The Orders Island

The moment we step off the plank walkway, the air changes. Not the water mist. Not the marsh rot. Something heavier. Something shaped like discipline sharpened to a point.

I feel them before I see them.

Bootsteps. Measured. Identical. Echoes of authority stamping over marsh wood. I turn, ears lifting. Order knights. Half a dozen. Maybe more behind the first line. Iron and hardened leather gleaming. Spears upright. Shields locked in a wall.

And in their grip the goblin rower. His wrists bound behind him, his head forced down by a gauntleted hand. My heart punches my ribs. My tail coils so tightly around Master’s hip I almost choke on the instinct to bare teeth.

I do not know why they have him. I do not know what they want. I do not know who they have come for. But I act anyway. I always act.

My body snaps forward between the knights and Master before I can think. Spear lifts. Muscles coil. Ears flatten into kill mode. Breath hisses out of me like steam. Protective fury lights my nerves with hot white fire. They don’t even flinch.

The lead knight steps into my attack range without hesitation, a brick wall of discipline and training. Before my spearpoint even angles forward, his shield slams upward in a clean, perfect movement. My attack never lands.

It doesn’t even get halfway...

His shield catches the spear’s shaft. Another knight moves in behind him, twisting the weapon out of my grip with a smooth, practised lock. My fingers spasm. The spear vanishes from my hands. A third knight clamps my arms, pinning them behind me before I can reach claws to flesh. The counter mobilisation is so fast it steals my breath.

Another pair moves for Master.

I snarl, throat shredding itself on the sound. “TOUCH MY MASTER AND I WILL CARVE YOUR ORDER INTO THE FLOORBOARDS.”

They ignore me completely. Their discipline is absolute. My intimidation washes over them like wind against stone. A knight hooks Master’s arm behind his back with efficient, controlled force, not brutal but undeniable. The second knight grips his shoulder, pushing him down onto one knee. Hardened leather scrapes the wood.

Another steps behind Pontune before she can even posture. Her noble frame stiffens as two gauntleted hands clamp her wrists. She tries to twist away, instincts of authority rising in her face, but the knights move with military elegance. One binds her arms in a neutral grip. One folds her forward so fast her breath catches.

I thrash against the hold. Shoulders burning. Tail lashing like a furious serpent.

“RELEASE MY MASTER,” I snarl, voice shaking with the threat coiled inside it, “or I swear on every bone in your order I will.”

The gauntlet at the back of my neck presses, guiding me downward. Not hurting. Not striking. Just overpowering. Unshakeable. A handler’s pressure. I choke on fury. On humiliation. On the absolute refusal of my body to escape their grip.

Master is forced to kneel. Pontune is held immobile. The goblin rower is shoved to the ground in the mud beside us. My breath comes fast and sharp, rage shaking up my arms in electric bursts. The psychic bond flares, my fear and fury screaming down the link in a chaotic bleed I can’t control.

Master kneels beside me. And that is what finally snaps something inside Pontune. The noble mask fractures. “Stop!” she barks at the knights, voice breaking through her perfect calm. “He is my escort. He is under my protection.”

They do not loosen their grip. They barely look at her. She draws breath again, deeper, louder, words tumbling out with a sharp edge of panic no pure class noble wants anyone to hear.

“Knight-Sergeant, these two are here at my command. I invoked authority under Clan Redstone. They are not criminals. You will give them space at once.”

The knights pause. Not fully. Not enough to free us. But enough to shift weight. Enough to listen. Pontune swallows hard. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes flick sideways toward Master and I glimpse something raw under all her cultivated control. Not fear of the knights. Fear of failing him. Fear of failing her own calculated mission. Fear of what happens if Order of Oak decides we are intruders instead of assets.

The knights did not move us immediately. Something in their formation shifted when the Knight-Sergeant stepped closer to Pontune, fingers tightening on her shoulder, the other hand lifting her chin just slightly so her face tilted into the light.

Red eyes. Dyed red. The unmistakable, hereditary mark of a Pure Class Alderian.

The soldiers froze like they had just found a noble wandering barefoot in the mud. The Knight-Sergeant’s voice lowered with a mixture of suspicion and deference. “Pure Class.”

Another knight whispered under his breath, not quietly enough for my ears to miss. “What is a Pure Class doing here, unescorted by Clan Redstone.” “Where is their envoy unit.” “Why is she travelling with… that.”

Their eyes slid toward me.

Not to my face. Not to my armour. To my teeth. To my tail. To the way my claws flexed even while restrained.

“Feral,” one muttered. “Should have a muzzle on it,” said another. “Looks like it could tear someone’s throat without meaning to.”

My ears flattened. My chest rumbled with a low, building growl. And that was precisely the moment the knights tightened their grips on all three of us as though expecting me to launch myself into someone’s jugular.

Pontune inhaled sharply through her nose, humiliated and furious but unable to object.
A Pure Class noble, stripped of authority by context alone.

