The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 14 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 15, Overwhelmed
Thomaz sat rigid on his throne, fingers clenched white against the carved arms, his voice cutting like a blade.
“Why,” he snarled, “were two of my guards blown to smithereens?”
The Captain of the Guard stood alone before him. Tall, broad-shouldered, his once-black beard now threaded with grey and white, he looked suddenly older under the king’s gaze. His hands trembled despite himself.
“I—I do not know, my lord,” he said. “I saw it from the guard tower. Two scrawny-looking folk emerged from the palace. They were carrying weapons taken from the royal armoury. There was… colour. Red and blue light. Then—” His voice faltered. “Then there was an explosion. The soldiers were simply gone. Their matter—” He swallowed. “Splattered across the courtyard.”
Thomaz slammed his fist into the arm of the throne. The crack echoed through the chamber.
“Where are they now?” he roared. “Did you catch them?”
The captain drew a long breath and shook his head.
“No, my liege. We searched every district, every property. There was nothing. No trail. No witnesses.”
The king rose slowly. His temper did not flare—it coiled. From his belt he drew a dagger, its hilt heavy with jewels, the blade catching the torchlight as he rolled it lazily between his fingers.
“Someone lied to you,” Thomaz said softly. “Not even the traitor Vivi could have escaped my city so quickly.”
The captain opened his mouth, words tangling before they could form.
With a flick of his wrist, Thomaz threw the dagger.
It struck true, burying itself in the captain’s throat. The man collapsed soundlessly, blood darkening the stone at the foot of the throne as the blade continued to gleam, indifferent and precise.
Thomaz did not sit back down.
“Andrew!” the King screamed.
The sound had barely finished echoing when a stocky, heavyset man strode into the throne room. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to violence, his shoulders thick with muscle, his gaze steady.
“My king,” he said, bowing his head. “How may I assist you?”
Thomaz turned slowly, studying the man as one might examine a weapon lifted from a rack.
“You,” he said at last, “are the new Captain of the Guard.”
Andrew dropped into a bow as deep as his broad frame would allow.
“Your first task,” Thomaz continued, his voice cold and precise, “is to find, capture, torture, and execute the scrawny, magic-wielding bastards who stole from my armoury and blew my guards apart. Leave no stone unturned. No alley unsearched. I want fear to outrun them.”
“Yes, my king,” Andrew said, bowing once more before turning on his heel and marching toward the barracks.
Behind him, servants slipped into the throne room like shadows. Two maids dragged the former captain’s body across the stone floor, the dead man’s boots leaving dark smears in their wake. Another—young, pale, and shaking—knelt with a bucket and cloth, scrubbing at the blood trail as if she could erase what had just been done.
Thomaz watched it all in silence, the throne room already returning to order, as though violence were simply part of its daily rhythm.
Thomaz strode across the throne room and seized the servant by the hair, yanking her violently to her feet. She cried out in shock, the sound sharp and desperate. He dragged her close, forcing her face level with his, his grip merciless as his gaze crawled over her.
“P-please…” she stammered, words breaking apart. “D-don’t, m-my king…”
He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, his voice low and poisonous.
“How old are you?”
She trembled so hard she could barely speak.
“I’m t-twenty, m-my king…”
Thomaz studied her eyes, unblinking.
“Such a waste,” he murmured.
He leaned closer, invading what little space she had left and licked her face, then released her hair without warning. She collapsed to the stone floor with a dull, heavy thud.
“Get the fuck out of my throne room,” he snarled. “Now.”
He punctuated the command with a kick to her side. The servant scrambled, slipping on the blood-slicked stone, panic stripping her of coordination. She fell forward, her face striking the floor with a sickening crack. Blood spilled instantly as she screamed, clutching at her nose.
Somehow she found her feet, sobbing, and fled the chamber, leaving smeared red footprints behind her.
Thomaz watched her go with a faint smirk, his eyes bright with satisfaction,
In the barracks, Captain Andrew wasted no time.
“Mandatory searches of every property in the city,” he barked. “Any refusal—drag them into the street and flog them. Ten lashes. That should remind them who owns their doors. Move. Now.”
The guards surged out in disciplined waves. Within minutes the city convulsed.
