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This city ain't so bad, I keep telling myself. The cacti are nice when you don't admire them from too close. So are the palms scattered all over Khazi, the white city of Canines. Originally founded by coyotes, but ruled under joined jurisdiction of both wolves and coyotes.

Khazi is the crown of the desert. A joke by any means, since who the fuck would like to rule over the desert? I could go on how important this place is strategically and commercially, not to mention Khazi has become a diplomatic junction in the south.

Sometimes I wonder, if the rangy coyote that put up a tent like a few hundred years ago, over a dune and announced this was his land, what would he say if he saw such a city sprouted under his feet.

The sound of the evening March of the canine legion carries with the late breeze in the air, cool, soothing, a bit crispy. Nights are getting colder, but I don't mind it, my fur protects me. On such beautiful evenings with the fellow soldiers, when music is rampaging over the bars and streets, I have this giddy, almost anxious feeling. We ARE having a good time, the cacti brandy works miracles on the gruffest soldiers even, and there are so many tails in this city.

Charming foxes, lean coyotes, big-breasted wolves and a few exotic cheetahs and leopards.

We are drinking and smoking under purple and red velvet veils, the stars shining down on us, the crescent moon seems to sit just right atop the roof the wolven embassy. Brandy flows, I'm already more than comfortably buzzed, the smoke lingering in the air makes me lightheaded with the aroma of so many canines.

The brown wolf next to me shoves another glass under my muzzle.

"Go on, Captain" The full fang grin is not absent from his snout. Before I could stop my mind, I already think what I shouldn't be. That he has a nice muzzle. And weren't for his wife I could lean in and kiss him.

When I'm drunk I get so pent up and horny like I was sixteen again.

When I'm awfully drunk I think of Keith, and HIS nice muzzle, the sparkling blue eyes and the vibrant, booming laughter that sets my tail lashing and tingling all over. Closing my eyes I could smell the snow in the mountains, hundred miles away, and the chill that had fluffed up our fur.

That fact I'm thinking about Keith tells me I had too much, and another shot would kick me over the fence, where miserable, horny, longing Captain Thomas Wright gives place to a reckless wolf, that doesn't care for his rank or his own good at all.

But what could another shot hurt? The glass is warm against my paw and lips, the brandy is crystal clear, I barely taste it. Landing it back on the table I meet Morris' eyes, if possible the grin gets wider in his face, with an expression of a true predator.

Sometimes I can't help but think he knows what I am. But he has always been a friend here, no matter what my upcoming promotion could do to our friendship.

Few of the guys go off with girls they sweet-talked into a quick rut. Soon Morris has a petit vulpine female in his arms, the rich chocolate brown fur covering his biceps, meshing with the russet and soft red of the vixen. I try not to stare and imagine those strong muscles encircle my waist.

When he kisses the vixen I have to look away, my barely functioning brain tells me to get the fuck out of here and sleep in your own bed before making a bad decision. Morris waves as I pad off, one playful wink later I'm out in the fresh air, in the bustling street of Khazi. Dancers, vendors, fellow soldiers are going on and off, I'm almost lost in the perfume of a dazzling feline that crosses the road before me. I'm aware my white shirt is soaked from my own sweat, but I'm not aware of my breath, so when I buy a cup of coffee from a sweet coyote girl, she recoils the moment she sniffs it.

As I slowly reach the barracks the furs on street get fewer and fewer. By the gate my own, lonely steps echo so loud and multiplied over the walls I have to look back twice to check if I was being followed.

Idiot wolf. No one follows a Captain. No one follows a soon to be Lieutenant. I stop to lean on the ancient granite walls, my head is swirling and tail bristling as I collect the willpower not to just crash against the barrack walls and curl up.

Dear God, Tom... why can't you hold your drink? Why can't I stop thinking about a masculine touch? Why do I smell Keith?

Then I feel the strength in me unite in one stubborn thought. There is no question I won't sleep in my own bed tonight, I pass the guards at the gate, the rooks salute to me. I wave a lazy paw, not even looking.

I don't care if they see me going off to the coyote district, or that I wobble every few steps. They see drunk officers and soldiers all the time. When I was on guard duty I bit my tongue and looked away. No one likes a big mouth in the military.

Though later I might worry if someone saw me going in the Golden Djinni.

I find the scent of coyotes strangely alluring, so strong my nose twitches in a seizure to the scents, perfumes and arousal. You don't have to guess twice what kind of place I visit at such hour.

And you also shouldn't be surprised when a coyote in his fifties pad to me, clad in a red silk shirt, with a golden necklace over his fat neck.

"Good evening, Sir." I'm grateful he doesn't say my name. The second best thing in this place is the discretion the house provides. "I'm glad you join us, been a while since your last visit."

This coyote is always disgustingly polite, I wonder how long that would last if I forgot to pay once.

