Shadows Over Arcadia

I am Abigail, 24 years old, formerly of the Lotus Valley Foxkin tribe. Now, I am a slave in service to Lord Griswald, and lover to Captain Gavin Cromwell.

Wagon wheels clatter against cobblestone, joining the rhythmic symphony of iron horseshoes. For miles, our mobile prison has rattled and jolted, the hard wooden bench beneath me biting into my skin and aching against my spine. The air inside our cell is stale, dust clinging to every breath, yet still preferable to the foul stench of the unwashed Arcadian mercenary in the driver's seat.

My Lord Gavin has always been mindful of my sensitive nose, never coming near when he feared his musk might offend. I miss him. The thought presses against my chest as I lean back against the cage wall and sigh, my ears drooping with the weight of it, the ache in my heart deeper than the soreness in my bones.

Light filters in through the slats of the slave wagon, casting angled strips of clarity across my three rabbitkin cellmates. One has blotchy white-spotted fur, another a golden orange, and the last a regal grey, but all wear the same fearful expression.

Like them, I wear nothing but a meager length of coarse fabric, a rough tunic with a hole cut for the head, draped over the shoulders and tied loosely at the waist. The standard slave garment does nothing to protect against the cold and even less to preserve one's dignity.

Watching the grey-furred girl sit straight-backed, determined to face her impending doom with grace, reminds me a great deal of myself the first time I was sold into slavery.

I had been a coward. When the humans came, I ran while the rest of the Lotus Valley tribe stayed and fought. They died with claws bared, defending our home. I did what I've always done best—I ran and hid.

For years, I survived alone in the monster-infested depths of the Erwin Forest, using my illusion magic to stay one step ahead of death. I could have kept going, I think. Could have continued clawing for scraps, sleeping with one eye open and praying each night not to end up in a predator's belly. But every day was a slow, suffocating struggle, like someone buried alive, scraping at their coffin's lid.

Eventually, it all felt meaningless. Everyone I had ever known or loved was already gone. What was the point of surviving, when I had nothing left to survive for?

So I decided to face my fate, straight-backed and on my own terms. I put myself in the path of slavers.

It was a coin flip, really, deciding which kind of beast I'd let devour me. Monsters or men. Both would tear me apart in their own way.

But by choosing, I got to pretend I still had some control. Just a little illusion to comfort myself.

Fitting, I suppose. Illusions have always been my specialty—even the ones I craft for myself.

I imagine that's the same lie Miss Grey is clinging to now, sitting stiff and proud across from me while her companions quietly fall apart. Tears stream down the orange-furred rabbitkin's cheeks, and the spotted one trembles with muffled sobs.

These three poor souls were purchased from one of Lord Ambrose's brothels in the capital. Though their lives there were surely filled with suffering, at least they knew that, as valuable merchandise, they would be properly fed and kept free from injury. Ambrose may be a monster among monsters, but he doesn't tolerate customers damaging his wares.

Their dread is warranted, because they've been sold to the Cromwell family.

I'm sure they've heard the rumors. Everyone has. Lord Cromwell is known for his high turnover of slaves. He only buys women, and it's whispered that he uses and discards them in the cruelest of ways. His estate is where many a slave's journey ends. Being purchased by him is as good as a death sentence.

That fact concerns me, too, but it didn't stop me from using my magic to sneak into this wagon. I gave the driver an illusion of the broker explaining I was a bonus addition to the lord's order, and the broker an illusion that I had been in the wagon from the start. Even now, I maintain the illusion for the driver and my three cellmates that I wear the same heavy iron slave collar as the others.

All of this, just to get myself delivered to the Cromwell estate, bypass every layer of security, and walk straight into the most dangerous place in Arcadia for someone like me.

All to help the man I love.

I really am a fool for him.

The wagon slows to a stop. There's movement outside, the rattle of armor, the clank of greaves on stone. I hear the driver speaking with someone. It seems we've reached a checkpoint at the edge of Cromwell's lands.

My heart jumps in my chest, and I fight the growing urge to run. Every instinct screams that I'm walking into a slaughter. But I force it down.

What I'm doing now may very well lead to the end of Lord Cromwell. It might be too late for these women, but others may yet be spared their fate.

My gaze drifts to the rough steel collar weighing down the orange-furred girl's neck. She sobs into the crook of her arm, curled up on the bench with her knees pulled close in pitiful despair. Her skin is raw, and fur rubbed loose where the collar chafes.

