Markus could have picked one of the several off-duty guards with whom to spar, but for some reason he just did not want to. At least the Thorn manor stood well-stocked with arms and equipment: on the following morning after breakfast, for which Rhea slightly late and visibly sleepy, the foxwolf returned to the rear sections of the house and browsed through everything available. The Thorn armsmaster was a broad-shouldered panther with a surprisingly delicate voice; he watched the visitor as he pored through the blades, the spears, the polearms, all of the other things with which Markus was familiar but did not know the name.

Appreciative yet suspicious; that was the impression he drew from the feline's supervision. The armory lacked the precise type of saber with which Markus was most familiar, which he supposed made sense – the culture up here in Leyo had always been more martial and utilitarian – but he found one that felt roughly similar, and gave it a few practice swings and thrusts to familiarize himself with it. Satisfied that the visitor was more than just some irresponsible youth fascinated with weaponry, the armsmaster soon left Markus alone… and least for a little while he fell back into the familiar, comfortable movements and rhythms that he expressed as the Ghost, back home in Oryon.

Everything here felt strange and unfamiliar, so close to what he knew yet still so different. The stone beneath his footpaws glistened a different set of colors in the sunlight; the glass in the windows had a different texture; even the iron itself set into the sills, wrought into the fences, hammered into the kitchenware, felt and looked and smelled different. Every hour of the day, all around him simmered the mixed scents of wolves, and mountain cats, and even a bear here and there, while back home he remembered the higher, sharper touch of his family foxes, then desert cats from nearby Maldeth to the east, and sleek mustelids and even the occasional reptile.

But at least the dance was the same. Once Markus discerned the weight, balance, and momentum of the blade, he found that he could easily adapt it into his chosen style. His footpaws brushed across the smooth floor, following the familiar steps, the sweeps and pirouettes and dives; this blade swung slower and heavier than the one he had left at home, and he found that turning a spiral carried him a little bit further, and let him extend his reach by just a breath. For a while he could almost forget where he was, and instead imagine he was back home in Oryon, that he was wearing the mask, and instead of Markus Kalla, engaged to be wed to a woman he barely he knew, that he was the fabled Ghost of Oryon, recognized by everyone, known by none, and-

“My lord?"

The words came as a small, subtle flicker from outside, enough to twitch one of his ears but failing to catch the full of his attention. The foxwolf continued in his practice for a moment longer, stepping forward one, two, three, four, then turned again, brought the blade over his head and down, released the breath he was holding… and then there was Doren standing by the door, trying not to look meek.

“Good morning," Markus called. He rested his blade over his shoulder, turned, and began back towards the array of weaponry. “What can I do for you, Doren?"

The cheetah coughed softly. Markus's ears flicked again at the sound of smooth, blunted claws stepping into the room. “My lord – ah – my lady Rhea wishes to see you."

He froze, other paw hovering over another sword. “Does she, now?"

“Ah – yes, my lord."

“Is it urgent?"

Doren paused. “…She did not say, my lord."

“What do you think?"

“I… don't…"

Markus turned, looked the cheetah over, and wandered back over to him, one sword now held over his shoulder and the other hanging by his side. Doren eyed it, looked back to the foxwolf's muzzle, then back to the blade again, cowered slightly – and then blinked when Markus held it out to him, presenting the handle.

“Well, that's quite fine. Will you spar with me, at least?"

Bright eyes flashed down. Doren's mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “I… will, my lord."

“Oh. You will? You have experience?"

Doren wrapped his fingers about the handle, tested the grip and the weight, tapped a claw against the flat of the blade itself – and then gave a swing at his side. The metal whistled in the air, spun around, and came to a smooth stop, the pommel braced against his other palm for a moment. “A – little, my lord. We are all trained – the servants – so that we may defend our House to the death, should we need to."

Markus nodded. “Hopefully our little exercise won't come to that, then. Were you watching me, just now?"

Just as the foxwolf began to strafe to the side around the space, so too did the cheetah across from him. Doren's steps were slow and sure, if obviously unpracticed. Had he ever developed the smooth, comfortable familiarity with the movements, he clearly could no longer claim it. “A little, my lord."

“Ah! Then you have the advantage. I look forward to… matching with you."

As expected, Doren waited until Markus made the first move before he reciprocated. The two met, broke apart, then met again, each of the cheetah's strikes growing in the strength and confidence that he lacked, Markus holding back at first and then also diving into it – and quite easily overcoming the other. Not even panting yet, the foxwolf kicked the other blade up and offered it back out to his sparring partner, then readied himself for another round. Doren soon struggled beneath the onslaught, and before long he stepped back, held his paws up, and offered his defeat.

