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"I believe it is as you say, Lord Cerine. The Cloudians must be removed."

A large Aelurian, with the markings of his Yhetta blood—thick lines of black fur curving from muzzle to mouth—flicked his tail against the floor, yellow eyes narrowed as his gaze followed the advisor like one would when playing with their prey.

The Swift House Lord rapped his knuckles against the table. Enough frivolous fare – bangles and jewels – adorning his fingers to have provided sustenance for an entire Aelurian village.

"It is about time you did something, Reven, on behalf of our king," Cerine said, his voice low, and quick, the cadence reminiscent of war drums. But Reven was used to this; all Swift Moonborns spoke similarly.

They always played fast with their words, eager to skip the talking and jump straight to the bloodshed. Cerine's mouth opened wide as a purple tongue slid along the bottom of one fang – the other he'd lost in an uprising.

If the act was meant to intimidate the advisor, to make Reven quiver where he stood, to make him relent to the will of the Houses gathered around the table because of the perceived flaw of his birth, Cerine and the others would have to continue to wait.

Reven would not cower, nor would he bow to such pitiable displays. He was an advisor to a king, a faithful servant to Aelurus, and rank, though he respected it, meant little when it came to doing what was in the interest of survival.

The advisor straightened under Cerine's unflinching gaze, unwilling to allow the Moonborn nobility to make him feel inadequate. He might have been discarded by his own house, but he was of half-Hewn descent. The blessings of his goddess were something no Aelurian could strip him of.

He moved around the empty, high-back chair where on other occasions such as these, the king would sit, listening to his subordinates. The sleeve of Reven's robe caught on the roughly carved wood as he ran his fingers over it, claws extended. He remained at the center of the room, its focal point, demanding all who sat around the table to listen when he spoke. Him, an imperfect runt commanding the pure-blood Moonborns.

All eyes studied him. He was certain they saw him as competition, a viable advisary in Aelurus's constant power struggle. And Reven would be remiss if he hadn't envisioned himself seated upon the throne. It was too tempting, him an outcast, sullying the throne in Darkmoore's great hall with his presence.

The lords before him having to bow whenever he strode into the room. The weak ruling over those who believed themselves strong. But all that altruistic daydreaming had grown dull as he aged. Aelurus's throne was hard, and Reven's back was not strong enough to endure it.

Now, he desired none of the achings that came with ruling. He only desired to serve Aelurus until he took his place in the y'mestria.

"Blood Moon's troops are ready to march when his highness gives the order to begin the extermination," Lord Callus said, punctuating his sentence with the pounding of his fists. The tangerine and black of his fur blurred together, his movement so abrupt it caused Lady Cordan's wine to ripple in her goblet. She eyed the young, recently promoted Lord with disdain, the skin between her eyes pinching, her light chestnut, and otherwise smooth fur, ruffled.

"Finally," Lady Lumia added in a seductive purr, as she leaned back in her chair, the long slit of her gown exposing a well-groomed coat. She had the markings of her blood - black spots against a sandy backdrop. "We can be rid of this ratta parasite that sucks our homeworld dry once and for all."

Her words brought the room alive, chatters of excitement and clinking goblets filling the previous silence. Reven marveled at how easy it was to stoke the Moonborns fervor; all one had to do was suggest bloodshed.

He returned his attention to the four of them seated around the table. "We will have no need of your armies, Lord Callus," Callus cocked his head in confusion, a habit his teachers had yet to beat out of him. Reven continued, ignoring the untamed Aelurian. "Though the crown appreciates your willingness to support its decrees, it does not seek genocide."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reven saw the hint of a smirk playing on Cordan's lips as she lifted her goblet to her mouth.

As head of Harvest Moon, a predominantly matriarchal house, gifted with the blood of Illio, she was often overlooked in meetings such as these. Those who stayed their tongues often were.

But while many might have been fooled by her acting, Reven being an actor himself, was not. "You do not seek the total annihilation of an already defunct race then, Reven?" Cordan drew on her libation with slow sips, her eyes accusing him over the rim.

Her question was pointed, her words carefully chosen. She had asked what his opinion on the ratta scourge was, as though the decision was his to make and not the crown's.

"Of course, he wouldn't," Cerine said, again addressing Reven personally. Disgust for those gathered in this room rose inside the advisor, but he remained composed, hands clasped at his front, tail limp and still - a show of humility. "You would show compassion to those undesirables."

Reven's grasp tightened, the urge to run his claws across Cerine's throat growing. The Yhetta-blessed Aelurian was swift and capable of dodging attacks, but only those he saw coming. Reven wouldn't be so careless as to let his enemies see his attacks.

