I stayed where I was, hands pressed into dirt and dead leaves, watching the small black cat inch toward me. Its golden eyes caught the light, shifting to a pale yellow glow. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the wounds.

  Deep, fresh, and too many to count.

  My mouth had gone dry. I swallowed hard, pushing myself up with one hand against the carriage. The cat didn’t move. It just sat there, staring at me.

  There was something unsettling about its gaze. Not in a threatening way—just… off. Different.

  Street cats usually looked half-dead, ribs poking through filthy fur, bodies covered in dirt and scabs. They weren’t pets. They were pests. People ignored them, kicked them away, let them starve. But this one—this one didn’t look neglected.

  Sleek black fur, despite the wounds. Not fat, but not skin and bones either. And its eyes… sharp. Intelligent.

  I didn’t think. I just moved. Kneeling down, I pulled a strip from my sleeve, hands working before my mind caught up.

  Who did this to you? A person? Some kid messing around?

  The cat didn’t flinch when I touched it. Didn’t lash out, didn’t even twitch. Just sat there, letting me wrap the makeshift bandage around one of the deeper gashes. Too calm for a stray. Too trusting.

  I wasn’t an animal person. Never had a pet. Never wanted one. But I wasn’t blind, either. People liked to pretend animals were just dumb creatures, like they couldn’t feel pain or fear. But they did.

  And this cat—

  It was looking at me like it knew something I didn’t.

  The laughter had died out. Only the crunch of boots on dry leaves remained, fading into the distance as the men walked away. The other slaves shuffled toward the carriage, heads low, shoulders hunched. I followed, the cat pressed against my chest, its warmth seeping through my torn shirt.

  Inside, Rook was still asleep, sprawled out with two other slaves. I slid onto the hard wooden bench, tucking the cat into the shadows beneath me—somewhere dark, somewhere safe.

  Footsteps neared.

  “I didn’t know slaves could be fun,” a man chuckled, his voice thick with amusement, though not quite slurred. Not drunk—just an asshole.

  “Wait till you see the dwarves. Those little bastards are hilarious,” another voice answered, laced with excitement.

  The others climbed into the carriage, their eyes landing on me. Suspicious. Accusing. I hadn’t done anything, but their stares made me feel like I had.

  They sat. Fell silent. Waited.

  The horses snorted outside, men grumbling as they adjusted saddles and reins. Then, the curtain snapped open.

  That same bastard from before. The one who liked to watch. His eyes dragged over each of us, slow and deliberate.

  “Behave,” he said, letting the curtain hang open this time. “We’re almost there.”

  I exhaled. Kept still. Just needed to stay quiet, keep the cat hidden, and—

  “Meow.”

  Shit.

  I clamped a hand over its mouth, fingers pressing firm against soft fur. My other hand covered its nose, just for a second. Not to hurt it—just to stop the sound. To keep it safe.

  Did he hear?

  “What was that?”

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

  Yeah. He heard.

  His head turned, eyes scanning the carriage. The other slaves stiffened, some glancing around, some staring at me. Searching for the source.

  I pressed harder, the cat’s tiny body trembling beneath my grip.

  Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  Come on. Just this once—stay quiet.

  “Did I just hear a damn cat?” the man muttered, scanning the carriage. His eyes swept over the other slaves, waiting for someone to crack. But they just sat there, stiff and silent, avoiding his gaze.

  Meanwhile, I was pressing my hand over the cat’s mouth like my life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.

  Then Rook stirred. Probably woken up by all the noise. His bleary eyes met mine, groggy and unfocused.

  So, I did what any reasonable person would do.

  I pointed at him.

  The man squinted. “That so?”

  Rook looked at me like I’d just stabbed him in the back. To be fair, I kind of had.

  I gave him a look that said, Just go with it. Nothing serious. No reason to dig deeper.

  The man hesitated, then grumbled something under his breath and stepped away when the coachman called him back.

  Crisis averted.

  For now.

  “What the hell, man?” Rook whispered, scratching the back of his head. “Why’d you point at me?”

  I met his stare. He looked more confused than angry, but there was a flicker of something else—concern, maybe.

  I sighed and reached into the shadows, carefully pulling out the cat. Its little head bobbed as it glanced around at the others, ears twitching at their stunned expressions.

  Rook blinked. “How the heck did that cat even end up here?”

  “Found it earlier,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. “It was wounded… so I took care of it.”

  His gaze flicked from me to the cat, then back again.

  “…You’re an idiot.”

  “Yeah,” I said, scratching the cat behind the ears. “I know.”

  At first, the others hesitated. But curiosity won out. One by one, they edged closer, reaching out with tentative hands to stroke the cat’s sleek fur. It didn’t flinch, didn’t hiss—just sat there, eerily calm. Too calm.

  I watched it, suspicion coiling tight in my gut. For a stray, it barely made a sound. The one meow from earlier had been its only noise. Now? Nothing. Just those golden eyes watching us like it understood more than it should.

  Still, the ride wasn’t as mind-numbing this time. The cat gave us something to focus on, something to distract from the endless road and the stink of too many bodies crammed together.