“Fair and square, my lord," he panted. Markus had accidentally shaved a small section of fur off of the cheetah's upper shoulder – but Doren had done the same for his inner thigh, so he figured they were even. “I'm out of practice, but not only that, you do claim impressive skill. Now, my lady Rhea?"

“Ah. Right." The foxwolf took in a breath, held it, and then let it back out. “I'd forgotten. I've… gotten a bit worked up, here. Will you let her know I'll be along shortly?"

“Very well, my lord."

So Markus took his time. He took the blade from Doren, set both back into their holders at the wall, brushed his paws off, then took the most circuitous route back around to his assigned quarters upstairs. Once there he stripped all the way down, making sure to leave the door only slightly ajar, then brushed his fur out head to toe and back, working through the slight sheen of sweat that the exercise had put through. Then he dressed again, donning one of his other outfits brightly displaying Kalla colors, stood before the mirror for perhaps twice as long as he needed to, and only then did he begin the short trek to Rhea's quarters.

As he approached the hallway, the foxwolf's pace reflexively slowed. His ears flicked back, trying to flatten against his head; his short whiskers twitched as well, like upon scenting something unfamiliar and dangerous; his tail lashed and snapped, finally wrapping around one of his ankles; before her door he paused, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, took in another breath… and tasted her. There was that touch of gardenia that hovered about her like a wreath, soft and light; the same cool, crisp mountain sharpness, mixing well with the bite of her more natural, lupine scent underneath, floating around this portion of the manor's upstairs, inescapable.

And maybe, Markus found himself thinking, a splash of blood and spiced meat too. Seeing her lips curl back like that, pink gums glistening, sharp fangs digging into and tearing through the flesh of the dinner; the sound when she sucked the marrow from the bone, the stray drips and flecks and droplets; how she had looked at him and, unabashed, slurped the grease from her chops, and-

And he reached out and knocked at the solid wood of the door, then waited. And waited some more… and then from inside, warm and welcoming, slightly muffle: “I'm here. Come in." So Markus took another breath, revitalized the presence of Rhea in his senses, and did as commanded.

Just like everything else, her space felt so familiar yet so strange at the same time. She clearly favored the dark, heavier wood of the northeastern forests of Loria for her furniture, lending their distinct aura of scent to the other layers. She kept flowers, too: Markus recognized a vase of what looked something like daisies by the window, then another hanging pot closer to the door, then several others strewn about the room, all flowing together in their own natural tapestry of green and bright flashes of color and aroma. But no gardenia – at least given by scent; the foxwolf did not know what it looked like.

His toeclaws clicked along the hardwood floor as he stepped in, peering first one way and then the other, pupils slitted, ears upright, nose constantly twitching in trying to follow her scent. Naturally her bedroom hung heavy with it, enough so that it almost dizzied him; the foxwolf swallowed and turned the other way instead, leaning to the side to see if he could peek around the threshold of the study appended to the entry room here, hoping that she was there instead of the other option.

There was a soft creak from in that room. Markus's ears flicked upright again. From beyond the door the wolfess slowly angled into view, one arm hanging down behind the back of the chair in which she sat; she wobbled in place, leaning back, and offered a smile upon seeing her visitor. Then she came forward again, flashed out of view – the chair thumped when its front legs again hit the floor – and in another second came around to greet him.

“Markus. Hello." One of her ears flicked sideways. She wet her lips – giving him another brief peek at sharp fangs, as her lip curled up to make room – and smoothed down the front of her clothing. “I've been waiting for you."

The foxwolf let that remark hang in the air for a second, seeing whether it wanted to sink or float. “Apologies," he offered, insincerely. “I wasn't expecting to be… called upon this morning, and as such I was-"

“Practicing your martial arts. Yes, I was told." The wolfess past him in a smooth movement, just barely brushing his leg with her tail. He held his breath as she did so. “I would like to watch you someday, if it so pleases you."

“It might." Markus turned to watch. “Rhea, isn't this a little… improper?"

Now she leaned towards the windowsill, picking and prodding at the potted plant there with careful claws, back straight, tail out for balance. “How so?"

“You asking to see me, like this… in your quarters."

“I don't see how that's improper," she purred. A loose leaf fluttered down to the soil; she brushed it underneath and buried it. “I'm simply desiring some alone time with my fiancé, as we didn't really have any at our engagement ball. It seemed like you had prior… well, for lack of a better word, engagements."