That never happens, though, he takes me to his office, a simply furnished barely lit place, with two coyote guards. It is fun to watch them tense, all shorter than me, and my clothes says it all what my job is.

They never liked military men here. Too much aggression, pride and frustration pressured into one mind and body. No matter the reason males came here to vent their pent-up need in the most carnal ways.

There was an accident last year when a hot-shot kid barely used to his uniform severely beat a girl here... why I don't know. But I'm not looking for a girl either.

Heavy coins drop onto the desk, Oga, the head coyote sweeps it into the desk, his smile widening. My head still buzzes with the haze of brandy, but the whole scene is at least moderately clear.

"Who do you prefer tonight, Captain? Or should I say Lieutenant already?" I have no idea how he knows it, but my sheath is thinking instead of my brain as soon as he asked. "We have a wonderful new fox boy, you might like him."

"Ari, get me Ari." I rumble over him before he could go into details.

"Very well, Captain. As you wish." The 'yote glances at the parchment rolled out on the heavy desk. I couldn't read whatever is on it even if I pressed my nose against it close. "He is in the back room, past the fountain, I'll walk you there."

The guard coyotes visibly relax as my tail leaves the office, the scents are still unreadable to my foggy mind, but my nose stopped wrinkling at least. My mind is on Ari, the tall, prairie coyote...

Water cascades from a stone fish into a darling little poor, the bright orange lanterns hang like gigantic fireflies buzzing, suspended in thin air.

Ari is already at the door, same sharp, handsome muzzle, perked ears, and I don't even think whether they are forced or genuine. My money is real and genuine, my sheath is harder each second, and I won't care if he is happy to see me or pretends it.

We are ten feet away before Oga stops. "May I remind you, Captain, of our rules of no violence, abuse verbally or physically."

"Did I ever hurt him?" I say, not even looking at him.

"It is my duty to remind you, Captain. I wish you find pleasure in my house." He hands me a little leaf of mint, standard of him, though I don't know if he affords such thoughtful gestures to his other 'clients'.

I bit on it strongly, the sharp mint spreading over my tongue and gums. Clarity kicks me in the ass and I'm suddenly aware I ended up in the little backyard of the most 'revered' whorehouse in the city, where Ari is looking sweetly at me, waiting and ready.

At the age of eighteen, as I entered the military, I never thought I would go for males in my life. I wanted a quiet girl, a wolfess who cooks right and raises the kids while I'm away on duty. When I was twenty one I never even dared to think I would sleep with prostitues.

Now I'm thirty, horny, fixed on a male coyote. His hide is creamy and almost white. But not the kind of white Keith was, Ari's body is leaner, the 'yote muscles less pronounced, bit wiry. His eyes are also the wrong shade of blue.

But it works.

I gulp down the rest of the leaf. When I pad up to him, it is all wrong and right in the same time. I want a male, I want Ari against me, my dick is agreeing what I see but my crazy drunk mind adds: 'Still not like Keith'.

Keith was a sharp laugh, a crystal blue gaze. A passionate bite and hot breath over my ears, the touch of silvery-snow white fur,his black pads strong and callous.

Ari is obedient, polite. Paid.

The 'yote doesn't resist my kiss, I relish the show of wide eyes just before our noses touched, the flick of submissive ear as I cup the back of his head and force my tongue against his.

His paws are strong and gentle in the same time. My own fingers thread down his simple cotton shirt, already unbuttoned, just on for a show so I can get him out of it.

The piece of cloth falls down careless as our tongues battle. God I want to breed him against the door...

But that would leave him sore. When we part Ari brings a careful claw against my cheekruff, the black of his claw almost matching my fur.

"You are drunk, Tom." There is no accusation there, just plain and simple. The words are echoing another conversation I had long ago...

The growl scares him for a second as I press our muzzles into meeting again. This time I bite his lips, not hard though, and the squeal he lets loose is reaching some primal parts of my brain.

He doesn't stop me from unbuttoning his pants, the creamy paws mirror mine, and when we are both undressed and panting in lust he presses close against me, our shaft gliding smoothly, painfully erect. I'm already leaking like a virgin.

Another kiss, more tongue. He whines as I push him towards the bed.

The bed where some other guys has probably fucked him.

He is halfway to kneeling when I stop him.

"No, not now. On the bed." My voice is hoarse, commanding, our eyes meet the wrong-blue and my brown, he gets it quickly though, grinning sweetly for me.

And we go at it, desperate and wild. I don't see him lubing up, to tell you the truth I would not have waited for him actually. But Ari is always ready. He is tight, warm and slick, no chance for me to last long.

Hell I can't properly tie him I'm still so drunk.

I muffle my howl into the hollow of his neck, my shaft throbs seed into him, and I franticly push against him, over him, making the coyote hunch over. We are a panting mass, the male under me squirms, one foot trembling as I nose against his ears.

