The morning sun rose pale and thin, filtering through the window in streaks of dusty gold. Gerie woke to a weight on the edge of his bed — not heavy, but present, demanding attention. He opened his eyes to find two golden stares fixed unblinkingly on his face, as if the cat had been watching him sleep for hours, judging his worth.
"It's too early," Gerie mumbled, pulling the blanket up over his head.
A sharp, insistent meow cut through the fabric — loud, clear, and utterly unimpressed. Then came a heavy thud as a paw landed squarely on his shoulder, claws pricking just enough to make a point.
It is late, the cat corrected, its voice dry and authoritative in his mind. And my bowl is empty. Again. Do you make a habit of neglecting your most important ally? Or are you simply trying to starve me before the enemy even arrives?
Gerie groaned and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I'm not starving you. I just woke up. Give me five minutes."
I have given you hours of silence. That is more patience than most kings have ever received from me. Five minutes is an insult. The cat hopped down, walked over to its bowl — which was, in fact, completely empty — and sat beside it, tail flicking with sharp, rhythmic irritation. Look at it. It is hollow. It mocks me. Fill it. Now.
Gerie shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he got out of bed. "Fine. Your majesty shall be fed. What is your royal decree for today? Fish? Chicken? Or do you require something more… exotic?"
Fish is acceptable. Fresh fish. Not the dried scraps you gave me yesterday. I have standards, you know. Ancient standards. The cat groomed a paw with deliberate dignity. And do not take too long. I grow weak from hunger. And if I grow weak, who will protect you? Certainly not you — you can barely summon a skeleton without sweating.
Gerie laughed as he headed to the kitchen. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
It was not confidence. It was an observation. Now hurry.
After breakfast — fresh fish, prepared with what Gerie hoped was sufficient reverence — the cat ate slowly, savoring each bite as if conducting a critical inspection. It paused between mouthfuls to judge the quality, to glance up at Gerie with a look that clearly said this is adequate, but do not make a habit of mediocrity, and only once it was completely satisfied did it sit back, lick a paw, and deign to speak of matters beyond food.
You are improving, it said, surprising him. Slowly. But improving.
Gerie, who was sitting on the floor watching it eat, blinked. "Really?"
You do not flinch from the mark anymore. You do not fight it. You are beginning to understand that it is not something you carry. It is something you are. The cat finished grooming, stood, and stretched — long, luxurious, powerful. But you still have much to learn. You call the dead with desperation instead of purpose. You reach with fear instead of will. That is why it is hard. That is why you fail.
Gerie touched his chest, right over where the mark lay dormant beneath his shirt. "How do I stop being afraid?"
The cat walked over and butted its head against his hand — once, firm and warm — before pulling back with that familiar proud distance.
You do not stop being afraid. You simply learn to walk forward even while you are shaking. It leaped onto the windowsill, where the morning light caught its fur, turning it from black to something deeper, richer, ancient. Come. We practice. And afterward… you may feed me again. All this teaching makes me hungry.
Gerie stood, dusting off his pants, feeling the mark stir beneath his hand — a quiet, eager warmth, waking up at the thought of practice.
"Of course," he said, smiling. "Practice first. Then food. I wouldn't dare keep you waiting."
Good, the cat said, golden eyes gleaming. Finally. You are learning. Now come. And try not to make too many mistakes. I have a reputation to maintain.