Our. The word caught him off-guard: back in Oryon it had only ever been his engagement, something about which he forgot until it was mentioned. While Rhea worked she kept her shoulders forward and her ears angled back towards him, following the foxwolf as he strode slowly around the room; her tail danced in opposition to his movement as well.

“It felt like a… business meeting," she went on, straightening up. A small bug skittered over her clasped fingers; she rolled her paw this way and that to watch its progress, then clicked the window open and let it out. “Didn't it?"

“It did." And it was. Let's leave it at that. “And now we've had dinner together. And that's basically all we need, yes? Although I suppose the true mark of the union is, what, having a kid?"

Rhea's lips twitched; Markus's heart skipped a beat. Her tail swished again, brushed against him, twitched again as though shocked, then curled about her own legs. The window closed with a soft smack.

“Well," she said, turning with a soft huff. “Let's not get too hasty. On that we should – need to – wait until we are actually wed, yes?" She padded over to the other side of the room, swept a cloak from where it hung beside the bedroom door, and swathed it about her shoulders. The wolfess took a moment to settle in – Markus's nose tickled with the gentle perfume sprayed along the soft down of the material – then sighed, nodded, and tilted her head to him. “Will you walk with me, Markus?"

“Walk?"

“Yes. That is how you prefer to spend your time, is it not? And while you're here with us, I imagine you will have little but time. No responsibilities, no prior commitments, no expectations – other than the usual." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. Markus kept his eyes on her muzzle. “Or would you prefer to keep that time for yourself?"

I would, he thought immediately – but then forced himself to shove that back. He missed the companionship of having someone so consistently by his side, and the familiarity and friendship… Doren was nice enough, but then, he was a servant. That was the cheetah's purpose here. I miss Lura, Markus thought – then caught himself there, too. But I have Rhea now. And I suppose I'll have to learn to accept that.

“It's…" He cleared his throat. “Fine. It's fine."

“Wonderful." The wolfess strode past him again, once more wrapping him within the curling wisps of her scent. She stepped out into the hallway, waited for him, closed and locked the door behind them, and then continued forward, her pace brisk yet still relaxed. Markus lingered behind a half-step as he followed: he watched the way her shoulders moved, how she kept her head up and back, how her tail followed those movements through and brushed from side to side, flicking at the tip as it did so. She walked with confidence, knowing that this was her space, her domain, her house.

And he was just a visitor. Some stranger from somewhere else, unimportant, unnoticed other than as an anomaly; the servants and guards the two passed by bowed their deference to her, blinked in confusion at the foxwolf at her side, then connected the dots and repeated the stilted motion. Markus felt awkward at her side, constantly expecting her to say something even though she never did; his natural tendencies led him to want to fill this silence, but he held himself back from this, too. If she wants to be difficult, he thought, then I'll let her be difficult. I don't have any problem with that. Everyone expects me to make these big steps for them, when it's not my responsibility in the first place and all I want is to-

“You don't want to be here."

Markus blinked and looked at Rhea. The one silver-blue eye visible on this side flicked across her shoulder at him, then returned forward again. She pursed her lips briefly in thought.

“I… um…" The foxwolf quickened his pace to come even with her. He had to work to keep up, leaning forward slightly for the momentum; this meant that to look her in the eyes, he had to tilt his head up and back, while she looked down upon him. “You're – no. I don't."

Already he recognized where she led them. This next intersection would lead them to the side of the courtyard if they took the right turn, and then between the freestanding columns, along the side of the hall, and then out the opened doors would bring them there… and the cool mountain air washed down over the high walls and angled roofs of the manor house, stirring Rhea's cloak and Markus's fur. Her scent tickled at his nose.

“So then why did you come?"

Maybe she'll leave me alone if I tell her. Yeah, so that 'prior engagement' on the night of our ball? I was outside the house filling the throat of some otter I'd just met, who lied about being a lord from some minor house to hide the fact that he's actually the deposed Crown Prince, and anyway, I'd much rather marry him than you, except after finding out that juicy little tidbit I'm not quite so certain, and now I'm stuck here with you, and…

“I needed to clear my head."

Rhea's whiskers pitched forward, then relaxed back. “Mm." At least her pace slowed when she brought him into the garden, head turning this way and that to peer over the arranged bushes, the flowers, the herbs. The cool touch of mint wafted up and joined the bouquet. “And so in order to do that… you came up here, to this place that used to belong to your blood… inhabited by the person with whom you'll be spending the rest of your life." She paused, reached out, pinched one of the mint's blossoms at its base – long and skinny somewhat like lavender, little points and fronts protruding out from the tiny blooms themselves; Markus did not know the proper terminology – and with a gentle twist tugged it free. Then she brought it up, peered closer at the lavender-white blossoms, and with a flick of the rest let it flutter back to the ground. “You, who are notoriously evasive of responsibility, and expectation, and… well, basically everything that marks your status for what it is."

