To Kyros’s astonishment, it turns out that Cathra lives in a real house; a proper one with four walls, a tiny glass window, and a front door made of wood. He expected to see some sort of run-down shack on the outskirts of the city, but the single-story building Cathra calls home sits right in the middle of the eastern residential area.

I didn’t know captains get paid so much, Kyros thinks, fishing Cathra’s key from his pocket with one hand. Or maybe it was her work for the King that afforded her something like this.

The lock is old, its edges worn, but it makes a satisfying click when Kyros maneuvers the dull brass key through its chambers.

The door groans open, and the first thing Kyros notices when he steps through is the smell of grass. Faint and a little sweet. It's as if he left the city behind him and walked into a lush meadow. The darkness offers little clues as to the scent’s origin, but from the light cast through the opened doorway, Kyros observes a small living space decorated sparsely with simple furniture.

“It smells amazing in here,” he remarks in a hushed voice. “So much so that it shames me to compare it to my bunk room.”

On his back, Cathra snores softly in reply, and it makes Kyros want to laugh. She made it three steps into the eastern district before she sat down on the nearest patch of grass, announced she was going to throw up, and then promptly passed out. After that, it was a mission to both carry her while deciphering the right directions in her sleepy mutterings.

It is a miracle Kyros even found the correct place.

A rough shape hangs against the right wall. Kyros picks his way over, praying it’s a lantern. He keeps his back hunched so Cathra doesn’t slip off, and with each step, he becomes increasingly aware of the softness of her pressing into him. Cathra’s breath comes in hot tuffs against the back of his neck, and her hair tickles wherever they rub against his skin.

In the darkness, all of Kyros's repressed feelings take form. His hands, clutching her thighs, start to sweat. He wonders what Cathra might look like naked. He quickens his pace, striding across the squeaky floorboards. But this just makes it worse. Now Cathra is bouncing against him, her chest rubbing his back and Kyros has never wanted someone so much as now and finally, he reaches the lantern.

Leaning sideways, he brushes his shoulder against it and the room lights up with a pleasant cerulean glow. Kyros breathes a sigh of relief. The thoughts subside. So do the urges. In the light, all things are pure.

Glancing around the mostly empty living room, Kyros spots a narrow bed in the corner. He goes over to set Cathra down.

Once on top of the mattress, Cathra gives out a weak moan and curls up into a little ball.

“Cold…”

Kyros tries searching for bed sheets or a blanket, but failing to find either and not wanting to dig inside Cathra’s drawers, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her. It’s just long enough to cover her upper body, leaving her long legs bare. Kyros is contemplating what other piece of clothing to part with when Cathra grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like his name.

He stops, his breath held. Cathra doesn’t move. “Cathra?” he whispers, leaning in. “Are you awake?”

Cathra stirs and clutches the jacket close to her chest, scrunching the fabric in her fists. Her eyelids flutter, but she settles down a moment later.

Kyros fears his heart may have just burst.

Gingerly, he reaches down and undoes the laces on Cathra’s boots, slipping them off while trying desperately not to look or touch her. Unlike her arms, which are tanned from years of training under the harsh sun, Cathra’s legs are pale; no doubt a result of her love for boots and long socks. Even in the dimness of the single lantern on the other side of the room, Kyros spots thin blue veins running under the clear skin of Cathra's feet. He places her boots down noiselessly and then moves away backward from the bed.

Kyros takes his time touring the house as best as he can without touching anything, though there isn’t much to touch. The walls seem to be newly painted and the floorboards are shining smooth; both contrasting starkly with the clearly ancient timber of the building.

A lone rectangular table takes up most of the space in the living room, and stacks of what must be paperwork are piled neatly to cover half of the dark oak surface. Kyros has lost count of the number of times he’s seen Cathra’s office overflowing with papers and food wrappings, so this is many steps up from what he expects to see in her home.

A doorway leads from the living room into a kitchen, and it is here that Kyros finds the source of the homely smell that had welcomed him.

All along the kitchen counter are rows of dainty white dishes, their edges hand-inked with meticulous designs. Within them lay are a colorful variety of herbs and flowers, dried and drying. From a quick whiff, Kyros thinks he can discern basil and coriander, and in one dish he recognizes the thin, sharp petals of the rare Windmill Flower, from which the wine that had knocked Cathra out is fermented from. He struggles to identify any of the other specimens though, and heads back to the living room.

Cathra is lying on her side, Kyros’s jacket still firmly held in her hands. Much of her hair has gotten free from her braid, and it spreads out across her pillow like a fan of black silk. Kyros sits down beside Cathra, careful not to disturb the bed. He briefly contemplates taking out his booklet to make a sketch of her, but quickly thinks better of it.