  But not everyone was keen on it.

  The beastmen in the group kept their distance, their expressions unreadable. When Rook asked why, one of them finally muttered, “Black cats are bad omens.”

  Rook frowned. “What, like… bad luck?”

  “Worse.” The girl beastman tail flicked, uneasy. “Sickness. Misfortune. Early death. We don’t touch them.”

  I’d heard that kind of superstition before. In the streets, in hushed whispers. Black animals, black beasts—hell, even black objects were sometimes condemned as tainted. Some fanatics even tied it to demonic cultivation, like the color itself carried some kind of curse.

  Superstitious bullshit. Probably.

  Still, the way the cat sat there, completely unfazed, made my skin itch.

  We rode on for hours. The terrain finally evened out, the constant jostling replaced by the steady rhythm of wheels against flat earth. No more bumps. Just the wind, the creak of the carriage, and that cat—silent, watchful, like it was waiting for something.

  I ran my thumb over the cat’s head, absently tracing the space between its ears. “You’re a quiet little thing, huh?” I muttered, half-expecting it to respond.

  The cat finally looked at me.

  For the first time, I got a clear view of its eyes—pure gold, gleaming like polished metal. Not just a trick of the light, not a dull yellow like most cats had.

  I’d seen them a few times, but they still caught me off guard.

  “I won’t be surprised if a storm rolls in,” Kastor muttered, still hung up on his damn superstitions. The way he said it—dead serious, like he was bracing for the worst—almost made me laugh. Didn’t suit him.

  Kastor was one of the two beastmen crammed into this carriage with me. Eighteen, two years older than I was. But it wasn’t his age that made him stand out. Unlike the usual feline beastmen, he came from a rare and dying lineage—black lions.

  Tall, pushing six feet. Broad-shouldered, but wiry, the kind of build that came from too many years in a slaver’s cell. His fur, jet black with deep crimson undertones, was thicker than most beastmen’s, giving him an almost intimidating presence. Underneath, his skin was dark bronze, rough with scars. His hair—a wild, unkempt mane—fell around his shoulders in tangled waves, still matted from years of neglect.

  If anyone here looked cursed, it was him.

  Exhaling and shaking my head. “Come on, Kastor. If bad luck was real, we’d have run out of it a long time ago.”

  I pulled back the curtain, letting the cold air in as I looked out.

  Kastor clicked his tongue. A sharp, deliberate sound. I didn’t need to turn to know he was shifting in his seat, restless.

  “That’s the thing about bad luck,” he muttered. “You don’t run out of it. It just finds new ways to fuck you over.”

  I glanced his way. His yellow eyes—sharp, predatory—flicked toward the curtain I’d left open.

  “You might want to close that,” he said. “Don’t tempt fate.”

  Across from us, Rook shot a look our way. Probably already bracing for another one of our pointless arguments. Kastor and I had a habit of bickering over the dumbest shit—culture, superstitions, whether a word meant the same thing in different regions. It passed the time when we were locked in a cell.

  I scoffed. “What’s fate gonna do? Rain on us?”

  Outside, the riders on horseback sped up. Before, they’d been trailing behind, distant shadows against the road. Now, they were nearly level with the carriage. Close enough that I could see the tension in their shoulders.

  I closed the curtain. Kastor went quiet. Rook looked relieved.

  But in that brief moment of distraction, I missed something.

  The black cat—once curled in my lap—was gone.

  My eyes darted around, scanning every corner of the carriage. Where the in the world did that cat go?

  A sudden voice cut through my thoughts—

  “WE’RE HERE!!”

  A minute passed. Then the carriage jerked to a stop.

  The curtain snapped open, and a bald man peered inside—wrinkled face, sharp nose, a jaw shaved down to stubble. His gaze swept over the seven of us, pausing for just a second before he shut the curtain again without a word.

  The carriage lurched forward.

  I barely noticed. My focus was elsewhere, scanning the floorboards, the corners, anywhere that damn cat could’ve gone.

  Nothing.

  Rook was the only one who looked remotely concerned. The others didn’t care—hell, they probably forgot the cat existed. But it’d find its way home. It always did. I was just glad I had the chance to tend to its wounds.

  With the curtain shut, all we had left was darkness, the sway of the carriage, and the faintest sliver of light slipping through the cracks. No view of where we were going. Just movement, faster now. A few of us shifted, uneasy. Rook cast a glance toward the curtain, like looking would change anything. Like any of us had a clue what waited on the other side.

  Then the noise hit.

  A wall of human voices—cheering, roaring—too chaotic to make out words, but the intent was clear. Excitement. Anticipation.

  Then came the drums.

  Deep, pounding beats that rattled the wooden frame, vibrating through the floorboards, through my bones. The closer we got, the worse it became—so loud it wasn’t just sound anymore. It was a force. A pressure in my skull.

  I clenched my jaw and pressed my palms against my ears, but it didn’t help. The others did the same, wincing. Even Rook.

  The echoes of the drums burrowed into my head, relentless. And I wasn’t sure if it was just the noise that was getting to me.