Chapter 281

Nima

I wobble slightly, unable to gather the spring for a proper hop, and I give up. Shifting back into my human form is a slower process than it used to be, a gentle unfolding rather than a quick pop. My joints protest the change.

Time has not been kind to me, I think, not with bitterness, but with a quiet, factual acceptance.

I walk towards the pile of clothes on the bed—a soft, simple dress in a warm brown, comfortable but very expensive, as are all my clothes.

Outside in the corridor, a couple of young servants bow deeply.

"Good morning," I say, my voice a little thinner than it used to be. After twenty years as the Duchess’s consort, I’m now accustomed to this life in Nyxclaw. The luxury, the servants, the darkness.

I walk down the grand hall. The walls are still the same dark, polished stone, the colors somber and imposing.

But if you look closely, you can see the changes. The occasional hanging basket of ferns where a grim tapestry once hung. A cluster of warm lanterns where there was only cold light.

I added them to bring color, life, a little softness to this fortress. She gave me full authority to change everything.

But how could I possibly alter centuries of history? So I settled for small little additions.

Just walking this short distance has me winded. A dull ache settles in my hips. I pause to rest, leaning lightly against a carved post.

And I find I’m standing directly in front of the huge portrait. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

Our portrait.

It dominates the wall. Daphne, being a painter herself, was never satisfied with the artists’ attempts. She had them redo it, and redo it again, growing more exasperated each time.

I remember the scandalized whispers when she finally dismissed the Kingdom’s finest, set up her own easel beside theirs, and began to teach them—her sharp critiques cutting through their pride until they produced this.

I must say, she knew what she was talking about.

It’s magnificent. It stands apart from all the other portraits of dukes and duchesses lining the hall—not just because it’s larger, but because she is the only one whose official ducal portrait was painted with her spouse.

I still can’t believe we’re actually married. Legally married. I didn’t think it would happen, but one day she said she was going to visit the king, and a couple of months later nok conventional marriage was accepted by the Kingdom’s laws.

I admire the painting for another heartbeat, then continue on my way, my steps slow but steady.

I find her where she always is at this time of the morning: the training grounds. And as expected, there she is.

She’s standing over a group of four young panthers—two boys, two girls—who are panting in the dirt, looking up at her with a mixture of exhaustion and awe.

She kidna—adopted these children. Ten years ago she quietly "hunted down" the most promising kits from distant, collateral branch lines of the Nyxclaw family.

She pretends she isn’t, but I know she’s fond of them. She drills them relentlessly, her standards impossibly high, but I’ve seen her correct their stances with a claw-tip’s gentleness, and I’ve heard her low chuckle at their clumsy attempts to mimic her poise.

As if sensing my presence, she turns her head. Her eyes, that timeless, molten gold, find me across the yard. A slow, genuine smile touches her lips.I smile back.

She still looks devastatingly attractive. Handsome. She’s aged amazingly. The panther’s longevity means the years have only carved her features into a more refined, formidable elegance.

There are a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a strand or two of silver her hair, but she moves with the same lethal grace.

I look down at my own wrinkled hand, the skin thin and patterned with age spots, and my heart breaks a little.

Longears don’t live long. After thirty in unfortunate cases some it’s in the 20s, we start aging really, really fast. This factor comes from the short lifespan of our beast forms.

I shouldn’t complain. There are mice-shifters, sparrow-shifters with even shorter spans. I should be grateful for a life long-lived and loved. I mean, last year... Poppy went into her eternal slumber, too. I held Isaac’s hand at the funeral.

I can feel my time coming as well. It’s getting harder and harder to maintain my human form for long. The pull to shift, to become a simple, small creature of instinct, grows stronger each day.

She dismisses the children with a flick of her wrist. They scramble up, bow, and scamper off, casting curious glances my way. She walks toward me, her stride eating up the distance, her focus entirely on me.

"Aren’t you looking mighty cute today," she says, her voice that familiar low purr, as she reaches me and pulls me into a firm, warm hug.

"I tell no lies, my dear bunny," she says, her voice a soft rumble in her chest as she snuggles me closer, as if she could absorb me into her very being and keep me safe there.

I pull away, just enough to look up at her face. What a picture we must make, standing here in the morning light of the training yard.

Her, timeless and powerful, a panther in her prime even with the silver gracing her temples. Me, a rabbit whose winter has come too soon, my fur gone grey, my body small and bent. I probably look like her mother. No—her grandmother. The thought is a quiet, painful sting.

She seems to read the sadness in my eyes. She pulls away and kisses me on my forehead softly.

She loves me.

And in the quiet that follows her kiss, I find myself wondering, not for the first time, whether she will handle my death very well.

"Come," she says, her voice extremely low and soft. "Let’s go enjoy the morning sun."