Chapter 10: Two Doors, One War

  Fresh air brushed against Raian’s face. Warmth followed. Heavy.

  Slowly, his eyes opened. Morning sunlight slipped through a narrow wooden window, resting across his brow.

  He blinked. Pain answered first. Not sharp—but everywhere. His ribs throbbed. His abdomen burned beneath tight wrappings. Even his shoulders felt bruised from bone-deep strain.

  He turned his head. Wooden walls. Low ceiling. The scent of crushed herbs and faint incense.

  A blanket covered him. He pushed it aside. Bandages wrapped his torso, thigh, and shoulder—clean, deliberate, carefully bound.

  He tried to sit up. A hiss slipped from between his teeth. The wound in his abdomen protested immediately. He pressed his palm against it and breathed through the ache.

  “Where…” His voice was rough. “…am I?”

  He swung his legs off the cot. Bare feet touched cool wooden planks. He stood. His knees wavered. A sharp jolt forced him to steady himself against the wall.

  Alive. Barely.

  Fragments of last night flickered in his mind. Blood. Blades. Golden eyes. A tree—He frowned. The memory slipped like mist through his thoughts.

  “…a dream…” he muttered.

  He could not grasp it. Not fully.

  On a small wooden table nearby, incense smoke curled in slow spirals. Beside it—two pieces of parchment. One neatly folded. The other a rolled scroll.

  Raian stepped closer, hand pressed against his bandaged side. He picked up the folded note first. Elegant handwriting.

  Now you owe me two favors, Lord Raian. A tired breath escaped him.

  “Madame Sava…” Of course. He set it down.

  Then his fingers moved to the scroll. Recognition flickered in his eyes. He unrolled it slowly.

  The order.

  Krann.

  Tonight, a young she-cat will pass through the alley…

  Take her. Do as you please.

  Confine her in the Maw Pits.

  —Rokkan.

  His jaw tightened. The pain in his body sharpened—not from injury. From memory.

  He rolled the parchment closed. Carefully. Not crumpled. Not destroyed. Evidence.

  Then his gaze shifted to the folded garment beside the table. It wasn’t the one he had worn the night before. This one was new.

  He lifted it and draped it over his bandaged frame, movements slow and controlled.

  He clenched his fists. Strength remained. But it hurt.

  Every movement reminded him—he had nearly died.

  He walked toward the door of the small wooden hut at the border of Vel’farra.

  Measured steps. One hand still guarding his ribs.

  “They’ll be worried…” A pause. “I’m late.”

  He opened the door. Morning light spilled in. The Veralis sky stretched wide above Oraterra. Peaceful. Unaware.

  Raian stepped forward—carrying pain, debt, and proof.

  The scenery shifted gradually around him. Sparse trees gave way to thicker growth. The forest deepened, familiar and welcoming. Each step through the underbrush felt instinctive. Known.

  He passed through the stretch of woodland he had run through since childhood—until the wooden house came into view at the edge of the clearing.

  A small smile touched his lips. Brief.

  The wooden door creaked softly as it scraped across the floor when he pushed it open. “Mother… I am—”

  Step. Step. Step.

  Rapid footsteps rushed from inside the house.

  Before he could finish—

  “Oof—” Raian stiffened. Then softened.

  Two small ears pressed against his chest.

  “Where… where have you been…? I… I thought…” Mika’s voice trembled, muffled against him. Her arms wrapped tightly around his torso, careful—yet desperate.

  “Don’t disappear without a word… like Father…” she whispered.

  Raian’s expression changed. His right hand rose and rested gently on the back of her head. He stroked her fur slowly.

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  “I’m sorry… I was late.” He felt her rub her face against his chest, seeking reassurance.

  His gaze lifted.

  Across the room, Ariani had risen from her chair. One hand covered her mouth. Her eyes shimmered with tears.

  “Where have you been, Son?” she asked, her voice unsteady. Mika shifted slightly. Her cheek brushed against something unfamiliar.

  She frowned. Her hands moved instinctively, pulling at the edge of Raian’s cloak. The fabric parted. Her eyes widened.

  Bandages. Wrapped tight around his torso.

  “Bro… brother…”

  Ariani moved immediately. She crossed the room in seconds and began examining him, hands trembling as they hovered over the wrappings.

  Raian, uncomfortable under their touch, gently pushed them back.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted, forcing a faint smile.

  But Ariani would not accept it. She grabbed his arm and guided him firmly into a chair.

  “Mika! Go fetch some herbs from the river—quickly!”

  “Yes!” Mika bolted out the door without hesitation.

  “Mother… I’m fine…” Raian tried again, though every muscle in his body ached.

