If Mika headed toward the city…

  Raian glanced to the right and to the left.

  This road…

  He said it inwardly as he walked along the route his sister often took.

  Step. Step. Step.

  He found the street now crowded with various feline races filling the marketplace.

  Daylight made the atmosphere very different from the night before. Raian knew this alley would not be this crowded once darkness fell. He lowered his gaze to the ground, allowing the crowd to pass him from all directions.

  Hmmm… A narrow side alley seemed to be calling to him.

  Without hesitation, Raian turned into the tight passage.

  Sniff. Sniff. His nose caught a scent he knew all too well.

  At once, his steps struck faster toward the other end of the alley leading to the forest.

  Fwoosh—his cloak flared behind him.

  Sniff. Sniff.

  “Here…”

  Raian crouched immediately. His eyes scanned every corner of the surroundings.

  Step by step, the scent of his sister’s herbs and flowers grew stronger.

  His whiskers trembled as the source of the scent felt very close.

  Then—

  His feet, unshod unlike the city cats, stepped onto a surface different from the damp soil at the border.

  He stopped. Looked down. His hand brushed away the dirt clinging to the object.

  Mika’s scarf.

  The scent of her blood was still strong. Raian clenched the fabric tightly in his grip.

  “Now I know…” he murmured softly.

  “This is where it happened.” His gaze hardened. “Now only the perpetrators remain.”

  Three tomcats.

  While Raian remained crouched, staring at the scarf in his hand, the fur along his neck suddenly rose.

  As if he had eyes at the back of his head, Raian slowly turned.

  And then—he felt it.

  A gaze. Watching. Unmoving.

  Somewhere in the shadow of the rooftops or the branches above…

  someone was following him.

  His claws slid out—like blades drawn from their sheath.

  Raian took a fighting stance.

  He sensed every subtle change around him—the brush of wind through leaves, the sway of grass, even the buildings that seemed to watch.

  He did not move.

  Waiting.

  Soon after, the wind blew from the city toward the forest—carrying with it a sweet scent. Unfamiliar. Intentional.

  At once, Raian’s gaze sharpened toward its source. Without hesitation, he pushed off the ground and dashed toward the scent.

  Until—

  Puff!

  A pink smoke bomb exploded right before him. Thick fog spread quickly, swallowing the narrow alley in a gray veil.

  Raian jolted at once as the sharp, cloying sweetness struck his senses.

  For a brief moment, his focus slipped.

  “As expected from the heir of Clan Sein’ei, you sensed me before I could even move.” The voice came from within the smoke.

  Not a soldier. Nor a thug.

  It belonged to something far more dangerous.

  She stepped lightly through the mist, soundless as silk on stone.

  A feline figure, slender and poised—a she-cat draped in the elegance of the Velvet Quarter, her movements fluid as water, her eyes deep as twilight.

  Her fur bore the soft hues of moon-petals and incense ash.

  Her expression was a delicate mask, carved in courtesy—yet beneath it… something watched. Measured. Weighed.

  “Madame wishes to meet you, Lord Raian.”

  Her voice was soft—refined, almost musical—yet it carried the weight of both invitation and command.

  Raian’s eyes narrowed. He knew that title did not come lightly.

  There was only one who wielded power behind perfume and painted veils. Only one who ruled the art of courtesanship as if it were an empire.

  She was no warrior. But she did not need to be.

  A courtesan by appearance. A spy by blood.

  She was an emissary of House Noctelure—trained in the arts of information, seduction, and subtle threat.

  Raian said nothing—his gaze fixed on her with quiet suspicion, reading every movement, every flick of her tail for hidden meaning.

  But the she-cat only smiled faintly, unbothered by his silence.

  “Tonight,” she said, her tone like silk sliding across a blade. “The Velvet Quarter. Midnight. Madame will be waiting for you, Lord.”

  Then, just as gracefully as she had appeared, she dissolved into the fog—leaving behind a dazzling fragrance that lingered in the air like a spell—sweet, intoxicating, and dangerous enough to make even the strongest of male felines forget their own name.

  But Raian did not forget. He only watched the mist thin and disappear—and felt the game begin.

  “Velvet Quarter, huh…”

  Raian smirked.

  He knew his sister’s attackers were three Orange tomcats. That had nothing to do with House Noctelure—an empire ruled by painted veils and velvet voices.