The design is needlessly cruel, painfully bulky and weighs heavy on the neck. So unlike the collar Griswald gave me, which was light as a feather and just as soft, meant to mark me as under his protection, not to punish or bind. His collar had no restrictions on my magic. These, on the other hand, cut them off completely.

Being severed from your magic is a violation. A mutilation. Like having your tail or ears cut off.

Looking at them now, I'm reminded of the day I was purchased by Diana at the slave market in Ashford, five years ago. Lord Griswald had her use her appraisal magic to find slaves with rare talents, abilities he could harness to better his domain.

Like Miss Grey, I was afraid. But I steeled myself, numbed my heart, and met my fate with a stone face, braced for suffering.

I shut myself off so completely in those early days that I couldn't see the kindness behind his gift. I was blind for far too long to Lord Griswald's mercy.

And I was too numb to accept Gavin's affections. Back then, he was just a young soldier, a close friend of Griswald's. He was there the day I arrived… and he fell for me instantly.

To this day, I still don't understand what he saw in me, then or now.

I turn and look through the slits of the cage at the colossal manor growing closer, built atop a hill and looming over the city of Ashford. It's several times the size of Griswald's estate, its stone walls adorned with bold carvings and gilded embellishments. Somewhere between a castle and a mansion, it straddles the line between grandeur and threat.

The structure exudes a dark, oppressive power, a silent declaration that resistance is futile. It isn't a home. It's a symbol of dominance.

A far cry from my comfortable home in Stonebrook.

Griswald was patient and gentle. The other girls were kind and accepting. I was the one who failed to accept them during that first arc. Gavin visited me often, too. He'd talk to me for hours about his life, ask questions he didn't mind I wouldn't answer, and shower me with small gifts. My room at the manor quickly filled with trinkets and curios. I think Griswald allowed it because he hoped indulging Gavin's obsession might coax me out of my shell.

The wagon draws closer to the manor's outer gate. I spot Arcadian knights standing sentry, and at least one man wearing the uniform of a military mage. Someone capable of detecting magical deception and illusions like mine.

I was warned there would be countermeasures in place to expose magical deception.

I am prepared.

All I need to do is deactivate my illusions when they inspect the wagon. I turn to face my cellmates again. That means briefly revealing to them that I'm not actually bound by a slave collar like they are. Miss Spots and Orange seem far too consumed by their despair to notice. And even if Grey does, I doubt she'd be inclined to expose my ruse.

Just before the wagon comes to a halt, I end the spell.

Immediately, Miss Grey's head turns. Her eyes widen. Her lips part, but no words come out.

I offer her a sly smile and a shrug.

She blinks, then squints at the place where my collar had been.

"All clear," the mage calls from outside.

Her eyes flick toward the voice, then back to me, realization dawning across her face.

The wagon jolts back into motion, and Miss Grey sits back with a faint, knowing smile. I wait until we've put some distance behind us before quietly recasting the illusion around my neck. The collar is nothing more than a trick of the eyes, what appears to be a heavy steel band is, in truth, weightless and immaterial, seen only by those I've enchanted.

"Impressive…" Miss Grey whispers.

I can't say I agree. Making one small visual change for a few individuals is child's play compared to what I'll need to pull off if I want to get out of this place alive.

Lord Gavin trusts that I'm capable of doing this. My talents are the reason Lord Griswald purchased me in the first place.

Of course, they both wanted more from me than I was willing to give, my talents, my affections, my body. To be fair, I was given a choice: give Griswald my all, or leave and seek my fate elsewhere.

Up to that point, I had been so certain of how things would end. I expected to disappoint my master, to be tortured and discarded. I couldn't understand why they were so patient with me.

But at the end of the first arc, when Griswald had to decide whether or not I was worth keeping, I was sure he would cast me out. I wasn't like the others. And while I'd been lucky that this master wasn't cruel, there was no telling what the next one would be.

So once again, I made a choice, to decide my own fate.

While most of the Griswald household, with the addition of Lord Gavin, were busy discussing my future, I slipped away under the moonlit sky. I crept to the lake behind the manor, tied my leg to a heavy stone with a length of rope, and carried it into its cold, dark waters.

I began my descent into the cloudy depths with grave determination. But it didn't take long for the pressure in my chest to change my mind.