Usually I can perform more than twice. Brandy on the other paw doesn't agree on that at the moment.

Ari could let me fall asleep, and I'm close to dozing off, but he snaps me out of it with a kiss I know he must lean back way too uncomfortably.

I finally get his scent, sweet and musky, definitely coyote with a hint of coconut. But it is still wrong, my foolish mind says, though my libido overrules it as quickly as I think it.

We kiss again, slowly, the passion is still there, he is just waiting for me to gather my strength.

Two minutes later he is riding my erection, doubled over, muzzle lazily open with his pink tongue lolling out.

He doesn't fake the whines and moans I'm sure of. The tightness of the coyote is already one miracle my body strains into. But his touch is all the better, our muzzle meet in a sloppy kiss, tongues licking and teeth clashing. All the while I'm pounding away into this man.

There is no shame in me, just lust, lust and climbing need peppered with growls.

He visibly trembles when my knot penetrates him, the 'yote makes a sound I never heard from him. In one unintelligent: "Aaaugh", that could pass as a whine or a curse, he is clawing against my chest, futile but it brings me to another level of pleasure.

Takes only second to get me howl and spill into him the second time.

Sleep gets me quickly, before my closing eyes I can still make out the bridge of his muzzle, nestled against my neck, the taught muscles straining, and the occasional tremble of his body...

When I wake up it is still dark, my head is no better but at least it's no shock to find a nude coyote smiling beside me. My nose is assaulted with canine musk and semen, his too, my claws catch the sticky mess he unloaded onto my abdomen.

"Feeling better now, Tom?"

What kind of question is that? Did I look that terrible? And just what hour it is? My head hurts a little, though the world is calm in front of me, the alcohol induced swirl finally stopped.

I'm not good at post-coital small talk. Despite Ari, who takes everything so lightly and sweet, even he can't coax a decent sentence out of me. Even though he knows I find his company pleasurable not just on a physical level.

So I growl just out of exhaustion, he reaches for a mug on his nightstand, pours water into it and takes my paw. The brown ceramic mug is enclosed in my black one, Ari still holding them. It could be a romantic gesture, but I know he is just taking care of a good customer.

"Drink up. You have to go soon. I prepared a bath for you before you leave."

The third best thing in this house: A bath so no one would smell the sex on you afterwards. With an approving: hmmm; I raise the mug.

The bath is still warm, Ari's talented paws work quickly, yet sensually. If only I could bring him to the barracks, have him live in my room... I could go to him after practice, exercising, or officers meeting. Ari could be my secret lover, I don't even think what he might say to being locked up in a room that is rather spartanly simple compared to this. I dismiss the ridiculous idea when Ari finds my erection for the third time this night.

He works my knot the way it makes my tail lashing and knees buckling against the tub, for the couple of moments as my seed splashes against the white marble of the room I forget where I am.

I see only clear blue sky, the cooling water on my skin is the chill of a winter spent in the Calic Mountains. I hear the splashes as though they were coming from the river, while a callous paw takes my wrist and I become one with the memory.

"Quickly, Tom. You are going to be late." The soft voice of the coyote snaps me back, startling me to the level my hackles rise, weren't they wet I'm sure Ari would notice it.

Reality slaps me across the muzzle with a strict paw.

Toweling off I avoid his eyes, but his is content with it. I have no complaints so he will get his share of coins later in the morning I'm sure for a job well done.

He plants a soft kiss on my cheek just as I button up my shirt.

The spot becomes warm instantly, as our eyes meet I want to ask why would he do that? But he just smiles the polite, endearing little coyote smile. Plus I'm not good at reading people. Maybe he did it so I would choose him again next time.

Next time. Guilt finally kicks in, I already feel it in the pull of my ears.

I hurriedly exit the house, but the ever fucking clever owner finds me just at the entrance. "I take it you had fun. Everything well?"

That is him asking if he was to check the backyard would he find anything unsettling, anything that didn't go by his rules.

"Very Well, Oga." I say, still mellow from the previous pawjob.

That's when I see Colonel Harolds, just taking the last step from the stairs, shirt discarded on his shoulder, a sword dangling against his hips.

He notices me immediately, eyes squinting into that calculating, spooky glare he uses with every subordinate.

My heart skips a beat. If he saw me with Ari... nah, not a chance.

To my greatest relief, almost as good as a coyote jerking your dick and palming your knot, his eyes lit up in a humorous, funny gleam which makes him look a decade younger. The gray wolf pads to me in a quick stride, Oga shrinks back against the heavy curtain covering the door I just came through.

"Captain." He nods, my right paw salutes in practiced motion, boots echoing attention. "At ease."

"I take you spent your night off in a worthy method to celebrate your promotion."

"Yes, sir."

"Off to the barracks then, assembly is in thirty minutes."

