Leering eyes

Evening in the merchant quarter bled the colors from the world, turning crimson awnings to rust and gold-leaf signs to dull bronze. Kyra walked half a step behind Arman, her hood drawn low despite the thinning crowds.

Something silver caught her eye—a delicate chain collar displayed in a leatherworker's window.

"Could work," she murmured before thinking.

Arman stopped mid-stride. He lifted his eyebrow lifted in silent question.

"For the academy," she added too quickly, tail lashing against his leg. "If I'm to play pet, might as well look convincing. Not that I'd actually—"

The shop bell jingled as he entered.

Inside smelled of oiled leather and beeswax. The elderly craftsman barely glanced up before his gaze snagged on Kyra's ears.

"That one." Arman tapped the glass above a silver-linked collar lined with velvet. "Adjustable?"

Kyra's claws pricked through her gloves. "This was a joke."

"Jokes don't keep you alive." His calloused fingers tested the clasp mechanism. "Silver doesn't tarnish. Won't chafe your fur."

The measuring tape slithered around her throat before she could protest. She stood rigid, acutely aware of Arman tracking the craftsman's every movement.

"First gift for your companion?" the old man asked.

Kyra felt Arman tense. "Necessity."

Yet when the cool metal settled against her skin with a whisper-soft click, something unfamiliar fluttered in her chest. In the cloudy mirror, the collar gleamed against her russet fur like moonlight on river stones.

Outside, her fingers kept straying to the links.

"You're fidgeting." Arman's voice carried an edge she couldn't decipher.

"It's strange," she admitted, then bared her teeth. "Though if some noble tries scratching behind my ears—"

"I'll let you bite them." The ghost of amusement in his tone sent warmth curling through her.

Three merchants spilled from a wine shop, silk tunics stretched over indulgent bellies. The lead man—beard oiled to a shine—noticed Kyra first.

"Gods above," he slurred, "since when do street mutts wear silver?"

Kyra's hackles rose, but Arman's hand on her elbow kept her moving.

The second merchant licked his lips. "That's no stray. Look how it heels to its master."

A meaty hand reached for her collar.

Kyra's world narrowed to sour wine and rotting teeth as fingers brushed her throat—

—then vanished with a wet snap.

Arman held the merchant's wrist at a brutal angle. "You mistake what you see." His voice could have frozen hellfire.

"Unhand me! We only wished to admire your pet! Perhaps make an offer to—"

The words died as Arman stepped closer. Not with the posturing rage of drunkards, but with the terrible patience of a landslide beginning its descent.

Kyra saw the exact moment they noticed his eyes.

The black bleeding through white. Pupils swallowing light like graves drinking rain. The merchant's bladder let go before Arman spoke another word.

"Never mind, maybe another time."

They ran.

Kyra expected triumph. Instead, she found Arman's hands trembling where they hovered over her collar, checking for damage without quite touching her.

"You're shaking," she observed.

His jaw worked. "You're not."

Kyra caught his wrist, pressing his palm to the silver at her throat. She felt his pulse leap against her claws.

"Now we match."

The inn greeted them with warm lamplight and the scent of roast vegetables from the hearth downstairs. Kyra stepped through the doorway first, ducking her head slightly as she entered. The collar around her neck felt heavier indoors—like a symbol she hadn't yet decided how to wear.

She wasn't afraid of him.

Mira's silhouette filled the doorway of their room, backlit by firelight. Her sharp gaze catalogued Kyra's collar, Arman's rigid posture, the lingering adrenaline in their scents.

"Trouble?" She hefted a satchel bulging with supplies.

Kyra grinned. "They tripped over themselves running away."

Arman shouldered the pack without comment. His fingers lingered on the strap nearest Kyra's shoulder.

Mira's sigh could have wilted flowers. "A tomb first, then a crypt, those are some weird tastes you have young master" Arman just shrugged, she produced a velvet pouch. "For the fox. In case your… disguise needs refreshing."

Kyra upended it—a silver bell, its clapper stuffed with wool.

"Subtle," she deadpanned.

Mira smirked. "It's engraved."

Tiny fox tracks circled the base, interspersed with sword strokes. When Kyra looked up, Mira was adjusting Arman's cloak with surprising gentleness.

"2 weeks," the maid said sternly. "Be at the western gate at the academy or I assume you're dead."

As Mira turned to leave, Kyra caught her wrist. "Thank you. For the—"

"I know." Mira patted her cheek. "Now go. Before he remembers how reckless this plan is."

The collar felt lighter in their rented room, warmed by Kyra's skin. She touched it absently as Arman slumped into the chair by the dying fire, his head lolling back in exhausted sleep.

Moonlight through the window painted his scars silver. The same metal that now circled her throat.

Kyra tugged the blanket from the bed and draped it over him.

His hand caught her wrist as she turned away. Not with force—just the barest pressure, his fingers curling weakly even in sleep.

She didn't pull free.

She sat beside him, watching the fire dim. His breathing was slow and steady, and she could feel the faint warmth of it brushing her shoulder.

For a long time, she didn't move.

She didn't want to.

Because for the first time in years, she didn't feel like prey.

She didn't feel owned, or traded, or caged.

She felt wanted.

She felt his.

And whether he knew it or not… he was hers too.

Outside, the city held its breath.

And Kyra kept silent watch over the boy who fought shadows like they were made of flesh.