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Kali froze where she was, the fur on her neck and tail prickling with alarm. Tensed, ready to flee, though she couldn’t go anywhere. Her position on the flimsy shelf was already precarious, at best, and she only stayed there with Rinzaan propping her up. Rinzaan, with his tail fluffed from the brown furred tip all the way to the base just above his very bare, cream-furred behind. All of which were on full display for Mikora. Which Rinzaan was aware of, with his dropped ears and wide, saucer-like eyes.

“Whatever you do,” Kali hissed. “Don’t drop–”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence. With Mikora, standing in the doorway, with a maternal rage the likes Kali had never seen before, she didn’t stand a chance.

Rinzaan dropped her–then the shelf under her dropped her next. Kali toppled with a sharp yelp, along with whatever was on the shelves below, and fell in a pile of bitter smelling greens. By the time she untangled herself, pulling an arm out from under a sack of dried wheat, Rinzaan had already pulled his pants back on.

And now he stood there, tail twitching, trapped by Mikora, whose bristled pelt filled the doorway. Those green, piercing eyes and snarl fixed on him, as he lightly cleared his throat. “Um–” Rinzaan lowered his muzzle and ears, making himself as small and meager as possible. “Hello, uh, Mikora. We haven’t–I, um, I don’t think we’ve met before.”

It might’ve worked, too, if he hadn’t added one of his charming smiles at the end. Mikora’s eyes widened, and a fresh fury bloomed a thunderous growl in her chest. “Get. Out.”

Rinzaan’s ears flattened. “I, uh, didn’t mean to–”

Mikora bared her teeth and hissed. From the depths of her chest, a sizzling, vicious hiss with all the fervor burning in her veins. It even frizzed the fur on Kali’s tail, and she wasn’t the target. Mikora’s threat was aimed at Rinzaan, and it hit the mark.

Rinzaan tucked his tail and ran.

Kali’s momentary fright evaporated, replaced with an irritation that pinned her ears as she struggled onto her feet. A few kicks, knocking aside some bags of grain that pinned her, and she rose with a scowl. “Hey, you don’t have to be so mean to him.”

“No.” Mikora stormed forward, tail lashing. She swept Kali’s pants off the floor and threw them at her, one leg whipping and slapping Kali in the muzzle. Mikora picked up Kali’s scarf, too, then pointed a clawed finger down Kali’s nose. “You–You don’t get to say anything.” Mikora’s eyes darted down, and she dropped her arm with another hiss. “Get your pants on. We’re leaving. Now.”

“That would be alot easier if you didn’t throw them at me–”

“Now, Kalari!”

Kali’s whiskers drew flush against her cheeks. A hiss burned behind her teeth, but Mikora’s glare and lashing tail made Kali reconsider. She just growled under her breath while she struggled back into her pants. Fumbling for an eternity, under Mikora’s judgmental glower, with her foot caught at least twice at the knees and cuffs. The waist was hardly cinched, and Mikora latched onto Kali’s arm, claws digging in through the sleeve. She yanked Kali forward, ignoring all her growled objections and stumbled steps, and dragged her out into the dimly lit hallway.

Several chefs hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching with wide eyes and curled tails. A few passing servants had also observed from the end of the hallway. Kali didn’t pay these few onlookers much heed. She only noticed the two cats standing outside of the pantry. Kali’s supposed lookout, Samirra, who had her nose pointed down at her feet, and an orange tabby that wore their fancy embroidered apron like a badge of honor. At least Kali knew who the rat was, as they passed the head chef and her haughty sneer.

She would’ve hissed at them if Mikora had given her a chance. But Kali was tripping on her own feet, trying to keep up with Mikora’s brisk stride, as they rushed into the palace.

“Mikora, slow—” Kali’s scarf smacked into her muzzle. Cast at her open muzzle, choking her for a second, until she tugged it away from her nose. Thrown at her with the same careless anger as her pants were before. Kali shifted the scarf, lopsided, over her ears, as best she could with her single free hand. The other, in Mikora’s vice-like claws, was useless. “Stop!”

“No!” Mikora spat back. “I will not!”

“You’re being–”

“What?” Mikora came to a halt, and she whirled around on Kali, showing her pointed white teeth. “I’m being what? Responsible?”

Kali rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

“No, not whatever.” Mikora dropped Kali’s arm and raked her claws down her face. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you did this!”

“It’s not that big a deal–”

“No?” Mikora’s ears popped up. She laughed. One cold, bitter laugh. “Not to him, it’s not. He can do whatever he wants, and his dam and sire can pay for any repercussions. You? You know we don’t have that luxury!”

“We?” Kali scoffed. “Everyone at the palace worships you. You can get away with whatever you want. You mean I don’t have that luxury.”

“No. You don’t.”

