The morning doesn’t arrive with birdsong or sunlight. It arrives with a low groan—and the unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard not to admit they’re hungover.
The bed, so inviting the night before, has betrayed its dimensions in the daylight. It’s just a little too small for a half-giant, a wolfkin, and a limber catwoman with absolutely no concept of personal space in her sleep. Limbs are tangled. A knee is lodged somewhere unfortunate. A tail—two, technically—twitches under the covers. The blanket has become a battlefield, half-dragged off the bed and clutched by whoever won the last unconscious skirmish.
Someone’s breath is warm against my neck. Someone else’s hair is in my mouth.
No one moves.
Light dares to slip through the shutters. Raka groans and flops an arm over her eyes. Kit burrows deeper, practically vanishing under the covers with a muffled:
“Murder the sun…”
I'm fairly certain one of my legs is numb.
I make the mistake of trying to shift.
A soft, warning growl from Raka stops me.
Kit, still half-asleep, murmurs, “Don’t move. We’ll all die.”
It’s dramatic.
It’s possibly accurate.
There’s a strange intimacy to it—not the heated kind, but something quieter. Groggy. Tangled. Real. We trade half-lidded glances, a silent agreement passing between the three of us:
No sudden movements. No loud noises. Gods help whoever knocks on that door.
Eventually, Raka’s voice cuts through the haze, rough with sleep but edged with dry humor.
“You two radiate heat like bonfires. I think I died twice in the night.”
Kit groans.
“And you kick in your sleep. We nearly lost the blankets at one point.”
Raka snorts. “Blame the wine. Or the harem-bed buff. It’s cursed.”
No one argues.
We all settle again, unwilling to break the warmth—or risk the cold floor. Morning can wait. Hangovers can sulk in the corner.
The light finally wins the battle, slicing through the curtains in long golden slats that land like judgment across the foot of the bed.
Groaning, I stretch, the wine finally giving way to thirst and responsibility. Kit mutters something muffled against my shoulder. Raka shifts, ears flicking toward the sounds of the street beyond the window.
I clear my throat, voice rough but amused.
“Alright, ladies… we’ve had our harem-bed cocoon. But the world still turns. We need water, food… and Raka, we really need to get you some actual clothes before the shops close.”
Raka groans into the pillow and drags the blanket over her head.
Kit laughs softly behind me, voice velvet and teasing. “But she looks so cute in your shirt. All long legs and wolf fluff. Who knew oversized could be underdressed?”
I glance over. Raka shifts, and yeah—my shirt is not meant for someone a head taller with that much leg. It barely brushes her thighs when she sits up.
I smirk. “Pretty sure the shopkeepers call the guard if she walks in like that. Or worse.”
Raka snorts from under the pillow, then peeks out with a bleary, toothy grin. “Fine. Clothes. Food. But if someone dares a dirty look, I bite.”
“Deal,” I say, dragging myself out of the bed with a long stretch. “We’ll burn the rags, get you fitted, and maybe—just maybe—find real breakfast before the whole city melts.”
Kit is already rolling out of bed with exaggerated drama, her silver hair sticking out in every direction. “I want fruit. Cold fruit. Maybe juice. Or a bath in juice.”
Together, we start pulling ourselves together—still tangled, still a little wine-soft, but moving forward. One hungover step at a time.
A new day. And maybe… something more than just survival.
I stretch without thinking—long, slow, and powerful, the morning light catching across bare skin as my shoulders roll and my back arches just enough to feel it. It’s unconscious.
It’s also not unnoticed.
Kit’s eyes flick up, lingering for a second longer than she probably means to. Raka watches too, quieter, more assessing—but just as aware.
I catch both looks and smirk faintly over my shoulder.
“You two stay put,” I say, voice still rough from sleep. “Recover. Bathe, plot, braid each other’s hair—whatever it is lovely women do when left alone in a room with soft beds and no expectations.”
I scoop up my belt and pants, pulling them on with practiced ease.
“I’m going to go loot us some breakfast from the taproom,” I add, glancing back. “Eggs, bread… maybe something fresh if the gods are feeling generous.”
A beat, then a grin.
“You’ll know it’s me coming back by the smell of pastries and poor decisions.”
Kit flops back dramatically onto the pillow. “Bring something juicy. Or greasy. Or greasy and juicy.”
Raka mutters, already half-claiming the blankets again, “If you come back with dried porridge and call it breakfast, I’m throwing you through the window.”
“Noted,” I say.
The door closes behind me with a quiet click, leaving the room full of tangled blankets, fading laughter, and two women who—for the first time in a long time—feel just a little bit safe.
The taproom below is already busy—hungover merchants, yawning caravan guards, and halfling staff weaving between tables with trays of hot bread, steaming mugs, and sizzling pans of eggs and meat. A little charm, a few coins, and maybe a wink or two later, I've “commandeered” a tray that feels suspiciously perfect.
For Kit: soft flatbread dusted with sugar and rose jam, saffron yogurt, and a pot of bitter coffee she’ll drown in honey and cream.
For Raka: roasted lamb with crushed herbs, spiced rice, and fire-pepper chutney.
For me: whatever survives the climb—likely a buttery meat pie and two mugs of ale. Hair of the dog.
I knock once, then push the door open with my hip. “Hope you didn’t redecorate too hard while I was—”
The room smells like warmth, sleep, and shared laughter, light filtering in soft and lazy. Kit has claimed the tiny vanity, brushing out her silver-white hair with my comb, wrapped in one of the inn’s towels, her vine tattoos faintly glowing in the morning light. Raka stands barefoot by the window in my shirt—now more a daring tunic on her frame—white hair loose over her shoulders, watching the street with quiet, wolfish interest. Both turn—eyes immediately on the tray.