Doors were battered down. Cupboards torn from walls. Pottery shattered across stone floors. Homes were reduced to wreckage by men following orders too quickly to think. Cries echoed through the streets as families were hauled outside, fear spreading faster than fire.
One guard hesitated when he reached his assigned house.
Inside stood his sister.
He lowered his voice, desperate. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t refuse. If you do, they’ll whip you.”
She shook her head, eyes fierce despite her fear.
He swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he dragged her into the street. When he raised the whip, he struck lightly—barely enough to count. Tears streamed down his face with every lash.
Captain Andrew saw.
He pushed through the crowd, boots splashing through broken crockery and spilled water.
“What the fuck do you call that?” he roared.
The guard stammered, barely able to stand. “I—I can’t. She’s my sister.”
Andrew looked at the woman once. Then at the guard.
He tore the whip from the man’s hands and went to work. Ten lashes. Hard. Fast. Unrelenting. The sound of leather on flesh cracked through the street, each strike drawing screams from the watching crowd.
When it was done, Andrew turned back to the guard.
“Strip him.”
Two soldiers seized the man and tore away his uniform down to his breeches. Andrew didn’t hesitate.
Twenty lashes.
The guard collapsed before the last one landed.
“No special rules,” Andrew snarled, breathing hard. “Not for blood. Not for weakness.”
The city erupted.
Outrage spilled into the streets as flogging followed flogging, screams stacking atop screams until they blurred into a single, furious roar. One man, driven past restraint by intrusion and humiliation, barricaded four guards inside his warehouse and set it alight. Flames clawed up the walls. The guards’ screams cut through the smoke—high, desperate, unmistakably human—until the fire swallowed them whole.
It took twelve men to bring the arsonist down. Twelve shoulders slammed into him before he finally hit the street hard enough to be shackled and dragged away, still spitting curses through bloodied teeth.
Fear and fury fed each other.
Elsewhere, Olivia and Christopher were being bundled onto the back of a horse-drawn wagon, hidden beneath layers of hay. They dared to peer through the straw, eyes wide, watching the city tear itself apart. Smoke smeared the sky. Guards ran past. Somewhere nearby, another scream ended too abruptly.
At the front of the wagon, Margarette sat stiff-backed beside Jonathon, the draft horse plodding forward at an infuriatingly slow pace. Each hoof beat felt like a countdown.
“Hold steady,” Jonathon muttered.
They were stopped twice. Then a third time.
Guards stepped forward, hands on weapons, eyes sharp with suspicion. Jonathon met their gaze calmly, his voice rough but confident.
“I knew you when you were little ankle-biters,” he said. “Made weapons for your fathers and grandfathers. The very same ones you’re carrying now. Served you well, have they?”
The guards hesitated. Then nodded. One of them waved them through.
“All clear.”
As the wagon creaked onward, Blacky—the were-cat—leaned closer, a crooked grin splitting his sharp, feline face.
“You didn’t really know them, did you, Johnny boy?”
Jonathon snorted. “Did I fuck.”
Margarette’s hand cracked sharply against the back of his head.
The wagon rolled on.
Moments later, they passed beneath the portcullis. Behind them, iron chains rattled, then the gate slammed down with a thunderous crash that echoed through the streets.
The city was sealed.
No one in.
No one out.
“Stay hidden a little while longer,” Margarette whispered as the twins stirred beneath the hay.
Blacky spoke softly from the shadows of the wagon. “We need to go to Edena. Elvina is there. She might understand what’s happening better than any of us.”
Jonathon nodded and tugged gently on the reins, guiding the draft horse onto a narrower road. The city fell behind them, its smoke thinning into the horizon.
Margarette glanced sideways and stiffened. In the distance, the Corruptor’s dark tower clawed at the sky, a jagged silhouette against the fading light.
“What a horrible fucking sight,” she muttered.
Jonathon gasped, scandalised.
She rolled her eyes at him. “I can swear like a bloody sailor when I want to, I’ll have you know.”
Blacky climbed quietly into the back of the wagon and vanished beneath the hay. Olivia and Christopher, careful not to giggle, reached out and scratched behind his ears. He purred despite himself.
They travelled on without stopping, nerves stretched thin, afraid that rest might invite discovery. Roads blurred into one another. Day bled into night, night into day.