Kali’s ears flattened, hearing her snide remark get ignored. “I know. That’s what I said,” Kali continued, flashing her teeth with each word. “I know what I’m doing.”

“No, clearly, you don’t,” Mikora growled through her clenched teeth. “You abandoned your post–your training for this!”

“It hasn’t even been an hour.”

“Kals, it doesn’t matter! You left!” Mikora snapped. “This is serious. Not every cat gets a chance at being a Mjauzi, and even fewer get a chance to train up here. This is an incredible honor. A chance that so few cats in Mjau can even dream of.”

“I know!”

“You don’t!” Mikora stomped a foot on the wood floor, a sharp smack that echoed off the palace hallway’s tall ceilings. “You don’t know what it took to get us here–to get you here. I groveled for this. I begged for this–for you. So you could see where Ke–”

Mikora’s voice cracked. She stopped, took a short, quick breath, and continued. “So you could see the Mjauzi, see any of this, at all. And I begged, again, after you took that bow, and you shot that target, and the way you smiled–It took so much to get here. To get you here. For you to come this far and be as good at this as you are. And you would throw it away!” Mikora snarled again. “All of it! For a worthless Dockie!”

“He’s not worthless!”

“He is, Kalari! He’s worth nothing if you let him take this opportunity away from you. If you let him take your future from you!”

“He’s not!”

“He is!” Mikora growled. “Don’t ruin this chance for yourself! Not over something so trivial–”

“He’s not trivial!” Kali’s tail whipped once, every hair on her hide bristling. “And who says I’m ruining everything? You?” Kali scoffed. “You don’t know anything. You didn’t even date a crab while you were in the Mjauzi. You can’t tell me what to do just because you have a lousy love life!”

That pricked Mikora’s ears. Her snarl dropped, taken aback, as she stared at Kali. “What? That has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t it?” Kali said with a sharp laugh. “And then you couldn’t have one decent relationship even after you left the Mjauzi. Not a single one! Not even when it’s right in front of your whiskers.” Kali’s tail whipped again, and she smirked. “You won’t even talk to Tulaziya.”

Mikora chirped. Her ears flicked, then they slowly swiveled to either side. As they always did, whenever Tulaziya was mentioned. “That’s not true.”

“No, it’s true, and everybody knows it. You can’t see anything good that’s right in front of you,” Kali said. “Just because you can’t have anything good in your life doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“Not if you run off in the middle of training,” Mikora said, her voice returning to a low chiding growl. “You can’t, if you don’t take this seriously–if you ditch so you can fool around with a Dockie.”

Kali flattened her ears, and she bared every pointed tooth in her muzzle. “I am taking this seriously! I can do this, and I can be a Mjauzi.”

“No, you can’t, Kali!”

“Yes I can!” Kali snapped. “I can have everything, because I’m not the one with the messed up arm. I’m not the one who can’t draw a bow! I’m not broken like you are!”

Mikora’s ears lifted, standing at full height while she tried to wrap them around what Kali said. Met only with the silence that permeated the hall, and a slow realization that lit behind her wide, stunned stare. Horror flashed across Mikora’s face as her ears dropped again. “How can you say that to me?” Her voice was frail with a slight tremor. Until her teeth returned, and her lip curled with renewed fury. “After all I’ve done for you–after everything I’ve given up for you! How could you say something like that? How dare you!”

“Mikora.”

Mikora froze. Her ears and tail jumped upright, and she chirped. Kali nearly did the same. She hadn’t heard the talons on the floors at all past their growling and hissing. Neither had Mikora, judging by her fluffed tail. Darshan had snuck up on both of them.

Kali hadn’t noticed all the other cats that stared at them, either. Dozens of eyes peered at them. Peeking from every doorway, every intersecting hallway, every direction Kali looked, cats watched from a safe distance away. Some with curious curled and hooked tails and others with bemused smirks and sneers. Servants and royal kitties alike. All of them watched Kali and Mikora bicker in the middle of the palace hallway.

When Mikora didn’t answer, or attempt to retract her claws digging into her clenched fists, Darshan set a hand on her shoulder. “That’s enough,” he said. “You can continue this conversation elsewhere.”

“I don’t need to.” Mikora twisted, pulling her shoulder away from Darshan. She brushed a hand down over her hackles and sighed up at the ceiling. All the frustration worked out from her fur with that single breath. Only a disappointed droop in her ears and whiskers remained when she looked at Kali again. “This isn’t who I raised you to be,” Mikora said quietly. “You’re better than this, Kals. Remember that.”

Mikora sighed one last time as she turned away. Heavy feet lead her down a hall Kali had never traveled before. Not towards the Mjauzi yards, or the kitchens. Just somewhere, anywhere, else, where Mikora could lick her wounds in private. The way she always did when they fought.

