Raka doesn’t leap or collapse or shout. She steps forward with grace and gravity—like someone choosing a new pack, not submitting to a new master. She straightens as she moves, just a little taller, just a little prouder.
Not taken. Chosen.
Kit catches the signal and stills, holding back from sealing anything official. Her expression softens—no playfulness now, something quieter, something real beneath it. She watches Raka like she’s seeing more than strength, like something missing has finally taken shape.
She leans lightly against my shoulder, voice low. “She doesn’t just want a home.” A small breath. “She is one… waiting to be built around.” Her fingers curl faintly against my arm. “That kind of strength… we can lean on it.”
Her amber eyes flick back to mine, glowing in the firelight.
“She’ll guard your back. And when the cold gets in too deep… maybe she’ll keep you warm better than I can.”
That one landed. Not through the bond. Not through magic. Just… truth.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. She leaves it there—the choice, mine.
I leaned in, close enough that only she’d hear.
“Kit…”
A breath.
“This doesn’t work without you.”
My voice softened.
“None of it does.”
My thumb brushed lightly against her hand.
“And she wouldn’t be mine.”
A quiet pause.
“She’d be ours. And we’d be hers.”
A heartbeat passed between us.
I felt it settle in my chest—heavy, real.
And I didn’t quite know what to do with it.
The silence stretched just a little too long.
So I steered us somewhere safer?
“Besides…”
A faint smirk tugged at my mouth.
“Sisters can play.”
My voice dipped, teasing again—but warmer now.
“Cat and wolf together… we ready for that?”
Kit’s grin returns—slow, wicked—but softer around the edges, building on the moment rather than replacing it.
“Mmm… I thought you’d say that.”
She stretches, lazy and deliberate, fully aware of the eyes on her, then settles lightly against my side.
There’s something different in her posture now. Not just playful.
Certain.
And for a second—just a second—I can’t tell if that certainty is hers…
…or something the bond is shaping into place.
“Oh, we’re ready.” Her tail flicks once. “Wolf and cat. Fire and frost.” A quiet hum of amusement. “You’ll never know peace again.”
She leans in close, almost touching, her voice dropping just for me.
“Better rest up, Master.”
Kit pulls back, amber eyes dancing, clearly ready to watch me deliver the final word… and welcome someone new into the family. I exhale slowly, then turn.
The Tabaxi Woman watches me closely—those sharp, feline eyes missing nothing. For just a moment, something flickers there. Disappointment, maybe. Or the quiet ache of what could have been. Gone just as quickly. She hides it well, like a hunter covering a wound.
“You weren’t the wrong choice,” I tell her, voice steady. “Just not the right one for this.” A small pause. “I hope you find a path that fits you better than this would have.”
She studies me for a long second, then bows—not low like a servant, but like a warrior to someone she’s decided is worth respecting. Her tail curls low behind her, ears dipping once.
“You chose well,” she says. A beat. “I’ll walk my own path.”
There’s something in her voice now. Not broken. But not untouched either.
She turns with quiet grace, settling back into the shadows of the cage. Still strong. Still dangerous. Just… not mine.
Raka steps forward.
No rush. No performance. The torchlight rolls across her silver-gray fur, catching in the braids along her shoulders. Those golden eyes lock onto mine—then flick to Kit—then back again. Not testing. Not waiting. Understanding. Protecting.
And before I can speak, she moves.
Raka, the torchlight rolling across her silver-gray fur as she lowers herself to one knee, one hand to the earth, the other to her heart.
“I choose you,” she says, simple and certain. “I choose this family. I give myself willingly—to your bond, your path… and your madness.” A faint smile touches her lips.
Something in my chest tightens.
“So long as I stand, none shall touch what is yours,” she continues. “And if I fall…” A breath. “I fall protecting it.”
She lowers her head—still, grounded. Not waiting for permission. Just ready.
I step forward, stopping just short of the bars. “Raka.”
She looks up.
“This doesn’t make you mine.” My voice is steady. “It makes you ours.” A glance at Kit. “And us… yours.”
Then I reach through the bars and take her arm, steady and firm, helping her rise to her feet.
Raka’s hand feels solid in mine—calloused, strong, but warm. As I help her rise, there’s no hesitation in her movements. She doesn’t need help standing… but she lets me help anyway. That matters.
Her eyes lift to yours, fierce and steady.
I don’t look at him when I call out. “Slave Trader.” The word tastes bitter. “We’ve chosen.” A tight breath. “Bring what’s needed. Oils. Sigils. Whatever you use.”