After four days and three nights, exhaustion finally forced their hand.
They made camp deep in the wilderness. Blacky slipped away without a word, dissolving into the trees. He returned two hours later with a bundle of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder, eyes bright, expression unreadable.
While Margarette prepared a small fire, Olivia and Christopher wandered the edge of the clearing, stretching stiff legs, moving in slow circles like animals relearning space.
Christopher stopped suddenly and pointed upward.
A bright streak cut across the sky, silent and fleeting.
Blacky joined them, his voice low and gentle.
“Your first shooting star?”
“A shooting star…” Olivia murmured, still watching the sky. “I read about them in one of Agatha’s books.”
She glanced at her brother. Christopher’s expression hardened instantly.
Blacky froze, rabbits dangling halfway to Jonathon’s hands.
“Agatha Patricia?” he said slowly.
Christopher groaned, rubbing his temples, then nodded.
“Rubian calls her mother.”
“Her mother,” Olivia blurted out, as if the word itself were an accusation.
Christopher slapped his palm against his face.
Margarette shuddered, a full-body recoil as though something foul had brushed past her memory.
“That woman,” she said tightly, “is a vile, nasty piece of work.” Her eyes dropped to the twins. “Was she the one who scared you? Who hurt you?”
The twins nodded—small, careful movements, as if even now the truth might punish them.
Something dark flashed across Margarette’s face, sharp and dangerous.
“I’ve a mind to march back into that wretched city and give her fifty lashes myself.”
Jonathon set the rabbits aside and placed a steadying hand on his wife’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He didn’t contradict her. He didn’t need to.
The fire crackled softly.
Olivia and Christopher exchanged a glance, then sat down beside the fire. Both exhaled heavily, as if they’d been holding their breath for years.
Christopher spoke first, his voice flat, practised.
“She trained us. Weapons, mostly. I had two daggers.” He glanced at his hands, flexed his fingers. “Olivia had the bow.”
Olivia nodded, eyes fixed on the flames.
“She taught us to read and write. Numbers. Some words in the ancient language—names of elements. Fire. Stone. Air.”
Christopher swallowed.
“If we made mistakes, we were punished.”
“No food,” Olivia added quietly. “No water.”
“No sleep,” Christopher said. “Not until we got it right.”
The fire popped. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called.
Olivia’s voice dropped even lower.
“If we kept failing… she locked us away.”
Christopher finished the sentence without looking at anyone.
“Metal coffins.”
A beat.
“Full of cockroaches.”
Both twins shuddered, the memory crawling visibly over them.
Jonathon stared at them, genuinely at a loss.
“But why?” he asked softly. “If she was your mother… why would she treat you like that?”
The twins answered together, their voices steady with certainty.
“She’s not our mother.”
The words settled into the clearing like ash.
Margarette’s hands curled slowly into fists, her jaw tightening as she stared into the fire, while Blacky’s tail lashed once through the hay—sharp, silent, furious.
The rabbits turned slowly over the makeshift spitfire Jonathon had rigged together. Fat hissed as it dripped into the embers. For a while, no one spoke. They ate in near silence, the crackle of fire and the scrape of bone the only sounds daring to exist.
Then—leaves rustled.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
Everyone except Blacky.
A moment later, a black cat stepped into the firelight. A wine-red mark shaped like a crooked crown stained the fur on its brow.
Blacky didn’t look up. He simply hurled a cooked rabbit.
The cat caught it neatly.
“Oooh, rabbit—my favourite!” he chirped.
Mid-sentence, his form shifted. Where the cat had been now stood a small boy, barefoot and sharp-featured, his eyes still unmistakably feline. He took a large bite before bowing theatrically.
“Oh—and Jeremy, at your service.”
Blacky finally glanced at him.
“Red crown,” he said flatly. “Why are you here?”
“Tsk. My name is Jeremy.”
Blacky’s eyes darkened, just a shade.
“Oh, geez, father,” Jeremy sighed, rolling his eyes. “Lighten up, will you?”
He took another enthusiastic bite of rabbit.
“Nekira found something in the desert. Snowy says you knew the old King Aragorn. Sent me to ask what you know.”
The fire popped.