Though they’d never fought quite like this before. Not with this many cats watching them, either. Though there were fewer spectators, now that the show was over, but some snarky, parting whispers caught Kali’s turned ear.

She didn’t want to hear them. Kali flattened her ears. She fixed her scarf over them, wrapping the ends around her shoulders and tugging the hood forward so she couldn’t see so many of the cats around her. The cool fabric was some relief on her burning ears.

With the excitement over, and a lack of claws and teeth, the last of the onlookers dispersed. Murmurs, whispers, echoed through the halls as they did. Yet more rumors spread through the palace. More scorn. More judgment.

Not only was the bastard here, with her weird eye, but she was picking fights in the hall.

If she could’ve dug a hole in the floorboards and jumped into the sand, Kali would’ve. But that wasn’t so easy, at Dockside, with their polished floors and sturdy substructure. Kali’s claws didn’t stand a chance.

Instead, she kept her ears low, her nose on the floor, and started turning the way she came. Back to the lift, the Benz, where she belonged.

“Kalari, where are you going?”

Kali’s ears lifted beneath her hood. She chirped, startled yet again by Darshan’s voice cutting through the din. That smooth, flat tone, which Kali couldn’t read. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she turned to face him. Even looking at him, she still didn’t know. His tail and ears didn’t budge.

He nodded, motioning down the hallway, in the vague direction of the Mjauzi training yard. “We can resume your training. Come with me.”

“Right now? Are you ser–” Kali bit down on her tongue. That wasn’t the way to address anyone in the Mjauzi. Especially not Darshan. Kali merely nodded, and Darshan’s tail bounced once in acknowledgement. He clicked twice, and Grynkeel turned beside him, long hooked claws rapping hard on the wooden floors. Louder than ever to Kali’s ears. She still had no idea how she didn’t hear them earlier.

They both headed the opposite direction of Mikora, towards the edge of the palace and the faint scent of grass and fresh air–back to the training fields. And Kali, seeing no better options, followed them.

Not even her footsteps made a sound. Kali walked softly, each step light, her muzzle still on the floor. Ears hot, with their argument still searing in her eardrums. Her own words burned just as much as Mikora’s did.

“Kalari.”

Kali’s ears lifted again. She paused, confused, but Darshan kept walking. Grynkeel’s talons clicked in a steady rhythm alongside. She had to trot after to catch up.

Darshan took a quick breath. It sounded strange, tense, and his tail flicked once. Kali inclined her head, but he didn’t turn around or look back. But that was the first time she’d ever seen any sort of obvious expression from his tail. “You shouldn’t fight with Mikora.”

Kali’s ears lowered. Of course, given their history, even Darshan would pick a side on this. Kali licked her lips, a bitter taste in the back of her throat. “I wasn’t trying to,” she muttered. “I just–” She just ran off with Rinzaan, and when Mikora looked for her, she found them both screwing around in the palace pantry. A truth she didn’t want to admit to the Mjauzi’s leader, of all cats, even if he already knew.

“Regardless, you shouldn’t fight with her.” Darshan continued, turning his ear forward when Kali didn’t speak further. “She’s your family.”

“Does that really matter?” Kali mumbled. “It was a stupid argument. That’s all.”

“You should still apologize when you get the chance.” Darshan stopped at the edge of the Mjauzi field. Before Kali answered, he flicked his tail over towards the target. “Start again. We shouldn’t be interrupted this time.”

Kali clenched her teeth. Mikora needed to apologize first. That’s what she wanted to say, but the moment was gone. Darshan had said what he needed to, and he had moved on. Now she was doubtless expected to do the same.

Kali just had to do the same that any Mjauzi did. When they took up their bows, nothing else mattered. She had to calm down, smooth out her fur, and move on. Despite how impossible that felt. But she flipped back her hood and picked up her bow and quiver anyway, taking her place at the firing line again. She had to try. That’s what a Mjauzi–or any Mjauzi aspirant–should do.

Though the arrows felt awkward in her fingers–or maybe her fingers felt awkward. She fumbled the first, almost dropping it back in the quiver. The feathers slipped through her fingers, past her claws, and she could barely nock the arrow on the bowstring. It was like she was lining up her shot with her arms swapped.

And when she had the bow and arrow steady? When she stared at the target, all Kali saw was the shock in Mikora’s eyes. The sheer disbelief at what Kali said.

Useless. Worthless. Broken.

As expected, the arrow swerved off-course and struck edge of the target, ripping free and spiraling off into the grass.

Kali took a breath. She tried again. Again and again and again. She drained the arrows from her quiver one by one, and all were buried in the target’s edge or the grass somewhere around it. Until she reached the last arrow she had left.