I wasn't ready.

I wanted to live.

I fought to untie the rope, clawing at it in a panic, but it was no use. It felt like the unrelenting, unyielding hand of death pulling me under. Above, the pale glow of the moon shimmered through the rippling surface, oddly beautiful and mockingly close, a promise of air just out of reach. The need to breathe overwhelmed me… and I inhaled lake water.

It stung going down, sharp and cold, like knives stabbing into my chest from the inside. I thrashed, but it was useless. My sodden fur dragged at me, heavy as chains. The more I struggled, the more pain bloomed in my chest.

Then came the moment when I realized I no longer remembered why I was fighting. What was I clinging to? What future did I think I was saving?

The pain faded into numbness. I knew I was drowning. I knew I would die. And in that final moment, I felt something strange.

Peace.

Not because I wanted to die, but because I had forgotten why I wanted to live.

It was then I felt strong arms wrap around me, dragging me upward. The next thing I remember, I was lying in the tall grass on the lake's shore, coughing up water as my chest burned with every breath.

Lord Gavin was kneeling over me.

He had pulled me out, stone and all.

He was shaking as he held me, tears in his eyes. His arms wrapped tight around me, and I could feel his heart pounding against my ear pressed to his chest.

He went on to make an impassioned plea to Lord Griswald, begging him to let me stay, fearing that if I were cast out, I would try to end my life again.

But something in me had already changed.

Until that night, I had seen no value in my own life. I believed I was broken, useless, unworthy and doomed to suffer. But when Gavin pulled me from that lake, when he cried for me, pleaded for me, fought for me, I saw myself reflected in his eyes… and in that reflection, I wasn't worthless.

I didn't understand why someone like him cared so deeply. I still don't. But his belief in me was real, and for the first time in a long time, I realized that if I were gone, I would be missed. I would be mourned. To at least one person, my life had value, something to be cherished and protected.

I had lost my own reason to keep going. But in his eyes, I saw a reason to live on. In those eyes, a glimmer of hope for a future where I am loved. In his arms, a future where I could be safe. And in his words, a future where I might find happiness.

A future I had not allowed myself to believe possible.

Again, it was my choice.

And I chose him.

At first, I felt I owed him my life, my loyalty, something to justify the faith he placed in me. But as time went on, and we grew closer, that sense of debt slowly turned into love.

Now, I would do anything for that man.

In fact, it's for him, and him alone, that I'm here, sneaking into the belly of the beast that has consumed many a beastkin slave like me.

The wagon rolls around the edge of the massive estate, past gardens bursting with color, flowers freshly in bloom, lush manicured hedges, and trees heavy with not-yet-ripe fruit. My eyes catch on a well-dressed slave tending the grounds. Her pale brown gaze meets mine for a brief moment.

There's a weariness in her eyes that runs deeper than simple fatigue. They are dark, hollow portals, void of hope yet overflowing with a quiet sort of anguish. The kind I know too well. The kind born from a life stripped of everything needed to truly live.

My claws dig into the edge of the bench beneath me as the wagon lurches to a stop, sending its occupants rocking forward. Miss Orange tumbles into Miss Grey, only to be shunted backward into Miss Spots as the wagon abruptly reverses.

There are more male voices outside, growing closer, as we're backed up toward an entry at the rear of the manor.

"Evening, Kent," comes a deep, gravelly voice from just beyond the wagon.

My chest tightens. All three of my companions instinctively shrink away from the sound.

"It certainly is," the driver replies with a yawn. Wood creaks, the wagon's weight shifts and boots scuff the stone as he dismounts and rounds to the back.

"A delivery of fresh meat for the Lord," he says, answering a question no one asked.

The scrape of metal latches clangs like funeral bells at the rear of our cage. The groan of rusty hinges heralds the doors swinging open, flooding the dark interior with light that stings eyes grown too used to shadow.

Miss Spots raises her hand to shield her face, blinking hard against the sudden brightness.

So she doesn't see the rod coming.

CRACK.

A thick wooden truncheon slams against the side of the wagon, making all of us flinch. The one wielding it is a surly, speckled grey-bearded old man in standard military attire. Everything about him radiates experience, and a complete lack of patience.

"Easy on the wagon," Kent mutters, earning a brief side-eye from Mr. Truncheon.

"Get out, beast-trash," the old man growls, voice low and commanding. "Do as you're told, or get the rod."