Margarette stiffened at the name. Jonathon’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable—as old memories stirred.
And Blacky finally sat up straight, tail still, ears angled forward.
That name still mattered.
The ground trembled beneath them. Heavy, rhythmic thuds rolled through the dirt like distant thunder. Jonathon and Margarette scrambled, smearing mud over the fire to snuff it out, then dropped low with everyone else.
A mile or so ahead, Rubian rode atop his horse, a cavalry trailing in precise formation. The pounding of hooves against earth sent a shiver down the spine of everyone crouched in the underbrush.
Rubian lifted his head, nostrils flaring. He sniffed the air, the scent of the night mingling with faint smoke from their extinguished fire. He frowned, but dismissed it—probably just remnants of the soldiers’ earlier meal.
The twins froze, eyes wide and muscles locked in fear.
Rubian’s gaze swept the area with practiced caution. Then, without a word, he nudged his horse forward, retracing the path back toward the city.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Every breath seemed too loud, every twitch of a leaf like a trumpet. Deathly still, they waited, hearts hammering.
Jeremy, still chewing his rabbit, eyed another piece slyly. Blacky’s paw smacked it away with quiet authority.
“Go check the area,” he hissed.
Jeremy exhaled, muttering under his breath, but obeyed. He slipped quietly into the shadows.
Minutes stretched. Then he returned, crouching low beside the group.
“Coast is clear,” he whispered. “But there’s a travelling troupe coming from the other direction…”
The group exchanged wary glances.
The travelling troupe rounded the bend. Jonathon was busy reattaching the harness to the draft horse and wagon, hands moving quickly but carefully.
Perched atop one of the caravan roofs sat a short-haired calico, fur patterned with a white crown. Her gaze locked on them immediately.
“Ooooh, look! A red crown,” she called, tail flicking. “You’d be a perfect fit with us—our little band of misfits…”
Jeremy blinked, lowering the rabbit slightly.
“Who… who are you?”
The calico tilted her head, whiskers twitching.
“Oh, where art thou?”
Jeremy glanced at Blacky, his father, expecting an explanation. Blacky simply shrugged, equally baffled.
“If thou be lost,” Christopher said suddenly, his voice small but sharp, “where doth lost shall I be?”
Everyone froze. Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “Christopher!”
“Oh, someone’s clever!” an old man from the caravan crowed, leaning on a gnarled staff. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “We’re headed to Edena, And ye?”
Another man leaned over the old man’s shoulder, eyes landing on Jonathon as he held the reins of his draft horse.
“Looks like ye horse needs new shoes, mate,” he said with a grin.
Jonathon glanced down at Bessie’s hooves, then nodded.
“Fine eye you’ve got. I’ll get her sorted in the next town…”
The man dropped lightly from the caravan, landing with a soft thud.
“I’ll sort it for you now. No problem.”
Margarette gave a small, approving nod to her husband. The twins huddled closer to her, watching the exchange quietly.
The white-crown calico, still perched above, let out a soft titter.
“Fine, fine,” she said, tail flicking. “Since you lot are all so… boring, I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Flo. And yours?”
Jonathon’s brow lifted slightly, Margarette’s lips pressed together in an amused smile, and even Blacky’s ears twitched with mild curiosity.
Christopher looked from Flo to Blacky, then to Jeremy, and back again.
“So… are you like them?”
Flo followed his gaze to the two male were-cats. Slowly, deliberately, a mischievous light bloomed in her eyes. She lowered herself onto her front paws, arched her back with exaggerated grace, tail lifting high.
“I am beautiful,” she purred. “I am sassy. I am elegant.”
She rolled one shoulder and smirked. “I am lust and desire wrapped in fur.”
She licked her paw slowly, deliberately.
“So no, my dear… I am nothing like them.”
With a teasing smile, while licking her lips, she says almost to casual,
“I am a lady, I have lady parts.”
Christopher stared at her, brow furrowed. He turned slowly to his sister, utterly lost.
Olivia smirked, then let her voice slide neatly into his mind.
‘Lady parts brother… she has breasts and a vagina…’.
Christopher’s face went scarlet.
“Oh,” he muttered, suddenly fascinated by a patch of dirt near his boots.
