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"I'm fine."

He didn't move.

"I mean it."

He pressed harder instead and I gave up arguing with him. He did this whenever he thought I was upset, his gentle way of checking on me.

I scratched under his jaw with two fingers until the tension went out of him, and he lifted his head, his ember eye’s flicking to mine trying to determine that I hadn't lied.

Then he turned around and started on the room.

He shoved his skull under the desk first, ash smearing along one leg, and came back out to sniff the length of the bed in deep, deliberate breaths, like he expected something to be hiding under it. The wardrobe got the same treatment, nose pressed to the crack of the door until it swung open on its own, and he startled, ridges lifting for half a second before deciding the wardrobe hadn't attacked him.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed and watched him work along the empty shelves next, claws clicking against wood, his tail dragging a thin line of ash across the floor with every turn.

He jumped onto the bed beside me, the mattress dipping hard enough to roll me against his side, and settled his head onto his front paws, eyes on the door like he'd already claimed the spot as the perfect look out.

I looked around the room again, at the ash tracked across the floor, the wardrobe door hanging open, and the enormous creature currently deciding my new bedroom belonged to him too.

Could I still call it a prison if I liked it?

Chapter Three: Permission Not Required

Jade

Nearly an hour after Corian left me alone in my new room, I'd unpacked everything I owned, put half of it away twice, and reached one conclusion: I had no idea what to do next.

I stood at the foot of the bed with my arms folded and inspected the room again, because looking at the same things for a seventh time beat opening the door and wandering through a house in which I still didn't know what I was allowed to touch. My clothes had vanished into the wardrobe with enough space left over that I could climb inside and live beside them without causing a problem. Spare boots sat beneath the hanging rail, my field armor took up one side of the chest at the end of the bed, and the few books I'd brought sat on a shelf before I gave up pretending three books needed an organizational system.

The weapons case took longer.

It sat empty beneath the window now, while all forty-three of my throwing knives covered the wall beside the desk, in precise rows. The mounting strips had been packed in with them, which meant whoever moved my things expected me to put them up myself. I spent an unreasonable amount of time debating whether I needed permission before I noticed a scatter of old holes already in the wood and decided the last person who lived here had answered that question for me.

I stepped closer and straightened a knife that had gone crooked since I'd last checked it, though the blade had probably never moved. I'd just been staring at the wall long enough to invent flaws. Most of the collection was practical, not decorative. Every blade had once belonged to a Master I'd taken it from: narrow steel meant to leave my hand clean, heavier blades for short throws, reinforced points built for armor, and a handful of odd shapes I'd kept just to learn how differently they cut through air. Some balanced perfectly. Others took enough practice that anyone sensible would have thrown them out.

Then there was the knife at the end of the second row.

The blade was small next to the others, barely longer than my palm, blackened steel etched with fine silver lines curling from the guard toward the central ridge. The leather wrapped around the grip had once been solid black but had faded now in the places my fingers settled most. A narrow chip near the pommel had been there so long I barely registered it anymore.

It was also stolen.

Technically.

I'd been eight when I took it off Janus's desk, right after he told me not to touch it. That hadn't been what interested me. I'd wanted to know whether I could throw it.

Janus had said no. An obvious tactical error on his part.

He left the room minutes later, and the knife was in my sleeve before the door closed. I spent six days practicing in a training room whenever nobody watched me, learning the hard way that Janus had been right about the balance. The first throw bounced off the target hard enough that I nearly lost an eye.

I kept going out of principle. Or stubbornness, probably both.

Janus found me the day the blade buried itself in the center ring. He looked at the target, looked at the knife, and told me that stealing weapons from the High General was poor behavior.

I pointed out I'd stolen it from Janus, not the High General. He laughed and left without taking it back. Years later, I still had it.

Corian had told me to take whatever time I needed. At first, I appreciated it. Nobody ordered me to unpack, nobody told me how long I had, and nobody stood in the doorway checking that I'd arranged everything right.

Then I finished. Now what?