I am the first to move, sliding toward the opening and into the waiting vise-like grip of Mr. Truncheon. He yanks me forward before I can get my feet under me. I stumble past him, my hand flying up to catch myself, landing against the solid, broad chest of another guard

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A hand, smaller than Gavin's, but still large enough to wrap completely around my neck, pulling me upward aggressively. I try to inhale in shock, but my breath catches under the painful pressure at my throat.

I immediately register the chilling thought: someone is grabbing me, on my neck, just above where the collar should be.

I freeze.

I had extended my illusion to these men as well, and believing a collar to be there, he had grabbed me high on the neck. But if I struggle, and his hand shifts, and doesn't touch metal where it should, my ruse will be discovered.

"Don't touch me, scum!"

A young human, easily twice my height, towers over me, his face shadowed, the sun blazing at his back. He jerks me away by the neck, lifting me until only the tips of my toes reach the ground.

CRACK.

The sound of wood meeting flesh behind me, followed by a sharp, high-pitched scream of pain. Some one had paid for their hesitation.

I choke, looking up into a face filled with pure disdain. My hands twitch, resisting the urge to claw at the one strangling me. But I was ready for this, expecting it.

To survive, I must do as I'm told. Endure. Obey. Give them no excuse to direct their full ire at me—for just a bit longer.

His hateful eyes narrow, searching mine for a flicker of defiance. When he finds none, he tosses me bodily through the door and into the manor.

I hit the stone floor, managing to roll, sparing myself from the worst of the impact.

I find myself in an empty chamber, its walls bare stone. Behind me, the door to the outside. Ahead, the entrance deeper into the Lord's home.

"Get in, you mutts!"

I turn to see Truncheon and the other guard shoving the three rabbitkin into the room behind me. Blood pours from Miss Spots' mouth as she stumbles forward, clutching her jaw, now visibly out of alignment.

"Off with the rags," Truncheon barks, jabbing Miss Grey with his baton to drive the order home.

My hands shoot up at once, lifting my tunic and tossing it to the floor in one fluid motion. Miss Orange and Miss Grey follow suit shortly after, but Miss Spots, fumbling through her pain, is rewarded with a second blow to her back. She collapses to the floor with a gasp.

She struggles upright, helped by Miss Orange, coughing up a tooth and a fresh spatter of blood.

Now we stand, completely exposed before our tormentors. Yet none of us move to cover ourselves. Perhaps the others are numb to it, conditioned by their time in service. As for me, I know better. Modesty would only invite punishment.

"What's with the little fox?" the tall one calls from behind me.

A sudden jerk at the base of my skull makes me stagger, his fist tangled in the thick mane of my red hair, dragging me backward for no reason beyond his own amusement.

"I thought the master was on a bunny kick."

"Not my job to care, Lanaster," Truncheon snaps. "Ask Kent."

"Maybe he bought her for the pelt," Lanaster adds, shooting me a wicked grin that both chills my spine and boils my blood.

In that moment, I remember precisely why I was the only member of my tribe to survive, and why so many Arcadian noblewomen received brilliant red fur coats five years ago.

In my heart, I curse him and his lineage, and offer an earnest prayer that a wolf devours his guts while he's still alive.

But I don't let my face betray that prayer.

"They're rare, you know," he adds with casual malice.

Suddenly my head flies forward, Lanaster forces me into a bow. A heavy boot kicks my legs apart, and his remaining hand grabs the base of my tail, lifting it up. It bristles at his touch, and once again I'm forced precariously onto my toes to relieve the pressure on it.

My lip quivers, I want so badly to bare my teeth, to screech in fury, to claw and kick.

But I must endure this, just a little longer.

"They're used…" Lanaster mutters, his hand prodding at my most sensitive place. "Master wouldn't know if we tried them out," he adds coaxingly to Truncheon.

Truncheon begins scoffing before he even finishes the sentence.

"I wouldn't touch these flea-bitten disease factories until after the mage cleanses them," he says with disgust.

Lanaster immediately pulls his hands off me.

Straightening up, I see him backing away, eyeing the first two fingers of his right hand with visible discomfort before wiping them off on his pant leg.

Mr. Truncheon lets loose a bout of mirth at the sight of his companion's discomfort before saying, "You best go clean that. I'll guard the merchandise."