Flo laughed, delighted. Jeremy snorted. Blacky closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Chapter 15, Overwhelmed
Thomaz sat rigid on his throne, fingers clenched white against the carved arms, his voice cutting like a blade.
“Why,” he snarled, “were two of my guards blown to smithereens?”
The Captain of the Guard stood alone before him. Tall, broad-shouldered, his once-black beard now threaded with grey and white, he looked suddenly older under the king’s gaze. His hands trembled despite himself.
“I—I do not know, my lord,” he said. “I saw it from the guard tower. Two scrawny-looking folk emerged from the palace. They were carrying weapons taken from the royal armoury. There was… colour. Red and blue light. Then—” His voice faltered. “Then there was an explosion. The soldiers were simply gone. Their matter—” He swallowed. “Splattered across the courtyard.”
Thomaz slammed his fist into the arm of the throne. The crack echoed through the chamber.
“Where are they now?” he roared. “Did you catch them?”
The captain drew a long breath and shook his head.
“No, my liege. We searched every district, every property. There was nothing. No trail. No witnesses.”
The king rose slowly. His temper did not flare—it coiled. From his belt he drew a dagger, its hilt heavy with jewels, the blade catching the torchlight as he rolled it lazily between his fingers.
“Someone lied to you,” Thomaz said softly. “Not even the traitor Vivi could have escaped my city so quickly.”
The captain opened his mouth, words tangling before they could form.
With a flick of his wrist, Thomaz threw the dagger.
It struck true, burying itself in the captain’s throat. The man collapsed soundlessly, blood darkening the stone at the foot of the throne as the blade continued to gleam, indifferent and precise.
Thomaz did not sit back down.
“Andrew!” the King screamed.
The sound had barely finished echoing when a stocky, heavyset man strode into the throne room. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to violence, his shoulders thick with muscle, his gaze steady.
“My king,” he said, bowing his head. “How may I assist you?”
Thomaz turned slowly, studying the man as one might examine a weapon lifted from a rack.
“You,” he said at last, “are the new Captain of the Guard.”
Andrew dropped into a bow as deep as his broad frame would allow.
“Your first task,” Thomaz continued, his voice cold and precise, “is to find, capture, torture, and execute the scrawny, magic-wielding bastards who stole from my armoury and blew my guards apart. Leave no stone unturned. No alley unsearched. I want fear to outrun them.”
“Yes, my king,” Andrew said, bowing once more before turning on his heel and marching toward the barracks.
Behind him, servants slipped into the throne room like shadows. Two maids dragged the former captain’s body across the stone floor, the dead man’s boots leaving dark smears in their wake. Another—young, pale, and shaking—knelt with a bucket and cloth, scrubbing at the blood trail as if she could erase what had just been done.
Thomaz watched it all in silence, the throne room already returning to order, as though violence were simply part of its daily rhythm.
Thomaz strode across the throne room and seized the servant by the hair, yanking her violently to her feet. She cried out in shock, the sound sharp and desperate. He dragged her close, forcing her face level with his, his grip merciless as his gaze crawled over her.
“P-please…” she stammered, words breaking apart. “D-don’t, m-my king…”
He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, his voice low and poisonous.
“How old are you?”
She trembled so hard she could barely speak.
“I’m t-twenty, m-my king…”
Thomaz studied her eyes, unblinking.
“Such a waste,” he murmured.
He leaned closer, invading what little space she had left and licked her face, then released her hair without warning. She collapsed to the stone floor with a dull, heavy thud.
“Get the fuck out of my throne room,” he snarled. “Now.”
He punctuated the command with a kick to her side. The servant scrambled, slipping on the blood-slicked stone, panic stripping her of coordination. She fell forward, her face striking the floor with a sickening crack. Blood spilled instantly as she screamed, clutching at her nose.
Somehow she found her feet, sobbing, and fled the chamber, leaving smeared red footprints behind her.
Thomaz watched her go with a faint smirk, his eyes bright with satisfaction,
In the barracks, Captain Andrew wasted no time.
“Mandatory searches of every property in the city,” he barked. “Any refusal—drag them into the street and flog them. Ten lashes. That should remind them who owns their doors. Move. Now.”
The guards surged out in disciplined waves. Within minutes the city convulsed.