She drew the string taut, hesitating as she aimed at the target. The painted lines wavered. The target itself shifted and moved in front of her eyes. A swimming, shimmering mess that she couldn’t focus on. Not with her good eye, her bad eye, or anything in between.

Everything felt wrong. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t smooth down her hackles. She couldn’t push all the thoughts swirling between her ears aside. Everything Mikora had said, everything Kali said–and everything more she wanted to say, still simmering from the heat of the moment, and she couldn’t because the moment was long gone.

She packed all that frustration into her draw. All of it aimed down the range, at the single point she needed to reach. And, just like all the attempts before, it didn’t matter. No matter how much she wanted it, the arrows weren’t landing where she wanted. And this one? There wasn’t a chance this one would listen to her, either.

The string hung on the tips of her claws, and she couldn’t let go. Instead, she eased the bow back and took the arrow off. “This just–this isn’t going to work today,” she said. “I can’t do it.”

Darshan turned an ear. “Can’t or won’t?”

That was the first thing he said, after watching every arrow in her quiver miss. As if she were being insubordinate, refusing the orders of the singular Mjauzi leader. Though with a slight lilt, she wasn’t sure if the question actually had the teeth she gave it. She couldn’t tell if he was serious, curious, or something else. The quick flick of his tail–was he dismissing whatever answer she was trying to think of? Was he annoyed? His whiskers hadn’t moved. They weren’t arched towards her, so he didn’t seem interested in a response. But he posed it as a question.

In the end, she couldn’t tell what he wanted. So Kali tossed up her hands with an annoyed growl. “Does it seriously matter?” She waved at the target, and her random smattering of arrows. “I can’t hit anything.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The way he said it, plain, mellow, like it was a simple observation, irked Kali. Even with the best intentions, or no intentions at all, the simple comment stung. He probably didn’t mean it as an insult, but her ears flattened regardless. “Yeah, I sort of figured you did. Since you’ve been, you know, watching the entire time.”

Her tail lashed now. She couldn’t help it—not even for Darshan, leader of the Mjauzi and arbiter of her entire future. She was too annoyed. “Why are you training me, anyway?” she asked. “Why would you offer? You don’t even like me.”

Darshan was quiet. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking again. His tail didn’t move, his ears didn’t lift or turn. Even now, when he looked right at her with something of a strange expression. “I don’t say much, sometimes,” Darshan eventually answered. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

“You say plenty to Mikora.”

“I’ve known Mikora most of my life.”

“And I’ve known you most of mine,” Kali scoffed. “I’ve been coming up here since I was a kitten, and you’ve always ignored me.”

“You haven’t needed my help,” Darshan said. “You’ve improved on your own.”

“Sure,” Kali muttered. “If that means missing every shot today, then yeah. I’m doing great. Fantastic. You know what? It’s fine. We don’t have to pretend to be friends. I’m not supposed to make any friends here, anyway. I’m here to train, and then leave as quickly as possible before anyone at the palace sees me and starts churning the rumor mill. That’s all.”

“You’re correct,” Darshan agreed, with a quick nod. “Though you shouldn’t care so much what other cats say.”

“I don’t care. Who says I care?” Kali growled. She didn’t growl at Darshan. She didn’t dare. But she growled at herself all the same. “Why don’t we just go back to not talking? How about that?”

“We can,” he agreed with a short, curt nod. “You can resume training whenever you’re ready.”

She got what she asked for. Darshan was silent again, but somehow that didn’t help. Not with the expectation hanging in the air, weighing on that single arrow in her hand.

Another growl itched at the back of Kali’s throat. That wasn’t what she intended. She just wanted to quit and go home. But he didn’t seem to give her a choice in the matter.

Kali still felt her hackles bristling as she nocked the last arrow. She drew it back to her ear, a single smooth breath, and she let go. That’s how this was supposed to go. Instead, she rushed, yanking the string back with a growl still burning in her chest. The string snapped loose from her fingers. The arrow veered left and hit the farthest edge of the target. She hissed through her teeth.

Of course, nothing has changed. If anything, she was even more annoyed now. She’d be amazed if she hit the palace wall.

She turned to Darshan, but he stayed silent, as requested, and only watched her. Watched with that continued expectation that she would keep practicing and accomplish something. Impress him again, like she did the first time she fired one of the smallest bows when she was still half a kitten.

Kali’s hand brushed across the top of her quiver, through the empty air, and she hissed another sigh. She took a step forward, intending to retrieve her ill-aimed barrage, but Darshan held up a hand and stopped her. “What now?” Kali asked. “I thought I was supposed to keep practicing?”

Darshan ignored her question, and he chirped once. Grynkeel hauled themselves up out of the grass with a surly yet resigned hiss. They shook their mane out and lumbered over towards the target. Kali watched, whiskers dipped with a frown, as she tried to figure out what Grynkeel was doing as they approached the target. Skull hanging low with another sullen hiss as they neared.