My jaw tightens—some of it for him… some of it for me.
“And make it quick.”
The shadows near the tent’s edge stir.
From behind a half-curtain of oily cloth, the trader steps into view. Still loathsome—grease-slick and sharp-eyed, gold teeth catching the firelight—but now there’s something else in his posture. Interest. Reverence twisted through greed.
He knows what this means.
Coin.
“Ahhh… so the mighty chooses his moonwolf,” he purrs. “Yes… yes. I shall prepare the rite.”
He claps twice. His slaves move in, quick and practiced—laying out the circle, setting the oils and braziers, readying the tools.
From a coiled case, The Greasy Slave Trader pulls the brand. Gold. Faintly glowing.
I’ve seen it before.
On Kit.
“She shall be yours,” he grins. “And yours… hers.”
Raka steps forward without being told and kneels at the center of the pattern. The incense thickens. Kit moves beside me, quieter now—watching, remembering. One hand brushes my arm, grounding.
I step into the circle.
The trader pricks our thumbs—mine and Raka’s—and mixes the blood into silver-thread ink. He binds our wrists together with a narrow strip of cloth, the same as before.
“Speak her name,” he says. “Speak the bond.”
I meet Raka’s eyes. Golden. Steady. Certain.
“I am Vincent Locke—Harem-Master and Sorcerer. I claim Raka as my bonded companion—freely chosen, freely given… and shared.”
The cloth ignites.
The flame doesn’t burn. It pulses. Gold and silver light threads between us—through wrist, through chest, through something deeper.
Raka inhales sharply. Not pain. Impact.
And then—I feel her.
Raka’s heart—like a thunder drum—fierce, steady, built from loyalty and blood-deep strength. It slams into my chest, carrying everything with it—the grief she buries behind growls, the hope she never dared give voice to, the quiet, aching need to belong.
Kit gasps softly beside me, her fingers tightening around mine, her tail puffing in sudden awe.
And I feel her too—Kit—her memory bleeding through the bond. The circle. The fear. My voice calling her home when she thought she was just something to be sold. And now… this.
The bond flares—three threads weaving together, moonlight, firelight, and something brighter between them. A triad.
Raka shudders, her breath catching like she didn’t know she was holding it. Her eyes glisten. Not tears—not quite—but close enough to matter.
I lean in, voice low. “Raka… you’re not alone anymore. You’re part of us. Pack. Pride. Home.”
The bond settles—not snapping shut, but rooting.
A warmth blooms through all three of us—a steady hum of safety, affection, and something deeper.
The trader says something—slick, transactional—but it barely reaches me. He doesn’t matter.
Only us. Me, Kit… and Raka.
It’s magic. I know that.
…but I’m choosing to believe it’s more.
I choose to believe in us.
I reach into my coin pouch and hand over the agreed payment—heavy enough to wipe the smug off his face, not enough to make him forget his place. He counts it quickly, lips twitching with some oily farewell, but I’m already turning away.
“Kit. Raka. Let’s get out of here.”
Kit is on her feet before the words are fully spoken, her hand brushing Raka’s arm in quiet reassurance—no show, just instinct. She sticks close, eyes on the path now, protective in the way only someone claimed and kept can be.
Raka takes a second longer—not hesitation, but weight. Her gaze lingers on the circle where the bond was sealed. Then she looks at me. At Kit. A single nod—strong, sure. Her hand finds Kit’s shoulder. Her other finds mine.
We start walking.
Past the cages.
The smell of sweat and resignation clings to the air. Chains shift. Low murmurs scrape through the silence. Eyes—dull, broken, bitter—follow us.
I don’t speak. I don’t slow.
Not here.
Not until we’re past the bars, through the final gate, and into the late-day light where the world feels a little more open.
When we emerge from the tent, the tension eases. My steps grow lighter.
And finally… I smile.
Kit lets out a breath and grins back, her tail flicking once.
Raka doesn’t quite smile yet, but her expression softens. She stands a little taller at my side, walking with us—part of it now.
I glance at her in the light of the market—silver and gray fur rough and matted from neglect, clothes torn and stained from the cage and the treatment. But her eyes—
still gold.
Still unbroken.
“I think it’s time to get you cleaned up,” I say gently, voice soft but steady. “And fed. You hungry?”
Raka lets out a low, grateful sound and nods.
Kit steps forward with a warm smile, tail swaying lightly. “We’ll get you well. You’re safe now.”