Chapter Text
In every meaning of the word, Kattigan Vale did not belong to a revolution.
He didn’t belong to much of anything, really. He was a product of the outer settlements, born where wooden posts gave up against the underbrush and the trees began to reclaim what had once been cleared. His first memories were of dirt underfoot and wet moss smeared on his forearms. He could not recall his parents. Not their names, not their faces. Some said they had gone east, seeking the sun god that might have not been dead. Others whispered the forest had taken them. He believed both could be true.
Raised by the elders—if raised could be stretched to mean tossed scraps and the occasional lesson in setting snares—he grew wild-limbed and quiet, staring eyes and skin browned by bramble scratches. The wolves had more hand in his growth than any human. There was a den down by the stream, and the pack there accepted him with the cautious tolerance afforded to something not-prey. By ten, he could mimic a wolf’s low rumble. By thirteen, he knew how to signal unease, truce, warning, in the tilt of his shoulders. At fifteen, the youngest pups followed him as though he belonged.
He herded. He tracked. He hunted, and not just game. Once, a half-mad settler who took a child into the woods and thought no one would notice. Kattigan found the man two dawns later, and never spoke of what happened to the body.
He had no interest in the politics of men. If a stranger wandered through with banners or peacekeeper iron or a sorcerer’s staff, Kattigan kept to the tree line. If the village elders gossiped about conscription or alliances or tax routes, he’d be on the far hill listening to birds instead.
So when the rebels came, four of them at first, then more—Kattigan watched, but only from habit.
The wolves smelled them first. Fire-oil and horse sweat and the sour stink of iron and powder. He was already near the stream, checking on a sick pup curled in the reeds, when the oldest she-wolf, Stonejaw, growled low in her throat and flicked her ears west.
He saw the tents the next night. Canvas, patchy and repaired with strips of mismatched fabric, pitched sloppily between a crescent of oaks. He crouched behind a crag of stone and listened to their voices echo through the hollow. “Auxiliary movement,” one said. “Barricades by first frost,” another muttered. A woman voice barked something about supply lines. That told him they weren’t bandits. Bandits didn’t plan for frost or worried about spooking locals.
He stayed until their fire burned low, then slipped back through the brush.
On the second night, he crept closer. There were more of them—eleven now, maybe more, hard to tell with the sentries rotating and some sleeping in cloaks outside the main tents. They were tired. They didn’t stand watch well. Their camp was loose, perimeter lazy, backs turned too often. Wolves could have picked them apart.
It made Kattigan frown. He still hadn’t decided if he cared.
On the third night, he thought: just once more. Just to be sure. Then he could ignore them for good.
He moved without sound, shadow a suggestion of motion in the pine dark. The stone slab he liked had a view of the fire and a good line of sound. He was crouched down, adjusting his balance—
A crunch behind him.
Too late.
His instincts saved him—he sprang sideways just as something slammed into the earth where he’d knelt. Then a weight smashed into him from the side, a snarl, and massive paws knocked him flat on his back.
The air left his lungs in a wheeze. He twisted, fighting to get an arm up, but something heavier than a man settled on top of him.
Then, breath close enough to burn his skin. A face leaned into view.
A lionfolk.
Kattigan froze.
The beastman’s mane was almost golden, braids threaded through the strands, battle scars and faded ink peeked where they vanished beneath layered plates of scratched armor. His eyes were slitted, feline, and glowed faintly in the dark, gold-amber and rimmed with shadow. His breath stank of iron.
"You have five seconds to explain yourself," the lionfolk growled, the words thick with an accent Kattigan didn’t recognize, "before I take your head, stranger."
Kattigan swallowed.
The weight of the claws against his ribs was very, very real. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t move, either. His voice came out rough.
“Watching.”
“Why.”
“Wolves said to.”
The lionfolk’s brow creased. It was a strange thing, watching that massive brow furrow, that almost-human expression flicker over something so clearly built for tearing things apart.
“You’re not with the kingdom,” the lionfolk said, half-statement, half-question.