  Ariani ignored him completely, already untying part of the bandage to inspect the wound properly.

  Raian exhaled softly. He watched them move around him.

  Worry. Care.

  Familiar warmth filling the small wooden house.

  And he smiled.

  Yes…This is what I fought for.

  Several days later.

  Elsewhere—far from the quiet warmth of Raian’s home—a storm brewed in shadowed halls.

  Rokkan stood alone as the news reached him.

  Krann and Muzz were dead.

  For a moment, he did not react. Then—The vase flew. It shattered against the stone wall, exploding into fragments that skittered across the floor like broken fangs. Another object followed. A stack of ledgers. A dagger rack. A heavy oak chair splintered under his kick.

  “Damn it!” he spat, chest heaving.

  “Those were my best hounds…”

  His whiskers twitched violently. His claws flexed open and shut, carving shallow grooves into his own palms.

  The heavy wooden doors behind him creaked open.

  Rokkan didn’t turn at first. He already knew that presence.

  A massive silhouette filled the doorway.

  Two and a half meters of orange-furred bulk.

  A light blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with white hibiscus flowers stretched lazily across his broad frame. Loose cream-colored shorts brushed against thick calves. Dark sunglasses rested low on his brow.

  In one paw, he held a crinkling bag of chips.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Brakka the Flamejaw.

  Leader of House Clawscar.

  He stepped inside without urgency, crumbs falling casually onto the stone floor.

  Behind his tinted lenses, his gaze swept over the wrecked chamber. Broken wood. Shattered ceramic. Rage still hanging thick in the air.

  Crunch. Then, flatly—

  “You good?”

  Rokkan slowly turned. His jaw tightened so hard the muscles trembled beneath his fur. Ears angled back.

  “Yeah,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I’m good.” His gaze dropped—not in submission, but restraint.

  Brakka stared at him for one long, unreadable heartbeat.

  Crunch.

  Then he stepped closer. His chip-greased paw lifted and gave Rokkan’s left shoulder two heavy, careless pats—leaving behind a faint oil print shaped like his massive palm.

  “Cool.”

  He turned.

  Walked out.

  Didn’t look back.

  The sound of chips being chewed echoed down the corridor long after he disappeared.

  Rokkan remained standing in the wreckage. The scent of fried salt clung to his shoulder. The silence afterward felt heavier than any shout.

  And in his mind, a bitter thought coiled like smoke:

  Damn him…This lazy, gluttonous excuse for a leader—who doesn’t care about anything…Except whatever’s in his paw.

  His claws dug into the wooden desk in front of him.

  Because unlike Brakka—Rokkan cared.

  And someone had just made him look weak.

  Still seething, Rokkan stormed through the rain-slicked courtyards of Vel’farra. Heavy boots splashed through shallow pools of muddy water with each furious stride.

  Rain fell in thin, relentless sheets, turning torchlight into smeared halos of gold.

  Guards parted instinctively as he passed. Some saluted. Some avoided eye contact. None dared speak. Protocol meant nothing to him tonight.

  He had blood on his mind. His destination rose ahead—A black silhouette against the bruised sky.

  Umbrafel Tower.

  Seat of secrets.

  Seat of shadows.

  It stood apart from the other structures of Vel’farra—not integrated into the city, but looming over it.

  Tall. Impossibly tall.

  Its spire narrowed as it climbed, like a spear of obsidian driven into the heavens. The stone was dark—not merely black, but light-drinking. Rain struck its surface and seemed to vanish rather than run.

  The base of the tower flared outward into jagged buttresses shaped like folded wings or grasping talons. Narrow windows cut vertically along its height—slits more than openings—each glowing faintly with a cold, lunar sheen.

  There were no banners. No sigils displayed openly.

  Umbrafel did not advertise its power. It implied it.

  Above, the crown of the tower spiraled into a multi-tiered pinnacle of ironwork and carved stone, like a twisted crown forged for something that had never been mortal. Lightning flickered beyond distant clouds, and for a heartbeat the tower’s silhouette resembled a claw reaching upward to tear the sky open.

  No birds perched upon it. No vines dared climb it. Even the wind seemed to bend around it.

  Rokkan stopped at the base of its towering gates—twin slabs of dark metal etched with patterns so intricate they almost moved when stared at too long.

  Two Black Cat sentinels stood guard, their cloaks blending into the storm. Golden eyes. Unreadable.

  One of them spoke without emotion.

  “State your purpose.”

  Rain ran down Rokkan’s face, flattening his whiskers.

  His lip curled. “I want to speak to Veyr.”

  Thunder rolled somewhere far above.

  And the tower listened.