"Yeah, I figure I should..." Lanaster says as he and Truncheon approach the door leading further into the manor.

"Curing potions aren't cheap, but soap is," Truncheon chuckles as they step through the door. It slams behind them, followed by the heavy CLANK of a lock.

Beyond the door, there are a few more muffled words, then silence. During that silence, we four captives dare not move or speak. Only Miss Spots makes muffled whimpers, blood dripping all over her beautiful fur.

Miss Grey's eyes follow me as I spring into action and go test the door we had entered. It doesn't move. It's locked.

Of course it is. But it never hurts to check.

Knowing that door is secured, and my only option is through the same one now guarded by Mr. Truncheon, I know what must be done.
And it must be done now, before the mage arrives to cleanse the captives.

It is no small task, but it's my only option.

I hurry across the room and rap my knuckles, hard and authoritative, on the door. Even as I do, I begin crafting a far more elaborate deception. My mana draw surges as I focus the illusion, Mr. Truncheon alone will now see and hear Mr. Kent.

"Open up!"

The words are not spoken aloud, but they ring clearly inside Mr. Truncheon's mind, heard in Kent's voice.

There's a sliding of the bolt, and the door swings open aggressively, revealing Truncheon's surly, questioning face.

"What the ruddy hell are you doing in there, Kent?" he spits in annoyance.

Relief floods through me. The illusion worked.

"Fixing your ruddy mistake, of course!"

"What?"

"Why'd you offload the damn red pelt? The Lord wants it sent to the tanners—not here."

"You should've said so. Take her back, then."

"Already have. She's secured in the wagon... but I need to inform the Lord it's arrived. He's had us hunting for one for a while."

"Sounds like the Lady'll be getting a new coat soon," Truncheon says with a chuckle that chills my blood.

"He should be in his study," he adds, shutting and locking the door behind me.

With a nod, I head off, straight-backed and confident, down the hall as if this is where I belong.

"Stop!" Truncheon calls from behind me.

I freeze.

Did he break through the ruse?

I turn slowly, bracing myself. I expect to see him barreling toward me, maybe even swinging his weapon at my head. But to my surprise, he hasn't moved from the doorway. He's simply pointing over his shoulder, down the hall in the opposite direction, one brow raised.

"His study's that way…" he says, with a note of suspicion.

"All right, thanks," Kent's voice responds in his mind.

"Yeah, I get turned around in this place sometimes too," he says with a shrug as I hurry past him, now headed in the right direction.

The moment I turn a corner and slip out of sight, I drop the illusion, bracing myself against the wall and gasping for breath. Maintaining such a complex illusion, obscuring my entire body and perfectly replicating a voice, is draining. My knees want to buckle, my legs to shake, but I convince them to carry me onward. I don't have time to rest.

Every moment I remain here, I risk discovery. And a naked foxkin is anything but inconspicuous.

I sprint down the ornately decorated halls, stopping at each door and peeking inside—
A storeroom.
A bedroom.
Then another.
And another.

Rounding a corner, I finally find the servants' quarters, a windowless, dreary room devoid of embellishment, packed two-high with beds so close together there's barely space to walk between.

To my luck, no servants are present.

Along the back wall, a hamper slouches beneath a few discarded uniforms. I dig through and find a complete set, stained with dried blood and dirt, as if the unfortunate owner had been beaten while lying face-down in the mud.

No time to be picky, I throw it on quickly, though, to my mild annoyance, the skirt of the uniform, already too short by design, catches awkwardly at the back. With no hole for my tail to pass through, the fabric rides up and bunches over it, lifting the hem higher than it should.

Not that modesty was ever the point of this outfit.

As I turn to go, the cold sensation of stone against the pads of my paws reminds me that I'm still barefoot.

I glance around but find nothing. No extra shoes lying around.

Not that I expected the servants here to be treated well enough to have spares.

Well… at least that's a smaller thing to manifest, should the need arise.

Out the door and back to my search for Lord Cromwell's study, but not because I have any interest in meeting, or even being seen by, the vile man. Something very important to Gavin is hidden there. So important, it justifies the risks we're both taking to steal it.

I move through the manor. Room after room opens before me as I wind through the labyrinth of halls, but I am not lost. With Gavin's help, I studied the floor plan carefully. I know exactly where I need to go. I had been turned around at first, unsure where I'd entered the building, but now that I've found my bearings, my path is clear. Several servants pass by, heads down and faces hollow. Not one spares me a glance.

