The ancient oak doors burst open with the sound of splintering resolve, dust puffing into the firelight like startled moths. A cold wind rolled through the high-vaulted hall, sending the crimson tapestries fluttering and snuffing two of the lesser sconces. The chamber, round and high-domed, was carved from dark stone and lined with polished brass. Flickering torchlight danced across the tiled floor, casting long shadows that pooled like spilled ink beneath claw-footed furniture and the stern portraits of house ancestors long deceased. Above, through the open windows, the moon hung low and full—fat and watchful.

Sir Whiskers stood at the threshold, his breastplate glinting, helm tucked beneath one arm, his tabard torn but proud. His tail, noble and slightly twitchy, flicked once behind him. His eyes narrowed at the lone figure standing by the hearth, silhouetted by the fire: Lord Claw. Cloaked in a deep forest green with a high collar and silver trim, the lord turned slowly, goblet in paw.

They locked eyes.

“Meow,” Sir Whiskers said, voice low, weighty with the fury of betrayal.

Lord Claw raised a single brow and took a measured sip of his wine.

“Meow,” he replied, slightly higher in pitch, with a touch of affront—perhaps even amusement.

Sir Whiskers stepped forward, his boots echoing with each clack upon the stone, his gauntlet flexing around the hilt of his sword. It was a weapon for ending wars, not starting them, but tonight, it had been drawn nonetheless.

Lord Claw set his goblet down on the mantel with precision and turned fully. His paws were empty but steady. His whiskers twitched once. His expression did not change.

“Meow,” Sir Whiskers repeated, with growing insistence, gesturing wildly toward the scroll in his other hand. The wax seal—red as spilled rubies—was broken.

Lord Claw blinked once. He tilted his head, ears slightly askew, and responded: “Meow?”

Silence filled the hall. Outside, the wind rustled through the ivy clinging to the stone keep. Somewhere, an owl hooted uncertainly and fell quiet.

Sir Whiskers thrust the scroll forward, parchment rustling. His paw shook, and not from fatigue. He pointed to the signature at the bottom.

Lord Claw padded forward, took the scroll delicately, and adjusted a pince-nez atop his muzzle. After a moment of reading, he uttered a long, thoughtful “Meow…”

He looked up with a raised paw, as if to pause the oncoming storm.

Sir Whiskers hesitated.

Lord Claw moved to a small writing desk in the corner, rifled through a drawer, and returned with another scroll—identical in appearance. He offered it wordlessly.

Sir Whiskers unrolled it. His brows furrowed.

He read.

He re-read.

His paw lifted slowly to his face. His ears dipped back in dawning embarrassment.

“Meow,” he said, sheepishly.

Lord Claw gave a slow, dignified nod. “Meow,” he offered.

There was a pause. Sir Whiskers looked down at his sword, then back to Lord Claw.

“Meow,” he said at last, with an apologetic shrug and a tap of his tail against the stone.

Lord Claw waved a dismissive paw. “Meow,” he said, and turned back to the hearth.

Sir Whiskers sighed, shoulders loosening. He turned to leave but paused at the door.

“Meow?” he offered one last time.

Lord Claw didn’t turn, but his ears flicked toward him, the firelight catching the barest curve of a smirk.

“Meow.”

And with that, Sir Whiskers stepped out into the night, the misunderstanding behind him, the wind at his back, and a growing suspicion that perhaps next time, he should double-check his post before brandishing swords in ancestral halls.