His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something that looks almost like pity. "My mistake."
It doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels deliberate. Like he's testing something, cataloging my responses for reasons I can't determine.
Malrec's gaze lifts from his documentation, finding mine for the first time since we departed. That ember-gold burns through me, and I see the question there. The same confusion I'm feeling reflected back at me.
Then he looks away, and I'm left with the disorienting certainty that something is very wrong here. That all of this—the familiarity, the recognition, the way my body responds to him—isn't random or explainable by dreams alone.
The carriage stops, and I force myself to breathe normally as we disembark.
Luckily, getting Khorvas out of his transport cage requires all my focus, which is a relief. The male beast is agitated from travel, and I have to move carefully to avoid triggering a defensive response. I speak to him in low tones, my hands steady as I guidehim through the transition from confined space to the display stall that's been prepared.
Malrec works beside me, our movements falling into rhythm without discussion. He handles the containment anchors while I manage Khorvas's physical positioning, both of us operating with practiced efficiency that feels too natural. Like we've done this together hundreds of times before.
Which is impossible, because I've only been at House Virex for weeks.
But my body doesn't care about logic. It just knows that this is right. That working beside him like this, in perfect synchronization, is exactly how it should be.
Khorvas settles once we've secured him properly, and I run my hand along his scaled flank in reassurance. The beast presses into my touch, and I feel some of the tension leave my own shoulders in response.
"Well done," Malrec says quietly.
I glance at him, caught off guard by the approval in his tone. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—something softer than his usual controlled assessment, but still guarded. Still careful.
"He trusts you," I say, because I need to fill the silence with something other than the way my pulse is racing.
"He trusts us both." Malrec's jaw tightens slightly. "That pairing has always been his preference."
The word choice hits me strangely.Pairing. Like Khorvas sees us as a unit rather than separate handlers. Like that's normal and expected rather than deeply confusing.
Before I can respond, Damiros appears at the stall entrance. "The viewing begins shortly. We should survey the available stock."
Malrec nods once, then gestures for me to follow.
The auction estate's beast viewing area is enormous—a series of interconnected enclosures arranged in deliberate progression from smallest to largest classifications. We move through them methodically, Malrec assessing each creature with professional detachment while Damiros offers occasional commentary on lineage or acquisition history.
I trail behind them, my attention divided between the beasts and the growing disorientation building in my chest.
I know this place.
Not just vaguely. Not just a sense of familiarity. Iknowit. I know that the next corridor will curve left before opening into a larger viewing platform. I know that the reinforced enclosure three spaces ahead houses something volatile that requires distance observation. I know that there's a smaller passageway to the right that leads to specialized containment areas for newly acquired beasts.
And I shouldn't know any of that.
My breath comes shorter, and I press my hand against the stone wall to ground myself. The cool surface feels exactly as I expected it to—rough texture with smooth veins of embedded mineral that catch the light from overhead rune fixtures.
Expected. Like I've touched this wall before.
"Are you unwell?" Damiros has stopped walking, his sharp gaze fixed on me with that same unsettling intensity from the carriage.
"I'm fine." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Just adjusting to the environment."
Malrec turns, his attention landing on me with immediate focus. Something flickers across his face—concern? recognition?—before he masks it. "We can take a break if you need?—"
"I'm fine," I repeat, pushing away from the wall. My legs feel unsteady, but I force myself to move forward. To follow themdeeper into the viewing area even though every step makes the disorientation worse.
We pass enclosure after enclosure, and I feel myself fracturing. My conscious mind insists this is new, unfamiliar, completely foreign territory. But my body moves through the space with ease, automatically adjusting to the layout as though it's been mapped into my muscle memory.
Malrec keeps glancing at me. Quick assessments that feel more personal than professional, like he's cataloging something specific about my responses. I half expect him to snap at me, but while he might not be warm, that hostility has been fading to something else.