Doors were battered down. Cupboards torn from walls. Pottery shattered across stone floors. Homes were reduced to wreckage by men following orders too quickly to think. Cries echoed through the streets as families were hauled outside, fear spreading faster than fire.
One guard hesitated when he reached his assigned house.
Inside stood his sister.
He lowered his voice, desperate. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t refuse. If you do, they’ll whip you.”
She shook her head, eyes fierce despite her fear.
He swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he dragged her into the street. When he raised the whip, he struck lightly—barely enough to count. Tears streamed down his face with every lash.
Captain Andrew saw.
He pushed through the crowd, boots splashing through broken crockery and spilled water.
“What the fuck do you call that?” he roared.
The guard stammered, barely able to stand. “I—I can’t. She’s my sister.”
Andrew looked at the woman once. Then at the guard.
He tore the whip from the man’s hands and went to work. Ten lashes. Hard. Fast. Unrelenting. The sound of leather on flesh cracked through the street, each strike drawing screams from the watching crowd.
When it was done, Andrew turned back to the guard.
“Strip him.”
Two soldiers seized the man and tore away his uniform down to his breeches. Andrew didn’t hesitate.
Twenty lashes.
The guard collapsed before the last one landed.
“No special rules,” Andrew snarled, breathing hard. “Not for blood. Not for weakness.”
The city erupted.
Outrage spilled into the streets as flogging followed flogging, screams stacking atop screams until they blurred into a single, furious roar. One man, driven past restraint by intrusion and humiliation, barricaded four guards inside his warehouse and set it alight. Flames clawed up the walls. The guards’ screams cut through the smoke—high, desperate, unmistakably human—until the fire swallowed them whole.
It took twelve men to bring the arsonist down. Twelve shoulders slammed into him before he finally hit the street hard enough to be shackled and dragged away, still spitting curses through bloodied teeth.
Fear and fury fed each other.
Elsewhere, Olivia and Christopher were being bundled onto the back of a horse-drawn wagon, hidden beneath layers of hay. They dared to peer through the straw, eyes wide, watching the city tear itself apart. Smoke smeared the sky. Guards ran past. Somewhere nearby, another scream ended too abruptly.
At the front of the wagon, Margarette sat stiff-backed beside Jonathon, the draft horse plodding forward at an infuriatingly slow pace. Each hoof beat felt like a countdown.
“Hold steady,” Jonathon muttered.
They were stopped twice. Then a third time.
Guards stepped forward, hands on weapons, eyes sharp with suspicion. Jonathon met their gaze calmly, his voice rough but confident.
“I knew you when you were little ankle-biters,” he said. “Made weapons for your fathers and grandfathers. The very same ones you’re carrying now. Served you well, have they?”
The guards hesitated. Then nodded. One of them waved them through.
“All clear.”
As the wagon creaked onward, Blacky—the were-cat—leaned closer, a crooked grin splitting his sharp, feline face.
“You didn’t really know them, did you, Johnny boy?”
Jonathon snorted. “Did I fuck.”
Margarette’s hand cracked sharply against the back of his head.
The wagon rolled on.
Moments later, they passed beneath the portcullis. Behind them, iron chains rattled, then the gate slammed down with a thunderous crash that echoed through the streets.
The city was sealed.
No one in.
No one out.
“Stay hidden a little while longer,” Margarette whispered as the twins stirred beneath the hay.
Blacky spoke softly from the shadows of the wagon. “We need to go to Edena. Elvina is there. She might understand what’s happening better than any of us.”
Jonathon nodded and tugged gently on the reins, guiding the draft horse onto a narrower road. The city fell behind them, its smoke thinning into the horizon.
Margarette glanced sideways and stiffened. In the distance, the Corruptor’s dark tower clawed at the sky, a jagged silhouette against the fading light.
“What a horrible fucking sight,” she muttered.
Jonathon gasped, scandalised.
She rolled her eyes at him. “I can swear like a bloody sailor when I want to, I’ll have you know.”
Blacky climbed quietly into the back of the wagon and vanished beneath the hay. Olivia and Christopher, careful not to giggle, reached out and scratched behind his ears. He purred despite himself.
They travelled on without stopping, nerves stretched thin, afraid that rest might invite discovery. Roads blurred into one another. Day bled into night, night into day.