Master was held steady, controlled but not harmed. My tail tried to wrap round him even in restraints, muscles trembling with the instinct to shield him from every touch.

The Knight-Sergeant’s gaze swept down Master, then me, then the items on our belts.“Search them.” Six armoured hands moved at once. Gauntlets grazed the leather at Master’s sides. Another pair checked his cloak folds. A knight ran hands down my arms, around my hips, under the plates of dyed leather, seeking hidden blades or scrolls. I hissed and twisted, but the hold never faltered. When their gauntlet brushed the base of my tail, I snapped my teeth at the air a hair’s breadth from their wrist.

“Careful,” one knight muttered, “it bites.”

The Knight-Sergeant ignored the remark and reached into the fold of Master’s cloak, withdrawing something that made her expression harden. A badge, bearing the sigil of a private force. Oakwood Vanguard. Grey Hollow issue. Her jaw tightened. Then she reached deeper and pulled out another badge. Not just Grey Hollow. Silverbrook.

Her fingers froze around the insignia, and the air around the knights thickened with the weight of sudden, heavy suspicion. “The Vanguard,” she murmured. “In Order of Oak territory.” “Days from the trade road.” “With a Pure Class noble.” “And a feral creature posing as… what, exactly.”

I nearly lunged at her for that. The hold at my back tightened until my breath hitched.

Pontune spoke then, her voice strained but steady, trying desperately to salvage the optics.
“They are my escort.”

The Knight-Sergeant did not answer her. Another knight whispered sharply behind us, “Why would the Vanguard be here. Why would Oakwood’s private force leave their headquarters. Why would they cross the marsh inlet at all.” Suspicion coiled through the formation like a tightened rope.

Master breathed once, calm, focused, his mind sharpening in the bond. He prepared to speak. I felt it. That decisive, perfectly measured weight behind his intentions.

The Knight-Sergeant’s eyes settled on him. “Explain yourselves.”

Master spoke.

CHARISMA CHECK, 5 Charisma: +1, Persuasion skill: +3, Vanguard authority recognition: +2, Order of Oak respect for structure: +1, Narrative composure under pressure: +1

Total: 13

Master’s voice slid into the silence like a blade between bones. Smooth. Controlled. Undeniable. “We are not here to interfere with your order,” Master said, his tone low and practical. “We are tracking a criminal. A bandit leader who has attacked caravans and Oak patrols across the West Forest.”

A ripple of attention ran through the formation.

Master continued, each word steady and perfectly placed. “Driftwood Hollow is a haven for criminals. Our trail, following information purchased discreetly from goblin clans across the river, brought us here. The goblin rower was compensation for guiding us through the inlet.”

He did not mention Mire. He did not mention our clan’s involvement. He hid Pontune’s rebellion behind necessity. He hid the goblin behind plausible deniability. Even I, pressed under a knight’s grip, could feel the shift.

The Knight-Sergeant studied Master with narrowed eyes. Then she addressed the ranks quietly.  “Caravan raids. West Forest. Order patrol casualties.” One knight nodded. “We lost two last month.”

Another muttered, “Driftwood Hollow harbours half the scum in the region.”

Pontune finally lifted her head. “His assessment is correct. And I invoked Clan Redstone authority to carry out a discreet capture. Their presence is authorised under my directive.”

The Knight-Sergeant’s suspicion did not vanish, but it bent under structure. She returned Master’s badges. Grey Hollow. Silverbrook. Her posture shifted to measured respect. “You should have come through official channels,” she said.

Master did not apologise. He never apologises. He simply meets reality head on.“We were in pursuit. Time mattered and the badges are enough for a dump like this.”

A breath of silence. Then: “Release them.” My arms were freed first, the gauntlet lifting from my spine. My tail immediately whipped around Master’s waist, pulling myself tight against him as though reclaiming possession stolen by force.

Pontune exhaled with the relief of someone avoiding political disaster. The goblin, however, remained bound.The Knight-Sergeant gave him a dismissive shove. “He will be processed separately. Unregistered passage is still a violation.”

Then she turned to Master. “You and your… team are permitted to proceed.” A faint pause. “And you should truly muzzle the cat.”

Pontune’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in her cheek. The Knight-Sergeant noticed. And deliberately spoke to her. “It is the responsibility of a commanding officer to keep their creatures under control.” Pontune bowed her head, swallowing her pride like poison. “Yes, Knight-Sergeant.”

My claws flexed against Master’s hip. My lips curled. A low hiss vibrated through my chest. The Knight-Sergeant didn’t even acknowledge me. She simply gestured toward the interior of the Order’s island. “You may continue your investigation. But cause no disruption. And keep your animal close.”

I leaned fully into Master, tail tightening around him like a living restraint, my ears flat, voice dripping venomous sweetness. “I am not the one who needs a muzzle,” I whispered under my breath. But I followed Master forward, pressed against him like a shadow stitched to his ribs, never letting the knights or their temple forget exactly whom I belonged to.