I scramble off before he could add anything else, or worse, ask anything related to the partner I obviously shared the night with. I can only hope Oga keeps his muzzle shut about my preference. Though what if the Colonel was also seeing a...

Fuck that. Not my business.

Assembly is crucial in the army. You fail to appear by the command, you must face dire consequences. There are few grave errors you can make in your career as a soldier, besides the obvious disobedience, going AWOL and losing your weapon, but as my sergeant said long ago: "If you can't get your stinking tail to the assembly you might as well go to jail immediately."

So when you show up you must be immaculate, that why I'm running to my room to get a clean shirt and pants, and scrub my buttons frantically. Morris gets by, tail flicking amusedly behind him. He is wearing those grins that makes me jealous of him. I know he had some tail, and I want to brag that I had too, But that would bring questions.

"Soon to be Lieutenant Wright, aye? Are you really risking being late just before the ceremony?"

"You can kiss my ass when General Banheim gives the silver hilted sword."

"Just wash up before the ceremony than." He replies.

At the assembly we are almost late, Morris was kind enough to risk it with me, or else he was sure we wouldn't miss it.

In the Officers line, we stand still, as approximately thousand wolves and coyotes mirror us, the sun just peeking above the horizon. General Banheim goes over the front lines, the old wolf has thick pelt of gray fur, a real curse for a soldier at his age so close to the desert. But I never once heard him complain about it.

I stand next to Captain Frostpaw, who once got the cruel nickname of 'coldfeet', leading to a nasty rumor he almost left the battlefield in his early days. The timber wolf is six years older than me, his usual sour, merciless expression is present even now as he stares dead ahead.

The General is already barking orders to us when the trumpet shrieks to life from the front tower, singing the promise of: commanding staff in rout.

It might be even funny to watch two thousand ears swivel in one precise direction. General Banheim on the other paw screams on the top of his lungs immediately.

"Get fucking in line mongrels! A real man is coming, attention disgraceful pups! Morris, get to the outpost fucking now and kick them alive!" A second later Morris, the brown wolf salutes and hurries to the nearest horse, leaving through the southern gate. The dust swirls in great clouds before his silhouette disappears. The general is still barking ferociously to us, and everything that he judged acceptable a moment ago turned into atrocious faults. He scrutinized the uniform of one soldier, sentenced him two days in jail for it instantly. The general showered a fellow captain in spit for not properly cleaning his boots.

All the while the trumpet plays and the gate finally opens.

Three wolves march through on magnificent horses, the one leading up front wears the red and blue jacket, with the standard white shirt. Gold-hilted sword on the left hip and a gruesome scar over his right eye leading up to his ear.

Grand Marshall Adams arrived, as far as I know he is the only wolf in the army with that specific scar. General Banheim salutes, standing like a statue, perfectly, all muscles tense and ready to serve.

"At ease, General." To a gruff face belongs a gruff voice too. The officers try not to stare openly, fearing what our general might unleash. So we watch from the corner of our eyes, straining to see and hear something clearly.

Whetever they discuss, may it be pleasantries or strictly by the book greetings, with the wind blowing this way I can't hear a thing. Soon the two other officers (also in red and blue) but with less honours on the shoulders climb off their mares.

More salutations follow, paws shake paws, the second that Grand Marshall Adams starts to walk with Banheim at his side towards the legion the canines amassed on the court salute in a thunder of clapping boots. The Grand Marshall doesn't flick any ear at all, then it is time to introductions.

The gruff gray wolf (though a lot darker gray than Banheim) shakes paws with each officer at present, while his own men follow close behind and a regiment of High-guard soldiers at their heels.

I try not to fuck up anything in the military code as the Grand Marshall steps to me, Banheim introduces: "Captain Thomas Wright", my ears try to splay in front of the piercing yellow eyes. From this close I can see the fur never grew again on the scarred skin.

As he reaches the end of the line, the high-guards stills just a few yards from him, ready and alert. They are all big wolves, I catch the eyes of one especially enormous fella, towering among them. We stare at each other for a few seconds before I turn to the High Marshall respectfully.

"Men, I present you Colonel Grimfang" Great, another blue-blood, I think immediately as the gray-wolf points to the canine on his right, a lean, almost thin man. "And Lieutenant-general Carson." Following the casual wave that points to a young wolf of my age, barely thirty, every eyes go wide among us. Even General Banheim, gapes dumbly for a brief moment, as he looked up the guy from toe to head. I catch a murmur from the line: "That PUP?"

I'm still dizzy from the fact that a man my age ascended so high, but as I watch him closely, there is a strange, uncanny familiarity in him. That stance is so unique...

He doesn't control his tail, lets it wag lazily behind him, it is already a great disrespect in front of superiors, his ears are not alert, only hallway up.

The most startling about him is his muzzle though. He reminds me of...