For now though Reven had to swallow back his emotions and banish such thoughts. An eruption of them, a showing of his true self, would give his enemies enough fuel to raze the ground where he stood.

"It is not his Highness's wish to see an entire race condemned for what is beyond their control."

Callus rolled his eyes. "Such sympathy is weakness."

"Sympathy," Reven's eyes narrowed as he looked at Callus, "is what elevates us from our baser nature."  He dared to take a step forward, feeling Cordan's eyes on him though the goblet obscured her face. Reven couldn't very well read what he couldn't see and she knew that. "That which makes us better, should not be so easily dismissed."

"Personal philosophies aside, Reven, what cannot be argued is that the ratta have sped up our people's suffering." Cerine's words were acidic, making the truth he spoke hard-to-swallow.

Still, he was right and Reven knew it. "And that's why our ben'nessren has decreed the immediate relocation of the Cloudian refugee camp."

At this, Lady Cordan stopped shielding her face, slapping her goblet onto the table. The sound echoed, making sure all in the room partook of her disbelief.

She leaned in, the balding skin of her neck wrinkling above her high collar. While other Aelurians hated how collars left them feeling constricted, Cordan adored it. Her Ladyship needed to feel in control. "And where shall his highness send thousands?"

"Exul."

Lords Cerine and Callus exchanged dubious glances. "And how—"

Reven raised a hand. "Fret not, Lord Cerine." The Aelurian snarled. "His majesty has thought of everything. House Hewn has sent a scouting party to find suitable land. First reports have already come across my desk citing a large, uninhabited desert on the southern continent, more than capable of accommodating the ratta refugees. Hewn has also pledged a company of its soldiers to help reestablish the Cloudians, as well as promised a moon's cycle worth of provisions, so there is no need," Reven bent over, hands on the rounded desk, claws dug into the wood, "for you, my Lords and Ladies, to offer up your services." He bowed his head.

"You think us too gracious, Reven." Cordan traced a sharpened claw along the mouth of her goblet.

"I do not, Lady," he replied, averting his gaze to better lend credibility to his role as a pious, cowering subservient, "I think you underestimate your kin."

A snort of laughter filled the room as Cordan hunched forward, the bangles along her tail clinking together. The combination of the two created a mocking sort of harmony.

"You speak so eloquently on behalf of his highness." Reven grew rigid at Lord Cerine's address. "And yet, where is His Highness?"

Cerine plucked at the collar of his tunic, the double-stitched seams of gold thread threatening to burst under his bulk. "He's missed the past two meetings of the Houses. Does His Highness seek to rule remotely?" The cat-man smirked, as he dared – he dared – to kick his boot onto the table.

The brown muck of trampled Aelurian soil sluiced off the sole. "Surely, our new king wishes to endear himself to his people." Reven's lips pulled tight. "As smart as you are, you must be aware of how our ben'nessren has been received. He does not act like an Aelurian and there have been whispers that an Aelurian raised in Exul, by hemma no less, is undeserving of the throne."

"Our ben'nessren has the Yaugar blood of his Moon coursing through his veins. He is as worthy—" as any of you.

"Some claim the time he spent on Exul has spoiled his blood, no matter how much it might have been revered all those cycles ago." Something hot and rigid lodged itself in the advisor's throat. "Dear advisor, rest assured, none in this room deny our ben'nessren his throne, I am merely parroting what my servants have heard on their travels. I'm sure you're aware how quickly rumors spread."

"I am." Reven's throat grew tight, but he simply bowed. "Lies are like disease."

Cerine nodded. "Both capable of ravaging the population."

"He should be here," Callus countered, offering a quick respite from the mounting tension in the room.

"Tell us why our king isn't here, Reven." Lumia's voice was as smooth and slippery as nightsilk - a fabric beloved for its beauty and rarity that cost dozens of lives in order to procure the means for its creation. She twirled a length of face fur around her finger, flashing everyone a coy smile.

"Because these are trivial matters," Reven's gazed drifted over each of them, "that our ben'nessren has faith I will handle accordingly. No need to get him involved when there are other matters demanding his attention."

"Matters in Exul?" Cerine's words, though whispered, screamed in Reven's mind. Did he know? Know of the king's activities in Exul? How many of Cerine's spies stalked the castle's halls?

"He shirks his responsibility." While Cordan normally absconded from such petty questioning since the affairs discussed within these walls impacted her clan little, her inclusion in this matter, and the fact they all seemed united on this and were unrelenting, chilled Reven to his core. "Don't try to tell us other wise. We are not empty-bloods."