At first, I assumed the confidence I projected kept suspicion at bay. But soon it seemed more likely that a servant in such a state is simply too common a sight here to draw attention. So common, in fact, that the mana spent enchanting the two retainers I passed may well have been wasted.

From a nearby corridor, a rhythmic slapping sound reaches my ears. I move quickly toward it. The noise grows louder, its pace shifting, punctuated by pauses, then resuming, blended with muffled voices. I reach the nearest door from which the sounds emerge, then slip into a room across the hall and several meters down.

From what I've learned about the function of a lord's study, at Griswald's, at least, I believe I've found the room I'm looking for.

Unfortunately, it's occupied.

I've taken shelter in what seems to be a very grimy, very damp broom closet. Cleanliness is the least of my concerns. The door here hangs slightly ajar, offering a perfect view of the study so I can act the moment it's vacated.

A plan that should work perfectly, so long as no one comes looking for a broken broom, moldy sponges, or the fat rodent currently sharing this closet with me.

Rapid clops echo down the corridor, followed by a woman dressed in regal fashion, bejewelled in sapphires, her neck ringed in pearls, grey hair pulled into a tight bun secured with a glimmering diamond hairpin. Her stern, haughty expression and opulent attire speak of someone who sees herself as superior in any room she enters, yet wrongly denied the status she believes she's due. With hard-soled heels and an elongated neck, she calls to mind an overdressed horse more than a noblewoman.

She strikes the study door impatiently, then waits with her nose upturned, refusing to enter. The slapping from within ceases abruptly. After a beat of silence, the door is wrenched open and replaced by a grey-bearded man in a military uniform a size too small, doublet unbuttoned, belt undone, collar askew, as if it had all been thrown on in haste.

"What is— Oh. Hello, dear." His tone shifts in a flash, from irritation to submission.

"Your son… is here to see you." Her words strike like a viper, each syllable dripping venom.

"Yes, dear. I'll be right there," Lord Cromwell replies sheepishly, though his wife has already turned and begun striding halfway down the hall, not waiting for his response.

Cromwell straightens his trousers and ties his belt, watching with weary eyes as his spouse rounds the corner down the hall. "Dispose of the trash, Paul," he says over his shoulder, buttoning up his coat.

With one last sweep of his hands to smooth out his clothes, Cromwell disappears down the hall. This is what I've been waiting for. Gavin has timed his arrival perfectly, ensuring his father would be pulled from the study, granting me a window to collect the evidence he's certain is hidden there.

A younger man steps out next. His skin is smoother, his body more muscular, less softened by age and fat, but his face is unmistakably cut from the same cloth as his father. His brown trousers and white shirt are just as disheveled, though his sleeves are speckled with red, and his knuckles are raw and bloodied.

"Fine. She's used up anyway," Paul mutters, trudging down the hall, toward my broom closet. The sound of something dragging follows him, and as he passes, I catch a glimpse.

By the ankle, he drags a limp, unresponsive body of a rabbitkin girl, like refuse too ruined to be carried.

I wince, the urge to vomit rising fast at the sight of her battered, disfigured face. Her limbs hang at unnatural angles, her fur matted with blood gone black. Most of those injuries aren't recent. And if she's still alive… she won't be for long.

She looked so young. Or perhaps just underfed. It's horrifying that she's in such a state I can't even tell. What's worse is how casual they are about erasing her. Who she was. What she could have been. Someone's child, treated like a plaything, then discarded like trash.

They are worse than the monsters in the wild. At least when beasts kill, they don't pleasure themselves to their victim's suffering.

A fire burns within my soul, not to chase after the villain, but to tears. I know how powerless I am. I have neither the strength, nor the skills or heart, to fight. I am a coward, unable to save the poor souls imprisoned here.

And I hate myself for that.

But my beloved Gavin needs me. I have no time for self-loathing.

Peeking out, I see the coast is clear. I sprint across the hall and slip into the study.

The scene inside is grim. Blood stains streak a large wooden desk, the dark fluid having leaked down and pooled across the carpet below. Mixed into the copious smears of blackened red are odd splatters of clear and milky-white fluid.

My throat convulses, a violent reaction to both the sight and the stench—the rancid mix of exertion, blood, and essence. But a moment to dwell in disgust is a luxury I don't have.