Nah, that can't be, the guy is black and Keith was snow-white. Then the blue of his eyes reflect the morning sun, just for a second.

My tail lands in a thud against the grounds.

That can't be. It is Keith. But the name is wrong, Keith's surname is Yves, so that gives me the option that Keith might had a twin brother with black fur, or there is another wolf whose muzzle frighteningly resembles the first and only gay lover of my life.

I'm still looking at him, mouth open when Frostpaw kicks my boot warningly. "Quit staring, dumbass."

I almost growl back at him that he should enjoy the time calling me dumbass while he still can, but I can't turn away from the black male. Either I'm hallucinating, or the brandy from last night fucked up something in my head royally.

"They'll be staying while the conference with the draconic Exarch commences."

Just what the fuck? Isn't the conference supposed to happen in Thoribai?

"I'll take my leave, General. I'll be back tomorrow evening at seven."

The high guard splits at that point, the right half marches after the Grand Marshall, already in saddle, the remaining men turned to Lieutenant-general Carson slash fake-Keith for orders.

Just say something, please let me hear your voice.

In the exact moment the black wolf opens his muzzle the General, my commander shouts: Dismissed. Fuck it, I couldn't hear a damned thing.

The sick looking wolf now introduces himself to the rest of the staff properly, I barely pay attention to him, I'm so fixated on the black male. The suspicion that he is Keith is slowly ebbing away... what are the chances that the wolf I spent that freezing year at Icaclaw Point could change his fur? Or become such top ranking officer?

Both possibilities are highly unlikely. But even just looking at his back (and rear) I get the chills all over my tail that this is Keith. My Keith.

My Keith? Can I really say that?

My Keith left with only a kiss and half-hearted promise to keep in touch. I lost track of him a year later. I started hating him even earlier.

I want to linger so bad to talk to him, now the black wolf (fake black?), God I don't know, turns to a Colonel and says something.

Before I could pad to him General Banheim says my name.

"Captain Wright, follow me to my quarters."

"Yes Sir," My muzzle goes off as expected. I could risk a bit of insubordination, just enough so I can hear him. No... not a day before promotion.

I take one long look of him before following the general. But it doesn't help me one bit.

The grey wolf's office and quarters are surprisingly comfortable. I've been here a few times in my years, but never really alone. The office is littered with gadgets, mementos and pictures of ancient battles. A miniature ship, the first design of canine navy stands neatly on one black mahogany table. It's not every day that I'm invited in this office and be offered with a seat in the same time...

"Wright, I hear you are a dragon-friend. Isn't it correct?"

The old wolf lights a cigar, the first puff of smoke makes my nose wrinkle.

"I could say that. I met a few dragons in the Zaroshi battles I could call friends."

"Yes, I read your reports. You spoke highly of them."

"Only the truth, sir." I offer modestly. "Dragons are still noxious warriors, it is good to have them on our side."

"That be true. See I used to be anti-dragon long ago... but we must move on with the years. Dragons are allies now. We must think as comrades of them to ensure further cooperation." He inhales deeply again, while the office fills up with tobacco. "That is partly why I assign you to the Exarch's reception. A pro-dragon wolf, if I say it correctly."

"What are my duties regarding the Exarch, if I may ask?"

His brows furrow a bit. "You might not like the sound of it, but I need you to keep the dragons in line... you will be the link between them and us. One link actually, since the young." He wrinkles his nose at that, "Carson will be dealing with the Exarch along with the Grand Marshall."

"That doesn't make it clearer, my apologies, general."

"Captain... " He snaps, though I feel it is not directed at me, but whatever is on his mind. "the Grand Marshall, Carson and the rest of the 'diplomats' ", he says it with such disgust I almost smile, "will deal with the dragon committee, your job is to entertain the rest of them AND" He drags a surprisingly sharp claw against the wood of his chair. "AND report back to me."

"I'll play babysitter?" I retort.

"Yes, fuck it, Wright. Babysitter." The ashes circle around his old paw. "By the way, prepare to the ceremony this afternoon at three sharp, wish they didn't move the conference up so early."

"Anything else about the dragons, what should I... how should I entertain them?"

"That is not MY problem, Wright." He growls softly, "As far as I know dragons like their liquor just as much as we do." Take them out to dinner, show them dancers and whatever this God forsaken city has to offer. Hell if they want to sing around a fire, you will be the bandmaster and howl at every song ending! Just don't get them into trouble. No incidents, no fights, I want you to keep things civil." My ears are pulling back parallel as the general raises his voice. "Go down to the treasury," he starts scribbling notes on a blank sheet, "and give this to them, the military is paying everything regarding dragons, but only military personal. Don't you dare spend it one some bimbo or else I'll know about it."

He stamps the paper with the Canine Military Insignia, and almost throws it at me.

I scamper out of his office with a quick salutation.