Grynkeel grabbed an arrow between their teeth. A single tug, and the arrow was out, and they turned and trotted back with their skull held higher than before. Some pride gleaned from completing Darshan’s request, even if they seemed reluctant before.

Kali stared, eyes wide, as Darshan plucked the arrow from Melganzi’s teeth. “I didn’t know Bryburkels could do that.”

“Few can.” Darshan set his hand on Grynkeel’s nose. “And Grynkeel doesn’t always oblige. Sometimes, they would rather nap.” A couple swift pats, and Grynkeel left satisfied and returned to lounging in the grass. “It took years of training. Jorian thought it was a waste at the time. But it worked.” Darshan nodded over towards the stables. “Melganzi was far too stubborn to try it with.”

“Or was Mikora too weak-hearted to actually train them properly?” Kali scoffed.

“That, too.” He hesitated. The tip of his tail flicked. “Though it’s not necessarily a bad thing that Mikora is lenient with them. She only does so, because she cares a great deal for them.”

“Yeah, but you care about Grynkeel,” Kali said. “And they don’t bite me.”

“It’s different.” Darshan looked over at Grynkeel, watching them shift in the grass until they found a comfortable position. “I’ve always thought that part of ourselves goes into carving their skulls. Like a piece of us becomes part of them. Mikora carved her strong will into Melganzi. The way they work together is different from how I work with Grynkeel. It’s not wrong, it’s merely different.”

“I thought you didn’t like Melganzi?”

“Nobody likes Melganzi. That doesn’t mean they don’t have their strengths,” Darshan said. “And they weren’t as temperamental when Mikora was still with us.” He looked aside at Kali. His normally stiff tail flicked again. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her. Mikora did her best with Melganzi, as she does with you. And she gave up a great deal, so you could be here with us. You shouldn’t take that for granted.”

Kali’s ears skewed. Her hand tensed on the bow, her claws digging into the leather-wrapped grip. “I know that,” Kali muttered. “You don’t have to remind me. I know she gave up everything, so I could be here. Missing every shot she used to make easily and never living up to her expectations.”

Darshan raised an eyebrow. “Did Mikora say that?”

“No, but she doesn’t have to,” Kali said. “She’s just too busy nitpicking my love-life right now to say it. If she weren’t, she’d be here, telling me how I’m doing everything wrong.”

“Would she?”

“She–” Kali’s tail lashed. She couldn’t bring herself to contradict Darshan. If Mikora were here, she would point out everything Kali did wrong. How she drew her arrows, angled her shots, the posture of her wrist and arm–Mikora would scold every hair on Kali’s pelt. But, if she were here, Kali wouldn’t still be missing every shot. Even if the nagging was annoying, Mikora wielded a bow better than Kali ever would.

“Don’t take it to heart.”

Kali turned an ear. She looked over at Darshan, but she only saw the side of his face. He watched Grynkeel, in their comfortable patch of grass, as they idly raked their talons through the dirt. “She has always worried,” Darshan continued. “Always fussed, all her life, over every one of us. You’re no exception.”

Kali’s ears flattened. “Well, she doesn’t need to,” she muttered. “It’s not her business.”

“It isn’t,” Darshan agreed. “But Mikora only says what she does because she wants you to succeed. As she does with everyone she cares for.” He hesitated, a strange twitch in his tail, as he mulled over what he wanted to say next. “She’s the reason I didn’t give up when I first started training with Grynkeel.”

Kali’s ears perked up with a startled chirp. “Grynkeel? But I thought you always worked well together.”

“Not always.” Something flashed across Darshan’s face, dropping his whiskers with something like a grimace. “They were incredibly difficult. I would’ve given up, if it weren’t for Mikora and–” He stopped himself, a moment of consideration as he looked at Grynkeel, then at the palace hallway. Another flick of his tail, while he spun the arrow in his fingers. She thought he’d gone silent again. Then he sighed. “Your father,” Darshan said. “If it weren’t for him and Mikora, I wouldn’t be here, the Mjauzi that I am today.”

Kali’s ears perked, following the slight chill in her fur. She, too, looked at the palace hallway. Checking the same way Darshan did for any stray ears. Even though they were alone, without a single other cat around, she couldn’t help her tail lowering and brushing the back of her legs. “Really?”

She didn’t know what else to say, or what else to ask. That was all she could bring herself to say. But Darshan nodded in return. “Your dad,” he said quietly. “He was the best at handling Bryburkel. I never could’ve trained Grynkeel without his help. He was an inspiration. Him and Valgarrin.”

Kali’s ears twitched. She hadn’t heard the name in so long, she’d almost forgotten it. Valgarrin. Her dad’s Bryburkel, his steed, while he was a Mjauzi. She only remembered from the times Mikora would whisper stories to her before bed. Until she couldn’t even mention Valgarrin anymore. Her throat clenched, a neat sob, any time she tried.