"No, my Lady. I would never demean you in such a way. But surely, you cannot think so little of our king."

"Of a king who doesn't show up? Who cannot be bothered with us? Who shows nothing but open contempt and hostility for the governing principles our realm has operated under for generations? No," she shook her head, "I'm afraid I think much worse of such a king."

"My kin, let's not forget," Cerine interjected, "his royal advisor has yet yet to answer us." He steepled his hands, resting his chin in the mounds of his cream-colored knuckles. "Don't the Houses deserve transparency? After all, you are but a vessel for his majesty's message."

Vessel. Something empty. Something left on its own lacking purpose. That's how they saw him.

Reven swallowed, the burning in his belly rising up his throat, boiling the moisture on his tongue. "His majesty has taken to his chambers." The fur above Cerine's eyes raised. Callus leaned in. Cordan abandoned her wine. Even Lumia stopped preening long enough to acquiesce to her curiosity.

They were all waiting for Reven to confirm what some of them must already know. That Sebastian had been poisoned. That the king was likely dead. One utterance, one admittance of the truth, would ignited a war with the Cloude even Reven couldn't extinguish. "His Majesty wishes too—"

Behind them, the doors to the chamber flew open. Sebastian Dinn' Aelurus stood in the doorway, swaddled in royal navy and tan. Bangles scaled the length of his tail, his coat glossy and thick.

He marched in, as if knowing he strode onto a battlefield, a small, cowering Cloudian eclipsed in his shadow. Reven glowered as the imposter king passed. "What are you—"

The occupants of the room shot to their feet and bowed deeply. "Reven," Lucy smirked, "If you don't bow to your king, I'll have you sent to the dungeon." Reven glowered, but did as he was told, lowering his head until all he saw was Lucy's boots. A warm hand clamped him on the shoulder. "I kid," Lucy whispered. "I wouldn't really send you to the dungeon. At least," he patted his shoulder, prompting Reven to glance up, "not yet."

Lucy moved toward the table and motioned for everyone to return to their seats. He took to his position at the head of the table as naturally as breathing, and for a second Reven thought he would sit in the king's chair, before Lucy settled alongside it. "Forgive me, Lords and Ladies, for not joining you sooner."

Reven caught sight of Cerine's chair legs shaking as surprise threatened to topple him. Reven too was equally surprised; he'd given Lucy strict instruction to stay in Sebastian's quarters, keep to himself and leave matters of Aelurus to Reven.

Lucy loomed over the Moonborns seated around the table, one arm draped over a chair. "I was in my room, studying a few things I had pulled from the library when I heard you all whispering about me." He grinned, a cold, mirthless smile, one he flashed every occupant in the room. "Nothing bad, I hope."

Cerine straightened, his boot dropping back to the floor where it belonged. "Certainly, your highness. We only inquired about you because we were concerned." The others nodded their heads; Cordan returning to her goblet, shielding her expression behind burnished metal.

"How considerate," Lucy said, pointing at Cordan and summoning the servant. "Can I get some of that?"

The servant mumbled a quick reply, never raising their head as they scurried out the door.

"Reven has done well conveying your plans for the ratta scourge," Lumia muttered.

Lucy turned to face the advisor. "How kind of him."

"Indeed," Callus said, running his claw down the table, "Very thorough."

Lucy leaned in. "Bet it was boring."

Callus blinked. "Your highness?"

"Well, no matter," Lucy clapped his hands together, "change of plans. The Cloudian refugees will stay here."

Cerine shot to his feet, thoroughly ruffled. "Your Highness!"

"You don't really dare raise your voice at me, do you?" Lucy shot him a glare. "The consequences of such disrespect are quite clear, are they not?"

Cerine flinched before nodding and settling back into his seat.

"Our people are starving," said Lumia. "Allowing the Cloudians to stay will only cause more death."

"And yet to ease our people's suffering, you have all so enthusiastically endorsed the genocide of others."

At this, Lumia seemed to wither on the spot. Her ears flattened against her scalp, her whiskers dropping. Even her clipped tail sagged from the hole in her dress.

Ignoring her, Lucy turned to the rest of the room. "It's interesting that you care so much about the people," Lumia looked surprised as he addressed her. "Considering Swift House takes seventy percent of the crops your clans raise. In fact," he eyed all those present, "All the Moonborn houses claim seventy percent of everything grown, raised and produced within their territories. While the farmers who toil away on the fields are left to survive off the scraps you have decided is too beneath you to steal."

"Your hi-highness," Callus said, tugging at the collar of his shirt, "this is how it's always been."