I read the short script on the page and head straight to downstairs, passing a window I follow the lazy steps of one lonely soldier across the court carrying buckets. Poor fella' must be on stable duty.

The treasury is a crazy place. Always been, the vulpines and wolves down there are showered in bills and coins, their paws always smell of a spicy combination of metal and ink. And there are those weird sounds, little machines typing, never stopping.

The guards stand attention as I appear on the corner. Inside, a bright young red fox, a Sergeant by rank as I can see greets me.

"Captain Wright! How can I serve you?" The office, as I can see hasn't changed much, the canines are scribbling and counting away, one annoyed swift fox is measuring gold in the back.

"General Banheim authorized me to, with no better words, escort the dragons and show them around the city. All expenses covered by our treasury."

If there was anything because of this fella could flip out, than I just said it. His ears went from alert to splayed, then somewhere in between flicking around madly, all the while pinching the fine hairs on the bridge of his muzzle. "Josh! Where do we keep the drafts?!"

A scrawny wolf stumbles out of one room, straining to poise the countless books in his paws. "What drafts?"

"The Canine drafts!"

"What do you need them for?"

Josh saunters away, all wobbly. He is actually cute, though he wears the uniform as though the stock gave him a set two size bigger he actually needed.

"General's order!" the little fox yells back, with one ears still listening to me.

"But what for?"Comes the equally loud reply, though a bit muffled.

"Just get them!" He practically screams, but none is interested, every male in the office goes on like it is daily tradition. "So the drafts." The fox tries to smile, but it comes off uncertain and rather worried, "They are the official exchange to public stores, bars and so on. You fill out one slip, make a copy of it for yourself, for us I mean, and hand its sister to the fur you pay. They won't be happy about it, but most will accept, with or without growling. Those who refuse to serve you, well, that you can't anything about that at all."

"Found it!" The wolf yells, one sergeant grinds his teeth as he spills ink all over his desk.

"I would like to say to use them to pay as little as you can, but we can't be cheap with the dragons so just please, please don't go over two thousand gold coins a day."

The last words are almost begging.

"Any idea how long they'll stay and how many you have to... entertain?"

"Umm, no." His ears go even lower, soon the wolf walks up to us, with a little leather covered blue book in one paw. His fur is dusty in large patches.

"Don't lose these drafts, Captain."

Leafing through the identical pages, I start to feel sorry for these guys. The pages are standard, one printed canine insignia in the upper right corner, a few blank lines to fill with the amount of cash, the paid party, date and by the bottom a single line for signature.

"Seems, I'll require a stamp on these."

"Ummm." He is biting his lips, God he is beyond handsome when he does that, even though I'm not hard for foxes. "Josh, do we have a spare of the new spring-stamp?"

The wolf is already rummaging through several gadgets in one abyssal drawer, items clattering against each other.

"They must be here somewhere." The scrawny male is now arms deep in it. "Hah."

He places a little metal thing, the black paint immaculate and almost fresh on the surface. "It's easy to use, push the sides gently, the spring sets the stamp free on the end, punch it, then push gently on the surfaces above and under to recoil."

He takes it out my paw, the little thing clicks, I catch a glimpse of the stamp with the Canine Military, he punches it on a discarded paper on his desk. "The inkpad is built inside, if it goes dry come down and we'll have it refilled."

"Thanks, Sergeant." I mumble, already playing with the punch, the vulpine looks at me little worried I might break it any moment. "That would be all. Carry on, soldier."

The upheaval goes on when I leave, Josh shouting already about some weight balance to the fox, thankfully the door muffles it as it closes. So I pad up to my office. It is on the second floor, in the east wing with the rest of the officers, I share It with Morris.

In my early years I never dreamed of having a desk. My life was the constant action, following orders, then sleep. Plus the occasional day or week off, but never long hours of office work.

We are not currently at war, that is also the reason. I'm sure if something broke out, whatever front it would target, draconic or canine, I would be out on the field with my battalion. Some families can pull strings so their pup would be spared of battle. Mine? Mum is of a lately impoverished line, dad is a blacksmith. Not much they could do.

A strange thing happens at the office. One huge wolf, bigger than me by half a head, is waiting by the door. It is the same guy I eyed down the field.

"Captain Wright." He announces, an absent paw lazily coming up to his brow.

"That would be me, soldier."

"High-guard Moonhowl," that name is definitely blue-blood, wonder what a guy from that line is doing in the High-guard. "My superior, Lieutenant-general Carson wishes to speak to you this afternoon, after six am, if that is agreeable with you. He took residence in the north tower, third floor." At second thought, this brute is much more clever than he looks, I never heard soldiers pronounce flashy words like 'agreeable' with such flavor, so that confirms he was educated well, or picked it up on the family.

"That'll work fine."