Putting aside how creepy it is, if she woke up and saw me…

Kyros holds down his hands, but he can’t seem to do anything to control his eyes. They wander freely across the contours of Cathra’s face, halt fleetingly at her lips, and then continue down to her legs where his jacket does not reach. He tries not to imagine the parts hidden beneath the fabric, but his mind does not listen. And soon, Kyros feels a surge of heat growing below his belt.

He shoots from the bed, horrified.

I am betraying Cathra’s trust in me. I am disgracing my honor as a knight of Kesrock.

He faces towards the wall, willing his heart to slow. But when he hears Cathra’s voice mumbling out to him, Kyros knows he has to leave or else risk doing something he's going to later regret, like kissing Cathra. He starts to take a step away from the bed, but something tugs onto him. He looks behind him, finding slender fingers gripped onto the hem of his shirt.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Cathra whispers through pursed lips, her eyes half-opened and watching him. “The fun hasn’t even started yet.”

"I've had enough fun for one night," Kyros says, giving his shirt a tug. Cathra doesn't let go.

“B-by the goddesses, Cathra,” Kyros laughs nervously. “If you like my clothes so much, I can give you a new set from my wardrobe.”

“No,” Cahtra tells him, “I prefer the ones you’re wearing. Take them off.”

Kyros’s throat dries up. “Um. What?”

“Shirt and pants. You can leave your underwear on.”

“B-But… I thought we’re here just to… listen to your plan or something?”

“Amazing,” Cathra mutters into Kyros’s jacket. “Usually when a woman asks a man to strip, he does so immediately without so much as a peep.” She pushes herself up from the bed, groaning with considerable effort. Kyros immediately tries offering a hand to help, but she brushes him away.

“I overdid it on the wine,” Cathra admits, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands. “I definitely went too far this time. Did I even pay the tab? Goddesses be damned, I can’t remember. What time is it?”

“Late. It was near midnight when we left the Black Raven,” Kyros answers, glad to be talking about something else. “You went to pay, but gave the owner a fistful of peanuts instead.”

“Where did I get… never mind. We left without paying?”

“I took care of it.” Kyros waits and braces himself for the next question, about how they got back to Cathra’s house. He has no doubt Cathra will be embarrassed if she knows she was carried here, and tries to come up with a story that sounds plausible enough. But he needn’t have bothered, because Cathra is too busy having a hangover to ask him anything.

After a long while of grimacing, broken by the occasional dry-heave, Cathra finally looks up. “Thanks,” she says, smiling weakly at Kyros. “Now where were we? Oh yes, hurry up and take off your damn clothes already. And your shoes too. Don’t argue. That’s an order.”

Kyros thinks of arguing some more, but sighs and shrugs. It's clear that Cathra is only using intimacy as a tool against him, but Kyros is getting tired. The sooner he plays along to whatever game this is, the sooner he can get back to his own bed. He steps away and undresses, pulling his shirt over his head first, then his trousers and lastly his shoes. He tries not to feel too self-conscious as he stands there in the cold in nothing but his underwear and socks.

“Okay, I’m ready.” For what?

“Good.” Cathra points to the cupboard next to her bed. “Top left one. Look inside it.”

Kyros does what he’s told and finds a bundle of green tucked in the corner of the drawer. He fingers it, feeling silk. “What is this?”

“Take it out and put it on.”

“This?” Kyros pulls the bundle out and lets it unfold.

His mouth drops open.

A dress dangles before him, the hem falling just short from the floor. It is jade green, adorned with laces and teardrop crystals that twinkle in the glow of the lantern.

"It looks good with your skin tone," Cathra observes with a click of her tongue.

Kyros stares at Cathra, and it takes a long moment before he finally understands what her plan is.

“Oh, no, no no.” Kyros stuffs the dress into the drawer and backs away like it is a venomous creature. “This is absurd. Nay, this is beyond even the definition of absurd.” He glares at Cathra, who is smiling back at him teasingly. “This is your plan?”

“All the victims of the Blood Devil are unmarried ladies,” Cathra explains slowly to Kyros as if he's a dimwit. “You already have the scent of innocence about you, so all we need to do is add some padding here and there, and probably a wig. I think a merchant was selling them in the market since the start of this summer.”

“But what about you!” Kyros exclaims, his anger rising by the second. “Why can’t you wear this? Or that red one you wore that day in the Sovereign Hall?” He continues to back away from the drawer until he reaches his clothes that are on the floor.

Cathra’s eyes never leave him. “I need to be armed and ready to ambush the Blood Devil.” The way she says it so matter-of-factly just annoys Kyros more, until she adds, “And I’m not so innocent anymore.”