I set to work, yanking open drawers and cabinets without a care for noise. Parchment flies as I dig through piles of documents, tossing files aside with reckless abandon.

What I seek won't be found in records or on ledgers.

Unfortunately, even after turning the study into a sea of scattered stationery, I find nothing. Not in any of the unlocked desk drawers, nor in the cabinets.

Gavin had warned me it was possible Cromwell stored the damning evidence in the wall safe—hidden behind the painting of a mermaid pleasuring herself. If that were the case, he said, I should abandon the mission and focus on escaping. According to him, there was no chance I'd be able to open that safe.

I turn to the merwoman frozen in her moment of intimate reverie, grip the frame, and swing it open.

Behind her, embedded in the wall, is a large metal safe with a round door. Set into its center is a white crystal. According to Gavin, that crystal bears a seal that requires Cromwell's touch to open. Even if I had the skill to trick him into doing it, he's currently busy being distracted by Gavin.

I tap my paw against the floor, hands on my hips, staring at the safe with impatient intensity. After everything it took to get here, I can't bring myself to walk away empty-handed. There has to be a way. I can't just destroy the crystal—it would take a massive blast, and I don't know a single offensive spell.

Then an intrusive thought creeps in, like an unwelcome and unruly party guest insisting on leading a toast.

I might not be able to get Cromwell to open the safe. But maybe... would a part of Cromwell work?

I turn slowly toward the desk, eyes landing on the milky substance smeared across its surface. There's no way that could work. But... it also doesn't hurt to try, right?

When a stupid idea is your only idea, it becomes your best idea.

I scoop up one of the many puddles of Cromwell's essence with my fingers and smear it across the face of the safe's crystal.

It glows.

Bright.

My hand falls to my side, limp with shock, as the door pops open with a sharp metallic clank. I stare, caught between disbelief and disgust.

I can't believe that worked.

That should not have worked.

Still, I open the door wide and peer inside. Among the flood of gold and silver coins sits a crystal ball, slightly smaller than my head, resting in a circular base etched with runes.

An observation crystal.

Exactly what I was looking for.

Used often in military surveillance, it can display and record whatever the user sees. I lift it gently, setting it on the desk atop the blood-scratched parchment. One glance over my shoulder, then I pour a thread of mana into the crystal.

It bursts to life.

Like a portal to the past, a scene begins to play out. Lord Fobos stands before the viewer, speaking to three other men. I watch in silence as they're instructed to intercept a target leaving the apothecary. The scene shifts, the men step into the night and take position in the shadows of narrow alleys.

Then, I see him.

Prince Ren.

They follow him.

And I've seen enough.

This is exactly what we were looking for.

I kill the spell, scoop the crystal into my arms, and hurry out the door.

Right now, Gavin will be in his father's study, playing nice and reporting the progress he's made in the investigation into Lady Willow. All of it is a lie, crafted to keep his father distracted and give me time to continue our true investigation into Fobos and Cromwell themselves.

Meanwhile, I rush to the nearest exit leading to the stables, where Gavin's horse should be hitched. As I push through the door, my nose is met by a heavy, musky, pungent mix of odors. My paw pads press into soft dirt and loose hay as I dart past horse pens and parked wagons, heading straight for the large black stallion, already saddled and packed for travel.

Without breaking stride, I move as if merely passing by and slip the communication crystal into the side satchel.

I don't look back. I circle around and retrace my path. Halfway through the stables, something catches my eye that I missed before. In the back of a small, rickety flatbed wagon hitched to a donkey, the type used for hauling waste, lies a grisly sight. Its current load is the bloodied, battered, and clearly dead rabbitkin I saw being dragged away earlier.

I have no time to process the horror. The manor door opens at the far end of the stables from me. With the sound of the creaky door comes the promise someone is about to step out and spot me.

I act without thinking.

I duck into the wagon's bay, hidden from view. Quickly, I strip off my clothes, shove them under the wagon, and then, as quietly as I can, roll into the bed. I let my limbs go limp and press myself against the body, feigning death as convincingly as I can beside the real thing.

Footsteps grow closer, and I focus—watching through barely cracked eyelids for the newcomer. The moment I see him—a thick, squat man dressed like a butcher, his apron soaked in blood—I cast the illusion.

All I change of my appearance is the addition of wounds. Gashes, blood, torn flesh—just enough to make me look plausibly dead. My mana is already drained to a critically low point, and I can't afford to waste a single drop.