Markus threw his head back and groaned. “Mother told you?"

“No. She didn't have to. Economically speaking we, as in Leyo, are your, as in Oryon, gateway to the northern half of the continent. We see all your reports and hear all your rumors."

“And what does that have to do with me?"

“Right now? Nothing. And I understand that's the main issue."

“So? Who cares?"

Rhea paused by the foot of one of the trees that reached up towards the upper floor of the manor, its limbs carefully trimmed and maintained to stay out of the way while still looking reasonably natural. Small budding fruit popped out here and there, snug between bunched leaves.

“The entirety of your people, perhaps? Everyone who will rely on you once Lady Azura passes her title to you?"

“Oh, Gods." The foxwolf rubbed at his face. “I didn't come here to hear the exact same thing from you, too."

“Have you told her th-"

“Of course I have! Nearly every day! She knows better than anyone that I simply do not want to do it."

“Mm." Rhea bunched her cloak about her shoulders and brushed past the tree, now leading her companion towards the other side of the courtyard. The guard standing there bowed his greeting and opened the door. “Well, Markus, sometimes we must do things we don't want."

“Like marry someone I neither know, nor…" But he found he couldn't say it out loud. Not to her, directly. He bit his lip.

Silver-blue eyes flashed his way again. Rhea waited for him to catch up. “Yes," she answered, voice smooth and easy. “Exactly."

Even though the two had just stepped back inside, Markus felt as though a thin breeze washed across his body. He pushed his paws into his pockets, kept his tail from wrapping around his legs, and sidled up alongside the wolfess. Speaking directly to her felt strange: he had to tilt his head slightly back to look her in the eye, and every time he did so, the force of her gaze nearly made him look away again.

“It sounds like… you're not looking forward to it either," he ventured. “Our marriage."

Her nostrils flared as she breathed in, chest swelling, head tilting. Then she sighed, and once again stepped off down the hall – but Markus noticed she slowed until he followed.

“…Of course I'm not," she answered, voice softer than before. “My family may be friends of yours, Markus, but I am not a friend of your family, and nor are you one of mine." Then around another corner, where the constantly simmering scents of the kitchen began to waft and swirl together, blanketing everything else beneath their spice. Rhea led them past that annex, though, and then down another side hallway towards a portion of the servant quarters. “For me, Kalla is… a name from the history books, and nothing else. Kalla is Tiberius, and Vincent, and Lucius, and…" She waved a paw. “You and Lady Azura are different. You are no Kalla."

Markus stopped before the door. This one went unattended by any guard or servant: Rhea braced one paw against the textured wood and another on the handle, looked up across the carved façade, then pushed, pushed again – and slid it partially open on its hinges. A wall of cool moisture wafted out, woven with the smooth, even texture of a carefully maintained environment. The foxwolf's nose tickled – wine cellar.

“And what in the hell does that mean?"

Rhea Thorn paused again, shrugged, rested a paw against the threshold, and looked over her shoulder at the foxwolf. For the first time then he felt as though she were not only looking at him, but seeing him as well: silver-blue danced across his muzzle, over his mouth, down his neck and along his shoulders, then over his chest, his waist, his legs… and all the way back up. And she blinked.

“You are… different," she concluded, then pursed her lips as though tasting the words as they came. “Your name doesn't define who you are, Markus. Lady Azura is technically the head of House Kalla, and she retains all legal precedent to bear the name. Yet she is Countess Oryon, because that is who she desires to be, and therefore who she is. You are Markus Kalla because that is who you were told to be. But I do wonder… who do you wish to be yourself?"

The cellar descended along a flight of smooth stairs, the surfaces pitted from use and for grip. Rhea strode slowly but confidently, with Markus soon behind her. The dancing torches of the upper hallways gave way to small, singular candles, casting dim orange light in a small sphere around themselves; the foxwolf blinked, and squinted, and peered through the darkness, waiting for his vision to adjust.

Of course, he thought. Wolves. I can smell… all different kinds of things down here. There's mushrooms growing, too. Some of them are wild, natural… some are cultivated. His nose twitched away from Rhea. Over there. The same that were in the sauce poured over yesterday's dinner. And… a servant down here, too. One of the cats. Then over here… Eyes mostly closed, legs carrying him along over the cool, damp stone underfoot, this new world wrapped in around him. There's that gardenia again…

“Markus…"

He blinked, silhouettes in the darkness beginning to develop sharpness and detail. “Rhea."