“No.”
“Not with the Houses either.”
“Don’t know them.”
A pause.
The lionfolk tilted his head, like a predator deciding whether to eat what was beneath him or simply swat it into the bushes.
“You smell like pine and cured meat,” he said finally, voice softer now.
Kattigan didn’t answer.
The lionfolk leaned in. The nose brushed his throat. A puff of warm breath. Then a low, amused noise deep in the chest.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“Hard not to.”
Kattigan hated that he was. But under that beast’s full weight, pinned by iron-tipped claws and muscles strung like corded rope, heart hammering a trapped rhythm against his ribs, trembling was the least his body was doing.
The lionfolk stepped back, just enough to let air in. One paw still on Kattigan’s chest. One long, heavy breath.
“Name,” he barked.
“Kattigan.”
A grunt. “I’m Teor. Teor Pridesire.”
The name meant nothing to him.
Teor shifted, leaned forward again, face close, eyes sharp. “If you’re lying to me, Kattigan the human, if you’re even thinking of warning that settlement you smell of—”
“I’m not,” Kattigan cut in. “I’d rather not see you lot in my forest, but if you were going to burn things down you’d have done it already. Just making sure.”
Teor blinked. Something about the words amused him. A soft, rasping chuckle.
“Well. You’re gutsy. Or stupid.”
Kattigan shrugged under him.
“Bit of both.”
That earned him a grin—sharp, gleaming teeth behind feline lips.
Then the paw was gone.
Kattigan sat up fast, heart still racing. Teor rose, towering over him, stretching until his armor cracked softly over his ribs. He offered a hand. Kattigan ignored it and pushed to his feet on his own.
“You’ll come with me now,” Teor said.
“I’d rather not.”
Teor didn’t blink. “Wasn’t a request.”
Behind him, two more figures emerged from the brush. A woman with tattoos burned into her cheeks, daggers in hands, and a man with a staff that crackled faintly with greenish-blue runes.
Kattigan looked between them, then back to Teor.
He sighed.
“Fine.”
Teor's grin returned. “Good choice.”
The camp was no grand stronghold, even up close.
It clung to the edge of the woods like an exhausted beast, half-alive and restless, shadows dancing off tents that sagged in the wind and a firepit coughing smoke rather than flame. Flaps rustled in the night air, some tied shut, others gaping open like lazy mouths. Weapons scattered about—knives, axes, bows—half-cleaned, half-forgotten, leaned against stumps or buried in toolkits.
Teor didn’t shove or push, but he walked close enough that Kattigan could feel the heat of his breath at his back. No ropes, no weapons drawn; just the looming weight of choice. Kattigan walked, spine tight, gaze flicking over faces as they emerged from the gloom: tired, suspicious, worn.
At the fire’s far edge, a figure sat, towering and still. Orc woman. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, tusks dulled with age but eyes sharp as flint. Her arms were crossed, one boot braced against a stone.
“Foe?” she asked, voice low and brusque.
“Curious cat,” Teor replied, flicking his tail once as he sat beside the fire.
Kattigan muttered, “More of a wolf.”
There might’ve been a twitch at the edge of the lion’s muzzle—could’ve been a smile. Hard to say.
Teor leaned back, claws flexing slightly as he gestured toward Kattigan. “Been spying on us for two nights. Thought I’d either slit his throat or bring him up to speed.”
One of the rebels behind Kattigan nudged him forward with a not-so-subtle hand. Kattigan rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be ushered toward the circle of warmth.
“I’m not interested in whatever business you’ve got. Just looking out for my village. And my pack.”
The orc woman regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then a soft huff of breath, something like resignation, or perhaps the edge of sympathy.
“Hush, young’un,” she said. “We’re only seeking shelter until our supply arrives, then we’ll be gone from your woods. We don’t much like civilization either—too exposed, too dangerous for the folk we swear to stand for.”
Kattigan tilted his head. Her words were steady, no laced threat, no twitch of deceit. He didn’t hear hunger in her tone. The others were still tense. A half-dozen stares lingered on him, heavy as branches. But she—she felt steady.
