclaimed her position, now taking the stairs at a relaxed two at a time to his hurried one.

“Very well, then. I won't make you. Will you be in attendance for the discussion with Lan?"

“Will I?" He froze halfway up the stairs, and turned to look at her. Rhea's ears flicked back, then straightened up again. “I'm not expected to, am I?"

“I would imagine so. You have displayed a far greater interest in the workings of nobility than when you first arrived two and a half weeks ago. Your absence might not disappoint Father, but your presence would certainly please him."

Just like most things she mentioned, as it turned out Rhea was indeed correct. Another half-hour of simmering by himself in his quarters led to Markus receiving a knock on the door to find the same white fox servant from his first day informing him of his lordship Viscount Volo Thorn's request for your lordship's presence. Seeing that he had nothing else to do today, Markus got dressed, dusted himself with just a little bit of the perfume mister that he had found by his bedside, and then dutifully followed.

Downstairs, then around the corner, then further down the hall, and back around the other hall, and into the rear portion of the manor house – and the party looked much like breakfast, without the presence of the fox and jaguar. Once again Markus found himself sitting across from the older wolf who had so humiliated him the previous night.

Not me, he thought, as an attempt to salve his pride. The Ghost. Out of place here. Makes sense, I suppose…

But throughout the discussion Lan repeatedly, regularly involved Markus. He looked to the foxwolf first and foremost for his thoughts and input on the various matters – the state of the roads between Burls and Oryon, the minor if ongoing issue of bandits along the way, the proposed redirection efforts for one of the small streams that passed through the area – but each time Markus gave the only answer he knew how.

“Apologies. I don't know."

“I understand. It's a difficult situation." Lan folded his paws together. On multiple of his fingers, Markus counted five, rings of various sizes, colors, and grandiosity glittered. “I don't know either, you understand, and I've been doing this all my life. That's why I'm asking what you think, your lordship. Believe it or not," and he sat sideways in his chair to appraise one of those many rings, “I do value your input."

Markus looked to Rhea beside him. She returned the glance, flat, level, arms crossed before her chest, and nodded.

“You could…" He waved a paw, trying to grasp for strands of thought that still evaded him. “Contact the pertinent parties, I suppose? Oryon is too small for it, but I understand most Morai cities run a council to determine those matters. The roads, the rivers… there are guilds to deal with bandits. Our Church of Vaska back home runs a small school for the magically skilled, particularly with Water. That might be a good choice for the redirection."

Lan pressed a paw to the side of his muzzle. “Ah. Magic. Now why didn't I think of that? Did you know, Lord Kalla, that the practice was illegal within Alenar here, until very recently? How many years ago was that…?"

Markus opened his mouth to give his usual answer, but it was Rhea who responded: “Two decades. Give or take a year."

“Yes, that's right." Lan bowed his head, turned to Lord Thorn as if to say something to him, then returned his gaze to the younger pair. “And I do believe it was your father the King's influence that allowed that to pass. Yes?"

A cold bristle shivered along the back of the foxwolf's neck. He twitched his jaw, bit his lip, took in a breath, swallowed. “That may be the case."

“Very powerful, was His Highness Kalla. Able to stretch his influence outside the bounds of his kingdom." The older wolf drummed his fingers atop the table. “A skill which I understand Her Excellency Countess Oryon has adapted into her own repertoire, and-"

“That's not quite right."

This seemed to catch Lan off guard. He blinked. “No?"

“No." Markus tilted his head a bit. “My father picked it up from my mother. She was Queen Scheherazade's head of imports during her initial reign. Which was," and here he leaned in over the table, “the country's most productive era, to date. The economy would have crumbled under my father's rule were it not for Mother's oversight. We have maintained those business relationships down through Ryalon, here in Leyo, even as far east as Dorian."

He sat back again, arms crossed in front of his chest. Three pairs of lupine eyes looked at him.

Markus shifted. “So I've been told."

Kole cleared his throat. “And I am to understand that both of these minds have come together in you, yes, my lord? And that is why Her Excellency has arranged for you, her son, to marry," and he motioned to Rhea beside him, “the respectable Rhea Thorn."

“That is indeed what she wants." Markus let the unspoken but hang in the air.

The wolf across from him caught the bait. “And your thoughts on the matter?"

Now he looked across to Lord Thorn sitting at the head of the table. The other older wolf sat up straight, eyes alert, lips tight. He held Markus's gaze without wavering, just as eager to hear his answer as Kole.

“I'm here, aren't I? One way or another. I'm still learning. And I've… made mistakes. And I…" He swallowed, glad for the moment that no servants stood within the room with them. “Continue to make them. And even the short time I've been here has shown me that that's not likely to change." Then another flare of heat within his chest; Markus tapped the table. “Or would you prefer I lie to you, and tell you that I intend to go through with my mother's arranged plan without qualm or complaint? I may be a Kalla, but that does not mean I must abide by my family's legacy, as much as others might expect it from me. I am to make my own name for myself, as my own person, and anyone who would wish otherwise is not worth the time spent on the distinction."

Silence at first, and then Lan nodded. “Well said, my lord. Perhaps I had the wrong of it." He glanced across to Rhea, then back to Markus. “Now then. If I could have your lordship's – and yours as well, Viscount – ideas on routes; I have a map with me, here…"

Beneath the table, something brushed against Markus's leg. He jumped, surprised, then moved a paw to brush it away – and instead felt his fingers close across Rhea's. The wolfess's ear flicked and she turned her head just slightly, just enough for him to see an eye and the corner of her mouth. She blinked, smiled, nodded again, then slid her paw out from beneath his, rested it on top, squeezed. And she mouthed two words:

Well done.