Rokkan walked within Umbrafel Tower. His steps were heavy—but controlled. Measured.

  Two sentinels followed behind him, silent as drifting ash. Even their breathing seemed disciplined. The stone floor did not echo beneath their paws.

  Tall candles lined the corridor walls. Their flames swayed gently, thin and patient. The dim light swallowed more than it revealed. Black fur merged with shadow. Figures passed like fragments of night given temporary shape.

  Tch. Rokkan clicked his tongue.

  What is this place… Always makes my skin crawl.

  The stone walls absorbed warmth. The air was cool, damp—too still. There was no laughter here. No raised voices. Only low murmurs, carefully measured whispers that seemed designed never to travel too far.

  The two escorts stopped. Before a tall wooden door carved with sigils few dared stare at for long. Not because they were grotesque. But because the longer one looked, the more they seemed to rearrange themselves.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Three seconds passed.

  “Come in.” The voice from within was low. Calm. Unhurried.

  One sentinel pushed the door open.

  Creeeak.

  Darkness. That was the only honest word.

  Furniture of deep black wood. Curtains the color of dried blood falling from ceiling to floor. A carpet so dark it seemed to swallow candlelight rather than reflect it. Even the air felt heavier inside.

  Near a tall liquor cabinet carved from obsidian-toned oak—He stood.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. Perfectly composed.

  His back faced the door, one hand raised, holding a bottle. The collar of his cloak rose high along his neck, nearly brushing his jawline. The fabric was matte black, edged subtly in thread that caught light only when it wished to.

  Plop. The cork slid free.

  Dark crimson liquid poured into a crystal glass.

  Clink.

  He turned slowly. Candlelight brushed across his face.

  Veyr of the Hollow Pads.

  His fur was long, immaculate, brushed into sleek order. Ears tall and precise, flicking once as Rokkan entered. His golden eyes were not warm.

  They were sharp. Assessing.

  He wore a perfectly tailored black suit—no crease, no dust. The long cloak flowed behind him, inner lining a deep red like a wound preserved rather than healed.

  The room did not merely belong to him. It obeyed him.

  Veyr lifted the glass slightly, watching the wine catch the firelight.

  “Rokkan Greets-with-Claws,” he said evenly. “What can I help you with…”

  He paused—his gaze drifting slowly over Rokkan’s soaked attire, the mud staining his boots from the road.

  “Representative of Orange Race,” he added softly.

  His fingers swirled the dark crimson liquid in the crystal glass.

  Then—“Oh… Elder of Clawscar.” A faint smirk curved beneath the rim of the wine as he took a measured sip.

  Rokkan’s jaw flexed. His fists tightened at his sides.

  The storm outside rattled faintly against the tower walls.

  Step. Step. Step. Veyr walked toward his chair.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  With a casual wave of his right hand, he gestured toward the seat opposite.

  “Where are my manners… Please. Take a seat.”

  Rokkan did not waste breath. He dropped heavily into the chair, exhaling long and rough.

  “I lost my men,” he snapped. “The Maw Pits can no longer operate.”

  Veyr remained still, his head tilting slightly.

  Then, in a voice as cold and thin as mist:

  “And so… what can this powerless cat possibly do for you?”

  Rokkan looked away, irritated by the mockery.

  “Tch. Always pretending you don’t already know my situation, don’t you? Vice Master of the greatest intelligence network in this kingdom…”

  Veyr lifted both shoulders lightly, a thin smile forming.

  “What can I say…” He adjusted his coat, the cloak shifting before he sat upright with precise posture.

  “A plea,” he said, folding one leg over the other, “is what makes a negotiation more… enjoyable.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You didn’t come here merely to inform me of your inconvenience.”

  A faint tap of claw against crystal. “You came because you believe I already know who did this.”

  A pause. “And because you suspect I may have known before you did.”

  The room felt colder.

  “So,” Veyr continued softly, “ask properly.”

  The storm outside answered with distant thunder.

  And for the first time since entering—Rokkan realized he was not here to demand.

  He was here to kneel.

  “YOU!”

  His claws shot out, sharp and gleaming. A low growl tore from his throat as his fur bristled along his spine. His pupils narrowed to slits.

  “It was you who told me there was treasure buried beneath the jungle of the Sein’ei clan!”

  Rokkan rose from his chair abruptly.

  “And you told me that if I kidnapped the little girl from that clan, they would disappear—just like their leader did! That I could claim their land, develop it… surpass Brakka… and become leader of Clawscar!” His voice trembled with fury.

  Veyr did not look at him. He merely studied the wine in his glass.

  “Yes,” he said calmly. “I did.”

  A pause. He set the glass down.

  “But…” Veyr rose from his chair with smooth precision and walked toward the corner cabinet, retrieving another crystal glass.

  “It was you,” he continued mildly, “who chose incompetent cats to carry out the task.”

  Hiss—Rokkan bared his teeth at the insult.

  Veyr poured the wine slowly into the second glass.

  “You were given opportunity,” he said without turning. “You mishandled it.”

  He extended the newly filled glass slightly—though not enough for Rokkan to comfortably take it.

  “You wanted ambition without precision.”

  Finally, Veyr looked at him.

  “And now,” his golden eyes gleamed faintly, “you want someone to blame.”

  Veyr placed the glass on the table before Rokkan.

  “Did you forget, Rokkan… which House I belong to?” He returned to his seat with unhurried grace.

  Rokkan stared at the offered drink.

  Then he took it. He downed the liquor in a single motion, the burn searing down his throat and spreading through his chest like controlled fire.

  A slow exhale left him. “Yeaah…” The corner of his lips curled faintly.

  “You are the harbingers of disaster before war even begins…” His tone was no longer shouting. It was acknowledgment.

  Rokkan placed both hands on his knees. The wood creaked faintly beneath his weight.

  “Please…” The word trembled despite his effort to steady it. He swallowed, the bitterness in his throat heavier than the alcohol.

  “Finish what I could not do.” His gaze lowered to the dark carpet beneath the table.

  “The greatest clan of assassins in Vel’farra…”

  A pause.

  “Master Veyr…”

  The title left his mouth quietly.

  A plea.

  Across from him, Veyr did not immediately answer. The candlelight flickered across his golden eyes.

  For several heartbeats, he simply observed the bowed Orange elder before him.Then—A thin smile formed.

  “Now,” he said softly, “that sounds more like a negotiation.”

  He leaned back slightly in his chair. “But assassination… carries a price.” His claws tapped once against the armrest.

  “And if the target survives?” A subtle tilt of his head.

  “Umbrafel does not miss.”

  The room grew colder.

  “So tell me, Rokkan…”

  His voice lowered almost to a whisper.

  “What will you give to our House?”

  Rokkan lifted his head.

  Rain traced thin lines down the narrow window behind him, but his gaze was steady now—locked onto Veyr across the table.

  In a single breath, without hesitation—

  “Everything.”

  His claws pressed into his own knees.

  “If I can claim the throne of my clan.”

  Silence followed.

  Not shocked.

  Measured.

  “Then…” Veyr rose and refilled Rokkan’s empty glass.

  “We shall drink for that cause.” He extended his glass, waiting.

  Rokkan gave a thin smile.

  Their crystal glasses touched with a sharp clink.

  “Indeed.”