Kali dropped her next arrow back into the quiver. “Valgarrin?” She said, her voice hushed as Darshan’s was. “Did they do stuff like retrieve arrows, too?”

A stiff nod from Darshan. For a moment, she thought she saw something else on his face. A tension in his muzzle, his whiskers, which were always straight and loose. He took a slow breath, like he was preparing himself to take a shot. Of an arrow or a drink, Kali wasn’t sure. “You remind me of him,” Darshan said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Of Kelare. That’s why we haven’t spoken often. I haven’t known what to say around you.”

Kali’s eyes widened. Her head whipped towards the palace, but, again, nobody was there. It was only her and Darshan, and Grynkeel who slumbered in the grass, but she expected more. Armed palace guards storming onto the Mjauzi green, swords and bows drawn. Royal fanciers rushing over, ready to render the judgment. An axe raised and ready to strike both their heads from their shoulders. She expected something more than the laden silence and gentle breeze that tugged at the edges of her scarf.

Kelare and Valgarrin. Two names that were never uttered in the palace–in Dockside, the Benz, or anywhere in Mjau. No one dared. Not anyone that valued their lives. Even the royal decree, itself, wasn’t spoken of, or written into any books. A silent pact made by all the cats of Mjau, upheld by all the blood that spilled before, when a few cats did speak of them. Of the scandal that threatened to topple Dockside, all because of Kelare. Traitor to the palace. Traitor to the Mjauzi.

Because of him, and because of Kali.

Kali’s whiskers dipped. She hadn’t thought about it before, since no one would ever mention it. Mikora had told her stories about the three of them, when they first joined the Mjauzi. How Kelare joined first, and he convinced her. Pressured her into it, because he was the older and said he knew best. As an elder brother, even one from the same litter, often did. That was what Mikora told her, since Kali didn’t know firsthand.

Then Darshan joined after. Silent and awkward, until Kelare started talking to him. Since none of the other Mjauzi tried, after they only received clipped, curt responses for their efforts. Because Kelare was an even better Mjauzi and a kinder cat than Mikora was. At least, that’s what Mikora always claimed–what she used to say. Until she couldn’t say it anymore. Not even when they were alone, curled up in Kali’s hammock before bedtime. She couldn’t say his name without her voice cracking, breaking into fractured sobs that she tried to keep buried in her chest. And, not long after, she couldn’t speak Valgarrin’s, either.

And Kali had never considered, not once, that Darshan might feel that same pain. That every time she came to the palace, to the Mjauzi, she was another painful reminder that Kelare was gone. Never to be seen or spoken of again. His legacy wiped off the boards of Mjau, with only Kali, herself, left behind.

“I know,” Kali said, her ears and tail sagging. “Because I’m not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be here, part of the Mjauzi with Valgarrin. Him and Mikora. I wasn’t meant to be here, like this.”

Darshan’s ears turned forward. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s what everyone thinks when they see me,” Kali mumbled. “Or worse. And I know Mikora feels that way sometimes.” Kali dug her claws into the bow’s limb. “And I don’t blame her for that. I don’t think I can ever be as great as he was. I don’t know if I can even try.”

Darshan’s whiskers twitched. A faint line lifted a corner of his lip with a subtle smirk. “I understand that feeling too well. I often worried that I could never be the same great leader he was. His paws seemed too big to fill.”

Kali winced. “I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted. “That you kind of took the job after him.”

“I’ve thought about it every day, since he left us. With every decision I make–” Darshan shook his head. “It’s taken a long time for me to fill this role as I have. Still, that doubt remains sometimes. That I can lead the Mjauzi as well as Kelare did.”

“Then what do you do?” Kali asked. “When you’re not sure if you’re good enough, how do you deal with that?”

Darshan shrugged. “I do what I can. I try my best, as every leader of the Mjauzi has,” he answered. “That’s all any cat can do.”

Darshan spun on his tail. If he hadn’t flicked the tip, Kali wouldn’t have known to follow him. But she did, tossing her bow onto her shoulder and trotting to keep up as they headed into the armory.

Their steps echoed through the empty room. They passed the racks of training bows, heading to the far end where Elimere’s statue branched across the wall. Kali thought, at first, he was going to take Mikora’s bow off the wall. Maybe that was a vain hope, as she looked up at it, the slender limbs gathering dust. But he didn’t reach up to Mikora’s bow on one of the top racks. He reached for his own instead.

“Realize that you don’t need to fill his paws, when you haven’t filled your own.” Darshan turned his bow in his hands, tracing his claws along one limb. He paused, his claws hovering over the edge. “And I need to do the same,” he said. “I need to see you as you are. Not as Kelare.”