After four days and three nights, exhaustion finally forced their hand.
They made camp deep in the wilderness. Blacky slipped away without a word, dissolving into the trees. He returned two hours later with a bundle of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder, eyes bright, expression unreadable.
While Margarette prepared a small fire, Olivia and Christopher wandered the edge of the clearing, stretching stiff legs, moving in slow circles like animals relearning space.
Christopher stopped suddenly and pointed upward.
A bright streak cut across the sky, silent and fleeting.
Blacky joined them, his voice low and gentle.
“Your first shooting star?”
“A shooting star…” Olivia murmured, still watching the sky. “I read about them in one of Agatha’s books.”
She glanced at her brother. Christopher’s expression hardened instantly.
Blacky froze, rabbits dangling halfway to Jonathon’s hands.
“Agatha Patricia?” he said slowly.
Christopher groaned, rubbing his temples, then nodded.
“Rubian calls her mother.”
“Her mother,” Olivia blurted out, as if the word itself were an accusation.
Christopher slapped his palm against his face.
Margarette shuddered, a full-body recoil as though something foul had brushed past her memory.
“That woman,” she said tightly, “is a vile, nasty piece of work.” Her eyes dropped to the twins. “Was she the one who scared you? Who hurt you?”
The twins nodded—small, careful movements, as if even now the truth might punish them.
Something dark flashed across Margarette’s face, sharp and dangerous.
“I’ve a mind to march back into that wretched city and give her fifty lashes myself.”
Jonathon set the rabbits aside and placed a steadying hand on his wife’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He didn’t contradict her. He didn’t need to.
The fire crackled softly.
Olivia and Christopher exchanged a glance, then sat down beside the fire. Both exhaled heavily, as if they’d been holding their breath for years.
Christopher spoke first, his voice flat, practised.
“She trained us. Weapons, mostly. I had two daggers.” He glanced at his hands, flexed his fingers. “Olivia had the bow.”
Olivia nodded, eyes fixed on the flames.
“She taught us to read and write. Numbers. Some words in the ancient language—names of elements. Fire. Stone. Air.”
Christopher swallowed.
“If we made mistakes, we were punished.”
“No food,” Olivia added quietly. “No water.”
“No sleep,” Christopher said. “Not until we got it right.”
The fire popped. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called.
Olivia’s voice dropped even lower.
“If we kept failing… she locked us away.”
Christopher finished the sentence without looking at anyone.
“Metal coffins.”
A beat.
“Full of cockroaches.”
Both twins shuddered, the memory crawling visibly over them.
Jonathon stared at them, genuinely at a loss.
“But why?” he asked softly. “If she was your mother… why would she treat you like that?”
The twins answered together, their voices steady with certainty.
“She’s not our mother.”
The words settled into the clearing like ash.
Margarette’s hands curled slowly into fists, her jaw tightening as she stared into the fire, while Blacky’s tail lashed once through the hay—sharp, silent, furious.
The rabbits turned slowly over the makeshift spitfire Jonathon had rigged together. Fat hissed as it dripped into the embers. For a while, no one spoke. They ate in near silence, the crackle of fire and the scrape of bone the only sounds daring to exist.
Then—leaves rustled.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
Everyone except Blacky.
A moment later, a black cat stepped into the firelight. A wine-red mark shaped like a crooked crown stained the fur on its brow.
Blacky didn’t look up. He simply hurled a cooked rabbit.
The cat caught it neatly.
“Oooh, rabbit—my favourite!” he chirped.
Mid-sentence, his form shifted. Where the cat had been now stood a small boy, barefoot and sharp-featured, his eyes still unmistakably feline. He took a large bite before bowing theatrically.
“Oh—and Jeremy, at your service.”
Blacky finally glanced at him.
“Red crown,” he said flatly. “Why are you here?”
“Tsk. My name is Jeremy.”
Blacky’s eyes darkened, just a shade.
“Oh, geez, father,” Jeremy sighed, rolling his eyes. “Lighten up, will you?”
He took another enthusiastic bite of rabbit.
“Nekira found something in the desert. Snowy says you knew the old King Aragorn. Sent me to ask what you know.”
The fire popped.
Margarette stiffened at the name. Jonathon’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable—as old memories stirred.