  Still… He moved through the surrounding streets, questioning every feline he encountered about the incident the night before.

  But—Nothing.

  No witnesses. No whispers. No shadows willing to speak.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Last night, the residents had been celebrating the season of Veralis—sharing food, offering thanks, feasting beneath lanternlight before retreating into the careless, heavy sleep so common among the feline folk after revelry.

  No one had seen anything.

  The sun began to sink, its final breath of light dissolving into dusk.

  Raian exhaled slowly.

  “Then I wait. If this is one of their usual routes… they’ll return.”

  Without another word, he scaled the tallest tree overlooking the alley.

  High above the street, he stretched along a thick branch, body still, eyes half-lidded.

  And waited. Until the night swallowed the city whole.

  An hour passed. Raian flexed his hands, still aching from earlier—dull pain pulsing through bruised knuckles and torn skin.

  More hours slipped by. The moon climbed higher, silver and indifferent. His eyes adjusted fully to the dark. Below him, the citizens continued their nightly routines, unaware of the eyes above them in the branches.

  As midnight drew near, not a single trace of orange fur appeared in the alley.

  “Seems I was wrong…”

  Raian let his arms hang from the branch before dropping down.

  Thump! His foot struck the earth.

  “Velvet Quarter… I have no other choice.”

  It was midnight when Raian began his walk toward the Velvet Quarter.

  The streets he passed were unlike any other in Vel’farra—for here, darkness did not silence the world. It awakened it.

  Laughter spilled from shadowed doorways. Perfumed smoke curled through hanging lanterns. Eyes glimmered from behind silk-draped balconies—watching… inviting.

  This was the kingdom of the night,

  where secrets breathed louder than laws, and nothing glittered without a hidden price.

  At its heart stood the Velvet Quarter itself—a towering pleasure hall carved from obsidian stone and enchanted wood,

  its archways glowing softly with runes of seduction and silence.

  It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

  A place not merely meant to be entered—but designed to pull you in. To tempt you to stay.

  And to never let you leave.

  And tonight…it called for him.

  Raian stepped beneath the glowing archway of the Velvet Quarter.

  The moment he crossed the threshold, the noise of the city dulled behind him, swallowed by perfume, silk, and soft music played on unseen strings.

  The air was warm—too warm—and thick with the scent of exotic oils, burning petals, and something darker beneath it all.

  Something primal. Especially dangerous to toms—crafted to soften resolve and loosen discipline.

  Velvet curtains hung like falling dusk, parting only as Raian approached. No one greeted him, yet every step felt anticipated. The building itself seemed to breathe with intention, subtly guiding him toward a deeper pulse within its heart.

  Eyes watched from behind latticework screens.

  Some are curious. Some are hungry. None innocent.

  He passed courtesans draped in colors too rich to name, their eyes rimmed in kohl and mystery. They did not speak. They did not beckon.

  He was not one of their usual guests. He was something else.

  And a flicker of heated intrigue glimmered in their gaze.

  At the far end of the silken hall, a curtain of sheer crimson thread parted with a whisper. A single attendant—perhaps the same courtesan who had delivered the message—inclined her head and gestured without a word.

  Raian followed.

  The walls grew quieter here. Cooler. The music thinned into silence.

  He stepped into a private chamber—round and intimate, yet impossibly tall. Above, a glass ceiling opened to the night sky, where moonlight poured down like liquid silver.

  And at the center of the chamber, reclining upon a throne woven of rosewood and shadow—

  sat Madame Sava.

  She was as still as sculpture, her robes cascading in hues of midnight and ember. Her eyes—half-lidded, traced in glittering ink—rested on Raian as though he were a poem once read in a dream… and only now remembered.

  “Lord Raian,” she said, her voice like warm smoke curling through the dark,

  “I know what you are seeking.”

  For a brief moment, Raian’s fur bristled at her words.

  Without being instructed, he took the seat opposite Madame Sava.

  Crack! The fan in her hand snapped open, concealing the faint curve of her smile behind lacquered silk.

  “Three orange tomcats,” Madame Sava said, her voice drifting through the chamber like incense smoke.

  At once, Raian’s eyes sharpened—piercing, cold, lethal. A gaze forged not in rage, but in the silent promise of retribution.

  Madame Sava did not flinch. She smiled.