Lucy shrugged. "Moonborn houses and their ilk make up less than ten percent of the Aelurian population."

Reven nearly gaped. When had Lucy learned that? How had he learned that?

As though Lucy could feel Reven's stupor, he glanced at him. "I happened to sneak a peak at some of those books you had tucked away in your office."

He returned to address the group. "Forgive me if this seems wrong what with my hemma addled mind I can't be sure I make sense," he gazed directly at Cerine, "but it seems unfair such a small amount of the population should get such a high percentage of the yield."

"Swift Moon," he continued talking, mostly to Cerine, "is by far the biggest perpetrator of this wealth injustice—" his Lordship swallowed, visibly shook as he squirmed in his seat "—sometimes taking as much as eighty percent of the yield to give to his kinsmen. Which, unsurprisingly, has led to the highest rate of poverty in the kingdom. So, from today onward, I've decided you all will take sixty percent of the yield," a well-timed growl stopped all the lords and ladies from voicing their complaints, "the common people will keep forty. Oh, and from your sixty, you'll donate twenty of it to the Cloudian refugee camps."

Gazes flitted back and forth. Mouths hung agape, but the nobility were too shaken to speak. They were used to leading, not being led. Not since the days of Loreilanna had they been so thoroughly leashed. Reven tried desperately to fend off a burgeoning smile, but it seemed a battle he was destined to lose.

"This will allow for our people," Lucy glanced at Cerine and Lumia specifically, "that you care so much about to truly thrive. As well as allow for Cloudians to continue living here since this realm is, I'm sure, large enough for us both."

"An-and what of it?" Callus leveled a trembling claw at the Cloudian in the corner.

The hemma boy was doing a good job of portraying the whiskered race – quivering, back against the wall. Fear palpable.

Lucy nodded. "Ah, this is Vicrum, the new Cloudian ambassador." He beckoned the boy over, who after a few seconds, scurried to his side. He sought safety in Lucy's size, half-hiding himself behind a leg. "He will act as liaison between the refugee camp and the crown, ensuring your generous donations arrive at their destinations."

Lucy moved toward the door. "Now, if that's everything—" he peeled it back and glanced at the room. Immediately, each of the house leaders rose and excused themselves.

Before Reven could speak, before he could reprimand Lucy for such defiance, the cat-man pulled out the king's chair and plopped himself down.

"I know what I did was foolish, but seriously," Lucy plucked at the flowy sleeve of his shirt, "I couldn't stand being locked away. Cooped up. Even Vic hated it."

Vicrum snarled. "You dragged me here and they could have eaten me!"

Lucy batted away the accusation. "Nonsense. You're too stringy. It'd take months to get parts of you unstuck from our teeth."

He mimicked picking something from his fangs with one of his claws. The boy shuddered.

"Your highness," Reven said, slowly rounding the table.

There was so much he wanted to say. So much censure. So much condemnation for Lucy's recklessness. His appearance here would tell the conspirators that their plan had failed; forcing them into hiding and becoming much harder to lure out.

And yet, when he approached the fraudulent king, he was struck speechless.

Lucy might have looked like Sebastian, enough to fool the nobility, but he held himself the way his mother had. Back straight, his gaze direct, forward. It was the posture of someone ready to carry the weight of a kingdom.

Lucy cocked his head. "Yes, advisor?"

Reven scooted his glasses up his muzzle. "You did well," he said, choosing praise over admonishment.

Lucy smirked and turned to face the hemma. "Hear that, Vic?" He poked his chest. "Told you, I'm cat-person royalty."

"You weren't playing a role."

Though Reven hadn't intended for the conversation to continue, the words flowed, unstoppered. When had been the last time he dropped his act long enough to voice what he truly thought?

Lucy turned, once again looking him in the eyes.

"I was wrong. You weren't acting. You were simply being what you were born to be."

Lucy stiffened, before returning to a more relaxed position, as though slouching to purposely contradict Reven's assertion. "You need to get those glasses checked," he said, resting his head in his hand. "It was all an act. Just ask the girls in Ean. I'm pretty notorious for putting up airs and getting people to believe the lie."

"But—"

That's untrue. What I glimpsed, was the king Aelurus deserved.

Lucy shot to his feet. "Suddenly, I'm bored. And thirsty. Vic," he eyed the boy, "let's retire to my rooms." As he made to leave, Vicrum in tow, he turned to Reven. "If that servant returns with my wine, send her my way, yes?"

Reven nodded. A seed of doubt having sowed itself in his chest.

Sebastian was the king Aelurus had, but perhaps Lucy had been the king Aelurus needed all along.