They were cat ears. Black. On top of her head. The fur was soft. Short. The ears were pointed. Tufted. They twitched— in the cell, in the dark, the ears rotating, scanning, the instinct of a prey animal.
A tail.
Black. Long. Thin. The tail of a cat. It was wrapped around her leg. The tip twitched.
She was catkin.
A demi-human. A beast-person. A race that the kingdom of Doria did not recognize as citizens. As people. A race that could be— owned. Sold. Used.
Edda looked at her.
Her yellow eyes— slitted— examined. The body. The build. The ears. The tail. The muscle definition— visible even through the malnutrition. The legs— the thighs, the calves. The definition of a fighter. Of an assassin.
"So," Edda said. Her voice was low. The voice of a woman who has just confirmed something. "I was on the right time."
She looked at the mark.