Kyros tries not to think about the meaning behind her words, the implication that she might've already done the things he's been trying so hard to not imagine her doing. Kyros realizes then that, sometimes, not knowing the truth may be less painful than knowing.

“But how do you know I am?” he asks Cathra, keeping his face passive.

Cathra frowns. “Are you not?”

“I… didn’t say that.” Kyros sighs and goes to pick up his clothes. “Find someone else, Cathra. I’m not dressing up to play bait. That’s not what I became a knight for.”

"We don't have time to look for someone else."

Kyros stretches his shirt over his head, feeling the rough wool scratch. "That's too bad, then," he says, and chuckles. “Maiden or not, I think we both have to admit that you make a much better image wearing that dress than I do.” He is still chuckling when Cathra tackles him.

Kyros feels himself falling. The world tilts and for one second all he can see is up. He has just enough time to think, Cathra even paints her ceiling, before the back of his head explodes as he hits the floor. His vision blurs, but somehow he manages to hold onto consciousness. He hears Cathra’s voice in his ears, muffled as if his head is stuffed with cotton.

"If I was a Blood Devil, I just killed you."

She's sitting on his chest. Kyros can feel the weight and heat of her. He forces his own body to move, to twist out from under Cathra.

Stumbling, he puts distance between them, reaching the wall before saying, "That was a cheap shot."

Cathra is standing in the spot he just was, among all his clothing. "Alright, then consider yourself warned this time." She smiles sweetly, then comes at him, fast.

The first punch catches Kyros in the chest, knocking him back. He brings his arms up just in time for the second. The slap of skin on skin rings loud. Before he can retaliate, a palm breaks through Kyros's defense, grazing past his cheek. Kyros jerks one knee out, hoping to catch Cathra, but she dances out of the way and comes at his other side. Her fists fly at him, crashing into his stomach then hard across his jawline. Kyros feels his body spasm, lightning jolting through his bones. His knees buckle and he collapses onto the hard wood floor, holding his tummy.

It is a good, long minute before Kyros can get out of the fetal position. He gathers himself up and shuffles to sit against the wall.

Cathra comes over to him. "You were warned," she says as she hands him a mug of steaming water. "I put some ground-up Wyvern Roots in it," she goes on when Kyros wrinkles his nose at it. "It'll help with the soreness."

"Thanks." Kyros takes a sip. It tastes bitter and burns on its way down, but it is nothing compared to the beating his pride has taken.

Cathra sits down next to him.

“Have you ever taken another man’s life, Kyros?”

The bluntness of her question stuns Kyros much more than the pain. He tries to think of an answer, but finds he doesn’t have anything other than a raspy, “No?”

“Have you ever heard a comrade scream as they were skewered on the end of an enemy's spear? Have you watched a monster be torn to pieces on no fault of its own, but the sin of being weaker than its brethren?"

Kyros opens his mouth, only to close it again without saying anything.

“Answer me, Gate Knight.”

“You know I haven’t, Cathra,” Kyros snaps, more annoyed than he means to be. “I haven’t done the things you have. I didn’t have to. I don't even watch the public lashings or hangings. You know all this about me.”

Cathra’s voice is composed, but her words belittle Kyros all the same. “I do. But sometimes, you seem to be the one in need of reminding.”

Kyros stares at the mug in his hands, at his warped reflection in the tea. “Is this it, then? I'm going to be the bait because I’m less a fighter than you? Don't give me that innocent crap. This is what it all boils down to, isn't it?”

“We are not dealing with a minotaur or a goblin, Kyros, but something that will look almost exactly like another human.” Cathra gets up and goes over to her bedside drawer. She takes out the dress and holds it up against herself. It fits perfectly, but Cathra shakes her head. She comes over to Kyros and drops the dress unceremoniously by his feet.

"Do you understand what that means, Sir Knight?" she asks, sitting down beside him again. "When the time comes to cut down someone who looks like you, or remind you of a family member or a friend, can I trust you to do it without even a sliver of hesitation? Can you trust yourself to do that?”

Kyros scoffs. "You know the answer to that better than I do."

Kyros has never been a fighter. Even as a kid, he always found solace in books and poetry while his two brothers sparred in the yard. Thinking about Bendric and Allastair, Kyros gets a sudden sense of homesickness. Even though they both used to call him ‘Kyros the Whimsy’ - when what they really meant was ‘Kyros the Wimpy’ - they are still his brothers, his family.

If only they are here now, Kyros thinks as he gets up off the floor. They'll definitely get in a good, long laugh. He scoops up the dress and turns to Cathra.

"When do we start?"