Master shakes his head once, slow and then pushes up onto his knees. I snarl low and immediate, tail lashing hard enough to slap the tiles, claws sinking into his cloak and yanking him straight back down against me with a possessive growl that vibrates through my chest.

  "No," I hiss against his ear, voice cracked. "You don't get to stand. Not yet. Not without me.".

  He doesn't fight it. Instead he drops his head, nuzzling into the side of my neck, Alderian, no fangs but the motion is a pure absolute mimicry of me, his nose is dragging slow along my neck, lips brushing the dark blue collar.

  "Good Master," I whisper, teeth grazing his earlobe. "My perfect, stupid, brave Master who jumped anyway." I lick his neck once in return, slow and claiming before I nuzzle deeper burying my face in his hair to drown in his scent.

  He finally shifts but not away, no never away from his kitten but enough to guide us both toward the far side of the roof where we overhang a windowless gap, just a narrow ventilation slit between beams. I don't let go even then, I crawl with him.

  We reach the opening. He lowers himself first, boots finding the inner wall and I follow instantly sliding down after him, legs wrapping his waist again mid descent, arms locked around his neck. The drop is short, we land soft on the warehouse floor below, dusty planks, stacked crates looming in the dark, the chemical stink thicker here but distant from the main bay.

  No footsteps. No low voices of guards, they only exist outside and on the main floor below us. Up here, on this empty level the air is stale and quiet. My cat vision cuts the dark clean, crates stacked against far walls, beams overhead but no heat signatures. We're safe for now.

  "Go find the scent Kitten, Reed did say this is a storage for that powder". My nose twitches hard the instant the words sink in, powder, storage for it. The chemical stink that’s been teasing the air since we dropped in thickens now, sharp and metallic.

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  I drag in a deep, deliberate inhale through flared nostrils, sorting the layers, dust, old wood and there, underneath it all, the powder. Heavy. Concentrated. A whole cache of it somewhere close. My cat vision slices the dark again, no bodies, no heat, just shadows and crates. Safe to hunt.

  I nuzzle once more into his neck, quick, hard rub of my cheek, fangs grazing skin in silent claim, then drop to all fours beside him, body low, tail high and flicking tip. Claws click soft on the planks as I prowl forward.

  The trail pulls me left as the stink grows. My tail bushed huge now, ears pinned forward, pupils blown wide. I slink around a stack of barrels, then freeze.

  There.

  A heavy double door at the far end. Large source. Massive. Enough to torch the whole row if we spark it right. I spin back to Master in a fluid twist, tail whipping once in triumph, then press my whole body against his leg, cheek rubbing frantic along his thigh.

  Master takes off his backpack without a sound, he kneels and opens it, dried kindling sticks, flint and steel striker, a tight bundle of pitch soaked rags, that clever little firestarter he sorted himself.

  He doesn’t touch the doors. Doesn’t even glance inside. Just stands, turns, and heads straight back to the windowless slit we dropped through, hauling himself up the wall with one smooth pull. The bond snaps the second his head clears the ledge, five feet, maybe six, and the emptiness slams into me like a gut punch, raw and black and wrong.

  A snarl tears out of my throat, feral and panicked, tail bushing huge as I launch after him, claws digging into mortar, legs kicking hard, scrambling over the gap in a frantic scramble. I slam into his back the instant my paws hit the tiles.

  He doesn’t stop moving. Just crouches directly above the double doors below, fingers working quick and calm, prying tiles loose one by one, quiet as breathing, exposing a narrow gap straight down into the powder cache. I cling tighter, chest into his back.

  He draws a crossbow bolt from his quiver, tip now wrapped in the firestarter. Flint strikes once, spark catches the starter, fire blooming and hissing soft. He raises the weapon, levels it down through the gap he made, bolt steady, fire dancing on the tip, aimed perfect into the heart of the crates below.