Kali smirked. “You mean you need to talk to me sometimes?”

“Essentially. Yes.” Darshan sighed. “Jorian isn’t the only cat with grayed whiskers. It’s hard to move on, when you’re an older cat.” His tail twitched. “That wound is never going to fully heal, and that’s not your fault.” His muzzle tensed. Taut lips narrowly sealed his snarl behind them. An anger that Kali couldn’t see in his ears or tail, or his muzzle apart from a slight wrinkle above his nose, but she saw the vicious gleam in his eyes. “No matter what anyone says, his death is not your burden. That’s someone else’s to carry.”

Kali didn’t need to ask. She knew who he referred to, even if he didn’t chance speaking it. Even in the Mjauzi armory, where none of the palace cats should ever hear them. There was only one taboo worse than speaking of her father or his Bryburkel. Even in private, Darshan wouldn’t say it.

Kali simply nodded, which was enough for Darshan. His muzzle loosened, whiskers returning to their usual place, as if all that anger vanished like he had never spoken of it.

He held out his bow. An offer Kali didn’t expect, and her eyes widened when he extended it to her. She almost fumbled and dropped it, when she finally took the bow from his hands.

Darshan’s bow didn’t have the same inviting warmth that Mikora’s did. Instead it was cool against her palms and fingertips. The dark brown, almost black surface shone like a mirror in the dim light. The bow felt calm. Reserved. Collected. Everything Kali wasn’t feeling today.

But that Darshan let her hold this bow at all? That was a level of trust between Mjauzi. Just as it was that he let her touch Grynkeel, or that he let Grynkeel run from anywhere in the palace over to where Kali was. A trust Kali didn’t really deserve. But Darshan gave it freely, just as he handed her his bow now.

“Remember this weight,” Darshan said, his voice as smooth and composed as the bow in her hands. “This is what it means to be a Mjauzi, to carry Elimere’s will in our hands. This is the target in front of you. Nothing anyone else thinks or says will change that. You wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t have potential. Potential in your own paws. Not Mikora’s. Not your father’s. Do you understand?”

Kali lowered her muzzle and tail, even dipping her ears to Darshan. “I understand,” she said. She held the bow out to Darshan.

Darshan answered with a curt nod. He took his bow and returned it to the wall, where it rested alongside the other six other bows. “Good,” he said. “Then I expect you to hit that target with your next quiver. It doesn’t matter what weighs on your arrows. Your heart, your mind, must be clear when you’re here. A Mjauzi doesn’t miss. Not even a Mjauzi in training.”

Another subtle flick of his tail. He headed out towards the field, the targets, where Grynkeel was still relaxing in the grass. Kali picked up her feet and trotted after.

It was more than he had ever said to her, in her lifetime. And more movement in his ears and tail than Kali had ever seen before–though the more she watched, the more she suspected his ears and tail always moved that way. She just hadn’t noticed the subtleties before. She was too scared of Darshan, the cold leader of the Mjauzi, to observe them.

Something she needed to change, too, just the way he swore to see her in a different light. His whiskers weren’t as straight and stiff as everyone said they were. They were just different. Like she was–like her eye was. It wasn’t something to fear, it was just something to learn and understand.

Kali took a breath. She didn’t think about Mikora. Rinzaan. The arguments. The romance. None of it mattered right now. All she saw was the target, the painted bulls-eye, with a renewed clarity that she would never forget again.

Because this was where she belonged. With Darshan, with the other Mjauzi. Standing on her own paws, without Mikora or her dad’s shadow looming over her. She would create her own paw prints in the sand. Not follow anyone else’s.

And she would walk that path alongside Rinzaan, despite everything Mikora said. He wasn’t worthless. What she felt for him? That wasn’t worthless.

One day, Mikora would accept it. When the bow on the wall, covered in dust, was in Kali’s hands. With all the stories, the memories, and the honor it bestowed. When that honor was hers and no one else’s.

“Retrieve your arrows,” Darshan said. “Then start again. We have a few hours before dawn. You should use them well, before Mikora comes back for you.”

Kali’s ears skewed. “I didn’t really think she was coming back. After–after what I said.”

“You don’t need to worry. She’ll come back.” A small smile raised the ends of Darshan’s whiskers. “If not for you, then for Melganzi. Either way, she’ll return before dawn.”

Kali chirped a laugh. “Did you just tell a joke?”

“I don’t joke. I only say what’s true.” Darshan waved at the target. “Now, go. Before the night fades.”

Kali did as she was told. She hurried over to the target, though she took her time gathering the arrows. Losing an eye wouldn’t help her now, if she rushed. And, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel as rushed now. Not as flustered and frustrated as she did before. Maybe she wasn’t as uncomfortable with Darshan, now that they’d spoken at length. Maybe what he said, about responsibility and finding her own path made the difference she needed, though she still wasn’t sure about how she would do that.