"I'll report that back to him immediately." After a curt nod he is already off. Dealing with the high-guard is always strange, they are above you and under you in the same time, a conflict in military that has yet to be resolved.

They only answer to their guarded superior, or canines in the circles of the highest. The fact this fake-Keith has his own High-guards is a small miracle... also means he is an extremely important man.

By this point I'm sure it was just exhaustion and hang-over this morning that tricked my eyes. Keith, the real one could be anywhere in this world.

The ceremony is simple. The fellow officers stand witness, everyone decked out, medals and insignias shining. The downside is the sun scorching down on us, the officers try not to pant, no one growls at the lower ranks for having their tongue loll out. Banheim goes through the usual motions, hands me a brand new sword, the hilt beautifully worked silver, the sheath matching the standard black.

We raise paws to salute, first I, then Banheim as accepting it. Turning to my peers and superiors, they salute too (though I catch a quick wink from Morris). The kitchen prepared a quick dessert for the lucky few hundreds that remained indoors for today. So the canines are charging at the poor fellas on kitchen duty, each and every soldier barking for a piece of cookie with a cup of wine. The staff is invited for a drink to the General's quarters.

Everything is mellow and calm, congratulations are in order, even Frostpaw affors a gesture that could count nice. Morris takes me by the shoulder in a moment the general is engrossed with his Colonels about the upcoming conference.

"Lieutenant Wright. Now how does it sound?"

"I certainly like it." I grumble grinning ear to ear. The afternoon takes my mind off fake-Keith and his big guard wolf, the expensive wine is soothing my returning headache.

But six pm is getting closer and closer, the general kicks us out after an hour or so, I listen to my coyote and wolf subordinates for a while in my own office, go on about how the battalion performed, no casualties (thank God) in the practice.

I send them off when they congratulate me.

The clock ticks slowly to six... The north tower is the coldest, even in summer it is cool, windy, normally no one is stationed there, only in wartime in case another two legions come in. So the floors are empty, dust is heavy in the air, though everything is clean. I guess the general had it cleaned up immaculate to the new additions of the Fortress.

On the third floor I almost run into a pair of wolves, the high-guards, menacing, they block my way.

"The lieutenant-general will be ready in a few minutes. We ask you to wait patiently."

There is no emotion, no threat. The unified wall of canine muscles won't budge and I don't even try to pick a fight. My ego doesn't like it at all, but this is how it will go. I swallow my pride, and the elite have its way.

The momentary fascination I had to this fake-Keith is fading with every second I spend sitting like a fresh ornament in the hallway. The guards though stepped apart and resumed their post on either side of the door.

It must have been at least twenty minutes past six when the door finally opens and the behemoth (from morning) appears. His face as impassive as ever.

"You are dismissed for the rest of the day." The other two nods and marches off. These guys are a bit scary. "Lieutenant Wright, you may come in."

The wolf keeps the door open for me, we stare at the other for a long second as my arm brushes against his, just as I enter the room

The door closes, I don't have to check Moonhowl has left.

Behind a desk sits the black wolf, a scone sits atop it, holding several lit candles illuminating the dark room. This is one of the biggest quarters in the entire Fort. Keith or not Keith? The cold glare which he sends to the letters scattered in front of him are not of the Keith I knew.

Then he looks at me, the fluff of his chestfur just peeking above the shirt, the red fabric of a military jacket hugs frame well, dictates strength, discipline. Makes him incredibly charming.

The world shifts under my feet, but there is not a single rumble of the hungry earth that should swallow me. His eyes says he IS Keith, those crystal blue orbs, sad and happy in the same time, I see my white wolf in him, maybe I hallucinate him, but it is there.

Tears dwell in my eyes, the pressure is evident.

I want to touch his face, I want to fall before his knees and beg him to say: 'I am Keith. I am here.'

But he just keeps looking at me, with that sour but sweet look, like he was watching a dear child in front of him, playing and bruising a knee, as though he is ready to say 'hush, pup, it'll heal just fine.'

The emotions conflicting in my chest are chasing each other rapidly. For a second he is not Keith, he is a grown up wolf, high and mighty, basking in the aura of power. Then I see the young, cheeky wolf in him, I can feel the soft, velvety, fine fur of his hide in my paws.

I also want to grab him by his uniform and shake him wildly. 'Where have you been all these years?!'

A faint smile starts in the corner of his lips, grows wider and I feel like as if someone tried to comb my fur all the wrong way.

His ears cup toward me. "Congratulations on your promotion, Tom."

There is no question he is Keith, not after hearing his voice.

The world around me flickers in a strange light, as though I was drunk. But it is so clear I can smell the sharpness of the candlewax, the smoke of the fire, and faintly, HIS scent. I want to run up to him and hug him, I want to slap him across the muzzle and make him tumble over his desk.

My anger surfaces again, my paws tremble with repressed energy.

I don't know what to say at all.