And Blacky finally sat up straight, tail still, ears angled forward.
That name still mattered.
The ground trembled beneath them. Heavy, rhythmic thuds rolled through the dirt like distant thunder. Jonathon and Margarette scrambled, smearing mud over the fire to snuff it out, then dropped low with everyone else.
A mile or so ahead, Rubian rode atop his horse, a cavalry trailing in precise formation. The pounding of hooves against earth sent a shiver down the spine of everyone crouched in the underbrush.
Rubian lifted his head, nostrils flaring. He sniffed the air, the scent of the night mingling with faint smoke from their extinguished fire. He frowned, but dismissed it—probably just remnants of the soldiers’ earlier meal.
The twins froze, eyes wide and muscles locked in fear.
Rubian’s gaze swept the area with practiced caution. Then, without a word, he nudged his horse forward, retracing the path back toward the city.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Every breath seemed too loud, every twitch of a leaf like a trumpet. Deathly still, they waited, hearts hammering.
Jeremy, still chewing his rabbit, eyed another piece slyly. Blacky’s paw smacked it away with quiet authority.
“Go check the area,” he hissed.
Jeremy exhaled, muttering under his breath, but obeyed. He slipped quietly into the shadows.
Minutes stretched. Then he returned, crouching low beside the group.
“Coast is clear,” he whispered. “But there’s a travelling troupe coming from the other direction…”
The group exchanged wary glances.
The travelling troupe rounded the bend. Jonathon was busy reattaching the harness to the draft horse and wagon, hands moving quickly but carefully.
Perched atop one of the caravan roofs sat a short-haired calico, fur patterned with a white crown. Her gaze locked on them immediately.
“Ooooh, look! A red crown,” she called, tail flicking. “You’d be a perfect fit with us—our little band of misfits…”
Jeremy blinked, lowering the rabbit slightly.
“Who… who are you?”
The calico tilted her head, whiskers twitching.
“Oh, where art thou?”
Jeremy glanced at Blacky, his father, expecting an explanation. Blacky simply shrugged, equally baffled.
“If thou be lost,” Christopher said suddenly, his voice small but sharp, “where doth lost shall I be?”
Everyone froze. Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “Christopher!”
“Oh, someone’s clever!” an old man from the caravan crowed, leaning on a gnarled staff. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “We’re headed to Edena, And ye?”
Another man leaned over the old man’s shoulder, eyes landing on Jonathon as he held the reins of his draft horse.
“Looks like ye horse needs new shoes, mate,” he said with a grin.
Jonathon glanced down at Bessie’s hooves, then nodded.
“Fine eye you’ve got. I’ll get her sorted in the next town…”
The man dropped lightly from the caravan, landing with a soft thud.
“I’ll sort it for you now. No problem.”
Margarette gave a small, approving nod to her husband. The twins huddled closer to her, watching the exchange quietly.
The white-crown calico, still perched above, let out a soft titter.
“Fine, fine,” she said, tail flicking. “Since you lot are all so… boring, I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Flo. And yours?”
Jonathon’s brow lifted slightly, Margarette’s lips pressed together in an amused smile, and even Blacky’s ears twitched with mild curiosity.
Christopher looked from Flo to Blacky, then to Jeremy, and back again.
“So… are you like them?”
Flo followed his gaze to the two male were-cats. Slowly, deliberately, a mischievous light bloomed in her eyes. She lowered herself onto her front paws, arched her back with exaggerated grace, tail lifting high.
“I am beautiful,” she purred. “I am sassy. I am elegant.”
She rolled one shoulder and smirked. “I am lust and desire wrapped in fur.”
She licked her paw slowly, deliberately.
“So no, my dear… I am nothing like them.”
With a teasing smile, while licking her lips, she says almost to casual,
“I am a lady, I have lady parts.”
Christopher stared at her, brow furrowed. He turned slowly to his sister, utterly lost.
Olivia smirked, then let her voice slide neatly into his mind.
‘Lady parts brother… she has breasts and a vagina…’.
Christopher’s face went scarlet.
“Oh,” he muttered, suddenly fascinated by a patch of dirt near his boots.
Flo laughed, delighted. Jeremy snorted. Blacky closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