The butcher stops at the end of the wagon, staring directly at me as he rubs the back of his neck.

"Lord's had a busy day, it seems," he mutters, then turns to unhitch the donkey.

A moment later, the wagon jerks into motion, swaying and rattling much harder than the previous one. My limp body, along with the woman beside me, flops and rolls with each jolt.

Internally I take a cautious breath of relief—silent, still. He seems convinced. But I'm not out yet. Not out of danger. Not even off the manor grounds.

This wasn't the plan. I was supposed to hide, let my mana recover, and leave under cover of darkness, when simple illusions hold up better at a distance. Disguised as one of Cromwell's retainers, I would have ridden out unnoticed.

That plan is lost.

But maybe this is another way. Through slitted eyes, I can just make out the wagon pulling farther from the manor.

The only questions now are where he's taking us, how long I'll need to hold this illusion, and whether I have the mana to last that long.

The journey away from the manor feels excruciatingly longer than the ride in, punctuated by jolts from the uneven road that slam my naked body against the corpse beside me. Or perhaps we've left the road entirely. The ride has gotten that rough.

By the time the wagon finally stops, I'm so drained from sustaining my spell that I can barely open my eyes—even if I dared to. Which I do not. But the air smells fresh, damp with floral hints, and it buzzes with the hum of insects.

Rough hands grab me and yank me out of the wagon, hauling me onto the butcher's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He walks a short distance, then shrugs me off without care.

I hit the ground hard.

Stars burst behind my eyes, but at least the grass softens the impact. A little.

Tough fibers are drawn around my right ankle and pulled tight. Is that rope? Is he tying me up? Who ties up a corpse?

I don't understand. I just pray for the sound of his wagon pulling away, so I can finally end this enchantment. My body grows heavier by the second, my mana nearly gone. I just need to hold on a little longer. Gavin will be looking for me—but would he know to look here? This early? Probably not.

I'm on my own.

I hear the butcher collect the rabbitkin next and drop her beside me with a thud. A rustle follows. I suppose he's tying one of her legs too.

A loud caw cuts the air above us. A vulture, maybe. Does it know something I don't?

Those same uncaring hands dig into me again. He lifts me, just a few steps this time, and then drops me.

But I keep falling.

Why am I still—splash.

I inhale in shock as dark, cold water floods my lungs. I choke, the pain sharp and stabbing like knives inside my chest. Weakly, I try to move my arms, to swim, but I only sink deeper. The rope around my ankle pulls tight. I'm going to drown.

Why? How?

Air. I need air.

A flurry of bubbles bursts from my mouth as I flail. Something brushes past me and strikes my leg. I pull one last time, but my strength is gone.

And then, for a moment, as the world dims, I stop.

What exactly am I fighting so hard for?

Was this life ever so great that I should strain so hard to keep it?

My eyes fly open as my chest convulses, forcing water from my lungs in a painful heave. I roll to my side, coughing up more, each breath ragged and burning. My head pounds. My lungs scream. Slowly, the world around me sharpens into focus.

I'm lying on the grassy bank of a lake at the base of a cliff. Water gently laps at the shore. The smell of algae and mud surrounds me, thick and earthy. My fur is soaked through, heavy and cold. A shiver runs down my spine, and I shake reflexively, starting from my head, down my back, and through my hips, sending water flying in every direction.

A thick rope snakes through the grass from a large stone to my ankle. Just a hand's breadth from my leg, the tether is frayed, as if someone had tried to cut it.

Near the edge of the bank, a bird floats lifeless in the shallows, feathers splayed and drifting in the current.

What happened to me?

As if to answer, strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into a gentle embrace. I look up through wet lashes.

There he is. Just as soaked. Just as breathless. Tears well in his eyes. He pulls me in close against his broad, muscular chest, his clothes drenched through. My ear presses against him, and I hear his heart racing.

"Thank you, Gods…" he breathes, his voice rough and unsteady, every word weighed down with feeling. "I thought I lost you."

He saved me... again.

"Gavin?"

"I'm so sorry." His voice catches, breaking around the edges. I feel him shudder as he pulls me tighter against him, like he's afraid I'll slip away if he loosens his grip. "I shouldn't have let you…"

He trails off, unable to finish. The words fall apart in his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, quieter this time. "I should've protected you."