And strangely, so did Teor.
Kattigan lowered himself to the ground, knees up, arms draped lazily over them. He made sure his back stayed to the clearing. The position was casual but could become a sprint if it needed to. Wolves didn’t sit facing strangers, either.
“I’m Loza Blade,” the orc said finally, her voice gentler now. “Commander. I lead these sorry souls through more mud and blood than I care to count.”
She gestured toward Teor. "You already met my second, Teor Pridesire.”
Teor gave her a slow nod and didn’t look away from Kattigan.
Loza continued, pointing as she spoke.
“That’s Norma, our healer.”
The dwarf woman sitting by a pile of dried herbs looked up and gave a sharp nod. She smelled strongly of salve and pine, hands stained green to the knuckles.
“And that one,” Loza said with a flick toward the young half-orc leaning on a staff, “is Thjazi Fang. Sharp as a blade, and unfortunately full of himself.”
Thjazi gave a two-finger salute and winked.
Kattigan squinted. His eyes landed on the half-orc’s shoulder.
It glowed. Not with fire, not with spell-light—no, something softer, brighter. A pale yellow orb bobbed gently just above the man’s armor, fluttering like a will-o’-wisp.
“Is that…” Kattigan started. “Is that fairy fire on your shoulder?”
Thjazi snorted.
The glowing orb zipped forward.
Not a fire.
A fairy.
Tiny and fast, she darted to hover inches from Kattigan’s nose. Short-cropped hair, pointed ears, and an expression that could curdle milk. Her nose scrunched up, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t trust this guy,” she snapped, jabbing a finger the size of a splinter toward his face.
Thjazi laughed, resting his staff across his knees. “That's Thimble, and she's a pixie, actually." To 'Thimble', he said: "Relax. If he tries anything funny, Teor’ll chomp his head clean off.”
“Or I could stab his eyeballs out,” she mimed the motion, flinging glitter and dust about.
Kattigan blinked at her. Hard to be threatened by something smaller than a pinecone, but her tone was deadly serious.
Loza raised a hand, a silent command that rippled outward and silenced the grumbling.
“Or,” she said calmly, “we could ask him for a favor. See how it goes, before we start stabbing innocent people.”
Her eyes turned toward Kattigan again. Measured. Tired. Steady.
“We’re low,” she said. “If the supply doesn’t arrive in time, we might not last a fortnight on what we’ve got. If you could help us find nourishment—porridge, bread, herbs—the rebellion would be held eternally in your debt.”
Kattigan scratched the back of his neck. Thought about it.
He glanced at Teor. The lion was still sitting exactly where he had been. Watching him. Like prey he wasn’t hungry for, yet.
He’d claimed Kattigan smelled of cured meat.
Kattigan snorted.
“Food, sure. We’ve got a market in town. I can take you down to shop.”
He glanced off toward the stream. “There’s a lake up ahead past the bend, wolf country. Good fishing, game trails nearby. Just pay taxes to the pack.”
Then he turned back to Loza, gaze firm. “I’m not interested in your debt. If you’ve got gold to pay the villagers, that’s enough.”
A low huff from beside him. Teor finally spoke again. “We have gold.”
Kattigan met his eyes.
“But you,” Teor said, voice slow, tilting like he was weighing something. “What do you require?”
Kattigan held his gaze. “Promise you won’t burn my village down. Or hunt my animals. Get out once your business is done.”
There was a pause. A shift in the air. Then, Teor’s smile broke—wide, amused, canines flashing.
“You have my word, Kattigan the human.”
Something in the way he said it—calm, direct—made Kattigan believe it. Even as Thimble the pixie was blowing raspberries at his face.
As the campfire snapped, casting tall shadows across Loza’s jaw and Thjazi’s staff, Kattigan felt the first edge of something in his chest. Not danger, like claws or traps.
Something else, something more settled, like a good hide over your shoulders.
He squashed it fast. But it didn’t quite go out.