  Crack! The fan closed and tapped lightly against her other palm.

  “Nothing is free in this world, my child. Nothing is ever free…” she murmured.

  Raian remained silent—unmoving, stone carved in fur. His eyes never left hers.

  “Silent, hmm? As stoic as your tradition…” Madame Sava mused softly, turning her face aside as she fanned herself with slow, deliberate strokes.

  After a long breath, Raian finally spoke.

  “What do you want… Madame?”

  Sava’s eyes slid back to him. A faint smile curved her lips; the tip of one fang gleamed beneath the veil she wore.

  “A favor,” she said, reclining deeper into the elegant arc of her throne. “In exchange for my information.”

  Raian’s stare darkened. His grip tightened against his thigh, claws pressing faintly through fabric.

  He knew. If he accepted a debt from House Noctelure, there would be no turning back.

  But… for Mika, he endured it.

  Then—Madame Sava tilted her head slightly, her gaze softening with something older than the moment.

  “That look in your eyes…” she murmured. “It reminds me of your father.”

  “So many years ago.”

  Raian did not respond.

  But the fire in his eyes began to dim—not extinguished, but softened.

  Not because he trusted her. But because something old and aching stirred behind her words.

  And then, gently, almost wistfully, she whispered:

  “For the love of golden memories—of the tom who once stood where you stand—I will tell you who they are.”

  His heart jolted.

  Raian leaned forward slightly, breath low, eyes glinting with restrained anticipation.

  “Hooligans of House Clawscar. Brutal. Loyal. Cheap.”she said,

  Her voice darkened.

  “They do not kill for principle. They do it for coin. For thrill. For the highest bidder.”

  A pause.

  “They are dogs in cats’ fur.”

  Silence settled over the chamber.

  But Raian’s silence was no longer empty.

  It had direction. It had weight. It had a purpose.

  Madame Sava tapped her fan lightly against her palm.

  At once, a shadow shifted beneath the spill of moonlight.

  A feline attendant emerged silently and placed three rolled scrolls upon the low table between them. The parchment unfurled with soft whispers.

  The faces of Mika’s attackers stared back—rendered in exquisite detail by the skilled claws of Noctelure’s courtesans.

  “They are known as the Thorn-Tail Three.” Her fan tilted toward the first scroll.

  “Their leader…” The lacquered edge touched the parchment.

  “Krann One-Ear.”

  “Sixty-two. Scarred. Calculating—yet savage.”

  “He lost half his ear in a duel with a lion ambassador. A veteran of the last war against the Sundrakar Empire.”

  A faint pause.

  “Retired from the battlefield… and found profit in the streets.”

  Raian’s gaze lingered on the portrait of the old tom.

  Then the fan shifted.

  “Muzz the Split-Fang.”

  “Large. Impulsive. Sadistic.”

  “His lower fang is broken in half—filed to a point. He laughs while mauling his victims.”

  The soft rush of air from Madame Sava’s fan threaded between her words.

  “And the last one…” Her eyes sharpened slightly. “The one we monitor.”

  “Nesk the Hollow-Step.”

  “Strong. Stealthy. Unpredictable.”

  “Unsettling.”

  Her pupils narrowed. A faint hiss slipped between her teeth.

  “Once trained by Umbrafel… but deemed too unstable. Even Umbrafel—the clan that forged assassins—could not rein him in.”

  “Cast back to the streets to rot.”

  “And eventually absorbed by Clawscar—out of necessity, not loyalty.”

  Silence settled again.

  Three names. Three targets.

  Raian’s heart pounded in heavy rhythm. His tail rose stiff behind him; his fur bristled as though it longed to roar.

  A slow smile curved at the corners of Madame Sava’s lips.

  “I know exactly where they are.”

  Raian’s expression shifted—only slightly—but the fire in his eyes sharpened into something precise. Focused.

  She noticed. She always noticed.

  “Ah…” she purred. “A favor, my child. A favor.”

  Her voice was honeyed—but the edge beneath it was forged in iron.

  “I will name it when I require it.”

  A pause.

  “And you will not refuse.”

  She leaned forward, bracelets whispering softly against silk.

  “Now go.”

  “Find them. Show them—” her voice lowered into a velvet hiss,

  “—that the Sein’ei are not rotted. Not broken. Not forgotten.”

  Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

  “Show them that the jungle remembers.”