But she could figure it out, and this was where she would start. That’s what Kali knew, as she returned to the firing line, her quiver full and the target empty again. As she nocked an arrow and raised her bow, drawing the feathers back towards her whiskered cheek, she felt it again. That clarity as she looked down the range. A peace imparted from Darshan’s bow, perhaps, or his words. Likely both, since it was said that a Mjauzi’s bow reflected their owner as much as their Bryburkel was. And the cold, but soothing dark bow certainly resembled Darshan.

The target in sight again, unwavering, she let go. The arrow flew from Kali’s fingers. It hit the center. As did every other arrow from her quiver, following that one.

Because Kali was a Mjauzi in training. And a Mjauzi never misses.

So she emptied the quiver twice. First, with that commanding silence from Darshan. Then, to her surprise, with the occasional correction. Far more than she expected, after he silently watched her practice all night.

He wasn’t silent because he didn’t care, as Kali suspected before. He was silent, because he observed. All his attention was on her technique, so he could tell her what to improve. Different from Jorian and Mikora, who chided her before she had even taken an arrow from her quiver. He waited to see if she fixed her own mistakes first.

Which brought a newfound respect from Kali, as she collected her arrows for the last time, with slim rays of dawn beginning to warm the black night. And, when she was done, as she turned, it wasn’t just Darshan waiting for her. Mikora stood there, too, with her hood already pulled up over her ears. Arms crossed, and a surly frown on her muzzle, granted, but Kali was still relieved.

Though she didn’t know what to say. Even as Kali took the string off and returned her training bow to its proper rack, pondering the entire time, she couldn’t figure it out. After a quick-tailed farewell to Darshan, they hurried through the palace as they usually did. A necessary silence, but one that persisted even after they reached the service hallways. Kali didn’t say anything when they left, either, and traveled the precarious outskirts of Dockside.

Kali followed a few steps behind, holding her scarf in place as the wind tried to pull her hood off. She watched Mikora’s back, what she saw of her whiskers and ears, and her lashing, irritated tail.

Kali licked her dry lips. “Mikora?”

Mikora stopped. Her lashing tail paused mid-swing, as she turned around. Though the irritation carried into her eyes, as she glared at Kali, which did little to sooth Kali’s nerves.

Kali took a quick breath. Something to smooth her ruffled tail, which did little good. But she had to mimic that calm Darshan always had—or at least try to. Even if it didn’t work. “Mikora,” she started again. “I’m s–”

Mikora’s hand whipped from her side, stopping Kali. Held between them, her slightly curled fingers showed the points of her claws, but they didn’t lash out. Mikora shook her head. “We’ve both said enough for tonight. We don’t need to say anything else.”

“But that’s just it,” Kali said. “I just want to say that I–”

“Not tonight, Kals,” Mikora said. “We’re not arguing about that Dockie anymore. Not tonight. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“But I–”

“Kalari.”

Kali’s ears twisted aside, perturbed by the familiar cautionary growl in Mikora’s voice. She didn’t try again. She didn’t have a chance, as Mikora turned away and resumed heading towards the lift, walking even faster than before.

The apology died on Kali’s tongue, as she flattened her ears and clenched her teeth to hold back a growl. She would have to try again later, if she felt like it. Though her apology wouldn’t be half as sincere, seeing Mikora’s ears were still as thick and deaf as lead.

Maybe Kali couldn’t apologize now, but she would eventually. After she’d proven Mikora wrong and succeeded everywhere she supposedly couldn’t. That brought a slight lift to Kali’s tail, as she joined Mikora on the lift for a silent and awkward ride back to the Benz. When she proved Mikora wrong? When she had her bow, her Bryburkel, and her place in the Mjauzi–and her cute, albeit Docksider, tom at her side, then she could apologize with ease. All she had to do was prove Mikora wrong. And she would.

For now, Kali would just endure the steely silence, the awkward ride down the lift with Mikora and her lashing tail. She would crawl into her hammock, sleep it off, and start tomorrow anew, like every Benz cat did.

Kali could manage it, because soon enough she wouldn’t have to listen to Mikora’s moody growling for a couple weeks. A slip of paper waiting on her desk, retrieved from the port’s job counter, was a guarantee of that.

A few more days, and she’d be back on Sandstalker, working alongside the other apprentices and crew again. Then she could keep forging her own path, just as she did now. To becoming a Mjauzi, joining Rinzaan in the palace, and maybe moving out of Mikora’s house, so she wouldn’t have to hear her angry muttering and grumbling about all of it. To whatever ultimate destiny she forged, she would get there, one arrow–or, in this case, one voyage and paycheck–at a time