Kit’s eyes light up. “Did you bring offerings to the altar of ‘forgive us for last night’s wine’?”
Raka’s grin shows teeth. “…Is that lamb? You’re a legend.”
I set the tray down with a small flourish. “I looted, I plundered, and I may have flirted with a cook. All for you.” A brow lifts. “So… what have you two been up to? Planning a coup? Stealing my shirts? Replacing me with a prettier paladin?”
Considering the bounty, they answer at the same time. “Thank you, Master.”
The words land together—and I feel it through the bond: a brief, overlapping warmth—Kit’s playful affection, Raka’s steady, grounded gratitude.
Kit hides a smile behind her cup, eyes half-lidded, fully aware of the effect. Raka gives a small nod—respectful, but warm now, touched with humor instead of distance. There’s no trace of the cage.
I don’t just enjoy spoiling them—I enjoy that they mean it.
We take our time with breakfast in that lazy, sun-dappled room. I sit cross-legged on the bed, slicing off bits of food and sharing them by hand now and then. Raka’s appetite is… enormous, but oddly polite about it. Kit eats like a cat—small bites, long sips—but every so often she steals something from Raka’s plate just to earn a low warning growl.
There’s laughter. Crumbs. Bare legs brushing under the covers. A quiet, content kind of indulgence.
At one point, Kit leans in and rests her head against my shoulder without asking, eyes closing for a moment. “This is how freedom tastes,” she murmurs. “Warm bread and good company.”
Across from me, Raka watches for a second, then says it plainly. “You treat us like we matter. I won’t forget this.”
That lands.
I shake my head slightly, a faint smile pulling at my mouth. “I don’t treat you like you matter,” I say. “You do matter. Both of you.” A small pause. Softer now. “You’re my world.”
The moment lingers—quiet, full, and real.
Eventually, I clear my throat and sit up a little. “Alright… reality check. Raka can’t walk the city with her tail and half her bum hanging out of my shirt.”
Kit snorts.
“You two stay here,” I add, reaching for my shirt. “I’ll hit the market, find her something that fits, and come back.”
Kit raises a hand lazily in a mock salute. “Bring back a cinnamon roll and I might forgive you for leaving.”
Raka just smirks, crossing her arms. “Make sure they stretch,” she says. “I have thighs. Big ones.”
I leave the inn with a light expression, the warmth of breakfast still lingering, the bond humming steady in my chest. For a few steps, everything feels easy.
Then it falters.
Not all at once. Not a break. Just… a drag. Subtle at first, like a breath I miss and can’t quite catch again. My stride slows. My chest tightens. The warmth fades—not gone, but stretched thin.
My vision dulls at the edges. Mana leaks—not a surge, not a crash—just a slow, steady draining, like something left open and bleeding without my notice.
The bond stretches.
And suddenly I feel it for what it is.
Distance.
The HUD flickers into place, unhelpfully calm.
[Subclass Trait: Bonded Core]
Proximity tether active: bonded companions required for full effect.
Bonuses fade with distance.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Each step away from The Feisty Dwarf makes it worse. My limbs grow heavier, like I’m walking through water. The quiet presence of Kit and Raka—always there, always close—pulls back, muffled. Not gone. Just distant. Like hearing someone through thick glass.
I swallow, steadying myself.
They’ll feel it too.
I push something back through the bond—not words, just intent, wrapped tight so it doesn’t slip.
I’m okay. Didn’t expect this. I’ll be quick.
Kit flickers—uncertain, like a purr that stutters.
Raka answers differently. Sharper. A low, instinctive tension pressing back against the distance, like something in her bristles at being pulled away.
They trust me.
But they feel it.
I don’t browse.
I don’t haggle.
The market blurs past in color and noise. I find the first stall that looks remotely usable, grab what Raka needs, drop coin, and move—fast.
Because the farther I go, the worse it gets.
Halfway back, I drag the HUD open again, forcing focus through the haze.
Proximity Tether:
At least one companion nearby sustains full effect.
I stop for half a second, breathing hard.
“…Only need one.”
Relief flickers—but thin. Doesn’t fix this. Just explains it.
I break into a jog.
Back to the inn. Back to them.
Because now I know—
I’m not just weaker out here.
I’m not whole.
Not without them.
By the time I hit the tavern steps, it feels like breaking the surface of deep water.
Air.
The moment I step inside, something releases in my chest. The world sharpens. Color returns. The bond surges back—full, warm, immediate.
Alive.
I take the stairs two at a time and push the door open.
Both of them turn at once.
And then they’re moving.
Kit hits first—arms wrapping tight, breath warm against my chest. Raka follows a heartbeat later, slower but stronger, her grip firm and grounding, like she’s making sure I’m actually there.
The bond hums—loud now, steady, whole again.
“That was terrible,” Kit murmurs, voice muffled. “What happened? You just… dropped. I could barely feel you.”
“I didn’t know,” I admit, holding them both tighter. “The subclass… it’s proximity-based. The farther I got, the more everything thinned. The bond, the buffs… all of it.”
Kit exhales shakily. “We felt it. Like something was wrong.”
Raka’s growl is softer now—relief, edged with a little anger.
“…Don’t do that again.”
After a moment, I pull back and lift the bundle.
“I did manage to get these, though.”
Raka takes the breeches, eyes flicking over them. Something softer passes through her expression before she looks away.
“No more tail-and-thigh scandal in public,” I add, smirking.
There’s a flicker of gratitude in her gold eyes, but she still scolds, “Don’t ever do that again… I just got here to protect you.”
Kit leans into me again, quieter now, voice soft against my shoulder.
“Next time… take one of us.”
I glance between them—really look.
“…Yeah,” I say. “I will.”