I stayed pressed against my master as he pushed himself upright, the way his breath rasped in his throat turning something cold and furious inside my chest. My tail curled around his hip in a slow possessive spiral as he leaned back against the nearest building, coughing like the air here offended him more than the knights ever could. The Order of Oak compound smelled of iron polish and wet stone. The sort of smell that pretends to be clean but never masks the rot beneath it.

“What a lovely welcome,” he muttered, voice rough. “Although not sure what I expected in such a dump like this. So much for a get in and go home notion.”

My ears flicked, catching the bitterness under his words. Not fear. Not discomfort. Just that noir disdain he carried like a second cloak. I stepped closer. Close enough that my shoulder brushed his arm and my cheek almost touched his chest. My body stood between him and the street without me even thinking about it.

Pontune straightened the front of her coat. Her jaw was still stiff from the humiliation, her eyes burning that dignified red fire that Pure Class nobles always hid behind logic. She spoke like each word was weighed before release. “The Order of Oak is… difficult,” she said carefully. “Protocol driven. Constitution bound.” A faint snarl of irritation sharpened her tone. “Unbending.”

She rubbed her wrists once, as though offended her skin remembered the knights’ hands.
“I did not anticipate that level of scrutiny,” she admitted.

Of course she had not. She had grown up in places where doors opened for her, not where she was shoved against a wall beside a goblin and a catgirl. My master looked at both of us, the set of his shoulders still braced with that quiet anger of his. He paused, then said, low and steady, “Remind me to gut them before we leave for even touching my cat.”

The bond slammed through me like lightning.

My ears perked. My pupils blew wide. My tail tightened round him with a delighted, tremoring squeeze. Words like gut and my cat hit a part of my brain that did not care for logic or diplomacy or survival. They fed every violent instinct I kept sharpened under my ribs. A purr rose up my throat, rich and dark, rolling like storm wind.

“That is not something I will forget,” I murmured. My voice curled possessively round him. “I saw their hands on you. I saw their hands on me. I can take their eyes for that. Slow enough you can watch.”

Pontune stiffened visibly. “Absolutely not,” she snapped. “We are not killing Order knights. Lord Protector, you cannot threaten the Oak garrison. They answer directly to The Kingdom. They will raze entire districts over one incident of defiance.”

I turned my head slightly, giving her a thin, amused smile without unwrapping myself from him. “You think my master fears them.”

“I think,” Pontune said through gritted teeth, “that we should avoid provoking a military order while we are already on thin political ice.”

Her tone sounded controlled, but I could taste the quiet panic beneath it. Pure Class nobles hated being treated like criminals. They hated being touched without permission. They hated losing control. And for the last ten minutes she had endured all three.

My master pushed off the wall slowly, steadying himself. His presence drew my focus like gravity. The brown dyelight in his eyes flicked between us, settling into that calm that only he could wear after a threat. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate.

“We are getting this done,” he said. “Then we leave. The less time we spend here, the better.”

Pontune nodded once. “Agreed.”

I stayed beside him, my shoulder pressed into his arm, refusing to give anyone here a chance to wedge between us. My tail still rested round him, gripping tight as my heart finally steadied. The memory of Order knights forcing him down still scraped inside me like bone on bone. Then came the cold taste of their words.

Muzzle. Animal. Creature. And then his voice saying gut them. The bond glowed warm and furious and sweet.

Pontune drew a slow breath and looked around the street. The square temple rose behind us, flanked by two long barracks buildings. Soldiers moved in lines, clean and silent, their boots striking stone in perfect unison. On the far side of the island, the bridge toward the criminal quarter looked crowded with drifting smoke and low lantern light. She scanned the gatehouses with her usual calculating precision.

“We must strike a balance,” she said. “We cannot antagonise the Order. But we cannot allow ourselves to be cornered by them again. They expect discipline from us now.”

My master gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “Discipline,” he echoed. “They will get exactly what they need from us. No more.”

I angled my body slightly, placing myself between him and the nearest patrol. My voice lowered to a dark purr. “I can behave. For you. But if anyone touches my master again…” I let the sentence trail off, my smile widening in a way that made a nearby soldier hesitate before continuing his walk. “I will not be gentle.”

Pontune looked between us with that tight mixture of frustration and understanding. Her hands curled into fists once. “We cannot afford to make enemies of the Order. But…” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I will admit this much. Their conduct was unacceptable.”

Her eyes lingered on my master longer than expected. “You should not have been handled like that. Not while acting under my directive.”

Her voice softened for half a heartbeat, the noble mask slipping to reveal something almost human beneath it.

Then the mask returned. “Next time, I speak first.”

I tilted my head. “You can speak all you like,” I said sweetly. “Just stay behind him, ALWAYS.”

Pontune inhaled sharply. Her temper flared, but she swallowed it like fire behind steel.

My master stepped forward, and instinct pulled me after him like shadow to flame. My body pressed to his again, my tail curling back around his waist as if stitching myself into him. He looked over the street ahead. Patrols. Gatehouses. A path toward the central square.

@Senar2020