“What is it you like to do in your spare time?"

“My… spare time?"

“Yes." The shine of her eyes rather than the color glittered in the candlelight as she led him around. Barrels lined the walls, some obviously full, others approaching empty. Down here the candles were few and far between, often with metal plates between themselves and the bricks of the wall to reflect the light outwards.

“Um…" He thought on that for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His heart skipped another beat; he smirked and suppressed a chuckle. “Well, let's see. For starters, I like to put on a theater mask and pretend to be a highwayman complete with the cape, the fencing saber, and the whole harassment of regular townspeople thing."

Rhea stopped where she stood and turned to look back at him. Markus avoided looking her in the eyes, wet his lips, swallowed, glanced away – and then jumped when she puffed out a quick bark of a laugh, her shoulders bouncing, her cheeks bulging out with the half-suppressed noise.

“Interesting," she rumbled, amusement glittering behind that eyeshine as well. “I can see it in you."

The cool air of the cellar seemed to warm, just a little bit. “How about you?"

“I sneak out after hours and practice kissing with a lioness I met at the local chapel down in town."

Then he laughed, too, his voice bouncing around the still cellar and tickling back at his ears.

“Makes sense, doesn't it?"

“It explains a few things, yes."

“But – what would you like to do, Markus, if you're not to become Count?"

“I…" He looked down to the shapes of his footpaws, dim shadows in the darkness. Despite the catacomb-like atmosphere of the cellar, the servants kept the place well cleaned and free of any dust or debris – though it was approaching cold in here. “Honestly? I don't really know. I've… never actually thought about it."

“Truly? Even though you've always known that the path Lady Azura laid out for you is not the one you want for yourself?"

“Yes. It's just always seemed like… no matter how much I push against it, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise, that that is how it will turn out anyway. Like it's hopeless. But that'll never stop me from trying."

The wolfess nodded, folding her arms into the sleeves of her cloak. For a moment the only noise was the tk-tk-tk of their toeclaws across the damp weathered stones of the cellar, and the occasional echoing drip of something off in the darkness.

“I don't think I've asked." She reached up and tapped at her muzzle with a claw. It was hard to tell in the darkness but it looked as though hers were unpainted. “Why don't you want the title, or the marriage?"

“It's nothing against you." Other than how I don't even know you. Markus shrugged. “But it's just… I don't want the responsibilities. I'm not interested in any of the office or powers that come with it. My brother is the one who enjoys reading the – family histories, and analyzing the economic reports with Mother, and… doing all of that. It just… doesn't sound fulfilling." Though it echoed, his voice still sounded somewhat muffled in the darkness. Rhea seemed to lead him towards a dead end; the lines of barrels had stopped some paces back, and a single candle flickered at the end of his aisle. “It doesn't sound fun."

“Well. Not everything in life is going to be fun, is it? Gods know I've barely had it myself here, as Lord Thorn's daughter." Rhea sighed, her pace slowing to a stop. She turned, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and then leaned back against the wall, ignoring the way the damp and moss smeared across her cloak.

Markus stopped as well, though remained standing. He looked up the aisle and then back down again. The air tasted of river water. “What about you?"

“Me?"

“If you didn't have to do… well, this. What else would you do?"

“I'd learn how to heal."

“Heal?"

“Yes." She turned to run her claws over the bricks, the mortar in between. “Mixing herbs, learning about diseases, illnesses, infections, various wounds… how to mend and resolve and cure them. Tinctures and poultices and medicines… putting my Water and Fire magic to use." One of her paws turned, angled, and then slid up in between two of the bricks, fingers pushing perhaps a little bit further than the brickwork should have allowed. “And you know what? It'll give me the worst experiences of my life. But it will be worth it. You know why, Markus?"

“Why's that?"

“Because it's what I want to do." Her shoulder gave a little jerk; she grunted; something in the wall shifted, then clicked… and then there was the familiar grating of hidden rails, as this portion of the wall beside the candle pushed inward. “And gods know that I'll also try my best on that. But the time for it is running out." The wolfess motioned into the dark passageway beyond, from which issued the cool breath of what felt and tasted to Markus like wind from outside. He started to wish that he had brought a cloak, too. “After you, my lord."

He peered down the passageway, then stared at Rhea as he passed by. She nodded – was that a hint of a smile across her lips? – and followed afterwards, reaching over to push at another brick within the hidden hallway. The scraping of stone on steel resumed, and then the candlelight from within the wine cellar pinched away into blackness.