But he has always been the better with the mouth. In every aspect.

"I tried to rehearse this thousand times over the years. I still can't get it right." He rubs tiredly the bridge of his muzzle. Deep inside me an animal growls.

"I'm really happy to... see you are doing well." Keith goes on.

Small talk. Pleasantry.

Before I could help myself, despite all training and discipline that is caging my rage, I tear the seal open and let it spill.

"How about you tell me where the fuck you've been all these years?!"

His ears splay in an instant. I'm aware the whole wing is ringing from me, and I also don't give a fuck.

"Why the fuck are you black? And How?!"

"It is..."

"Why the hell didn't you reply to my letters?!" I shout over his half-hearted protest.

"I had to..." I won't let him finish.

"You disappeared for seven years! Not a word!"

"I work as the agent of the High Council." He raises his voice, just a bit, but he doesn't match my momentum.

"Who cares?! You could've written, or sent someone just to say you are alive. That you haven't forgotten me."

But the last words come in a sob that ruins my false bravado. Strangely, despite the blurs in my vision that is definitely because of the tears, I can see his shoulders sag, ears pull back all the way. He looks more miserable than I am. The fake-black wolf, however he gained the color, sinks back in the leather chair, muzzle buried in his paws. I wish I saw them trembling, just a bit.

I've ran out of energy, my need, this feral, climbing need in my chest keeps tugging at my paws, makes me want to crush him against me in a hug.

My pride says kick the chair from under his ass.

The young, naïve little wolf from seven years ago just wants to cry in his embrace.

He doesn't look at me. Another sob catches painfully in my throat, maybe this is how drowning feels like. The candles flicker in the soft breeze. One goes out.

I reach for the handle and I'm out of here before I could think about it twice. I'm at the stairs when the chill in my body reaches a level I can't tolerate.

He didn't even look at me. Didn't say a damned thing. At least something... just a stupid lie to cover up how much of a bastard he is. Instead he is miserable.

We are both miserable.

The first stair is like taking a step into a dark room, you fear you kick over some table or stumble on a nightstand. The second step is still tentative, but you know the direction, you stick to it.

For me it is down. My career is rocketing up, while my personal life is a disaster. I whine and long after a young lover, whom I never got over. We had no ending, no... how to say, closing scene. We never said goodbye, or that we shouldn't meet again. We just went our separate ways, when I should have screamed and growled at him to sort things out.

I'm running back before I make the same mistake again. The window with the scene of the late afternoon desert, the white houses of Khazi blur in one bright line next to me.

The bronze handle creak. I yank it open.

I'm hit with the whiff of his scent first. It IS him, finally, stronger than coyote, more rich, peppered with scent of herbs.

He stares awkwardly up to me, clearly not prepared for this kind of return, or a return at all. I try not to scream at him, but my words are strained with emotion.

"Damn it, Keith. Just talk to me."

But the Keith in my memories could never voice his own feelings properly. Such strange phenomenon, that he could sweet talk our superiors out of punishing us, always quick with words and cunning; but when it came to him, he was breathless.

A tear rolls down in the black fur of my own muzzle. I watch him fight off his own tears, but I can't relish them. I just hurt, Everything hurts.

I swear a man could grow old in the time we stare at each other, dumbly, fighting off tears that soldiers shan't ever show. In our hyper-masculine, demanding and idiotic world we are locked in the same pain.

If only we met years later. I would know my flaws, or perhaps I would've never started to find men attractive. We would have gone our separate ways, and never think about each other.

He is my personal jail, his paws are my handcuffs, his claws are the heavy bars and those eyes are my candles glimmering on the other side. Where I could be free.

My tail twitches madly.

He breathes out a shaky, sobbing sigh, I could hear my own name somewhere in it. Then it is a little piece of heaven. He is in my arms, soaking my shoulder, I crave every part of him.

I'm no sadist to find his heaving, desperately repressed sobs music to my ears. No, because he is finally in my arms. It is proof that he feels something, anything at least for me. We cry a long time, grasp the fur, pawing tightly, even pull bits out between shaky breaths.

It hurts, but not like every day I spent being alone myself, knowing he was out there somewhere.

The fleeting thought goes through my mind, that there might be sweet pain in this world and I am tasting it right now. We nuzzle, cry more, pawpads join together and nose the other's muzzle. I feel his claws on my back.

When I kiss him, he doesn't pull away. I lick away the salt from his lips and nose. There is so much I still want to tell him. But I'm not sure I could keep my voice down or hold my tears again.

So I settle with silence and the feel of this strong wolf against me. Though I'm sure the first thing I will ask, if I ever get my voice back, is how he turned black.

The rest after that? I'm more than sure I won't let him walk away from me, ever again. Not if he loves me.

If God exists that tricked me into loving this male, I'm sure he could do another stunt to keep us together.