Kingdom of Aelurus, Darkmoore. Modern Day.

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Sebastian Dinn' Aelurus had come to learn three things during his reign as Aelurus's king.

First, that he could shred every drape hung inside Darkmoore Castle without worrying about being scolded. He had free reign to terrorize whatever and whoever he wanted, and with so much power, came a surprising amount of disappointment. Without resistance from a surly butler or cumudgeonly maid, destroying curtains wasn't as fun as it used to be.

Nothing about running the kingdom was as fun as his days spent as a normal house cat running amok on the Tells' Estate had been. 

Second, Aelurus was a place of formality and tradition, its day-to-day functions so stiff, the entire kingdom might as well have been dipped in starch and left to dry. It was inescapable too, this formality.

No matter which room Sebbi fled to, or where in town he went, on diplomatic rendezvous with Cloudian leaders or to distant villages, he was received with bowed heads, pursed lips, quivering whiskers. They spoke his name with reverence, not a single creature daring to call him Sebbi or point out when he had twigs stuck in his fur.

And finally, he missed them. Abby. His brother. The mother he never knew, her guardsman, the Aelurian he knew for too little. Margo, too, the bumbling wizardess with an unrivaled love of cheese and ability to turn allies accidentally into toads.

Sighing, Sebbi looked out over the balcony that provided a panoramic view of the city below. Snug at the heart of the great tree, protected on all sides by its massive canopy, rounded Aelurian huts sat on an illuminated platform, while others had been carved out of the knots in the tree's bark.

His mother's moon - the beloved Crescent - bathed the sleeping city in gold. Water gurgled as it cascaded down branches and snaked through the city, the small tributaries feeding water fountains and reflection pools where weary travelers could rest their feet and watch the stars glide by.

Scents of brining liquid, smoked salts and spices filled his lungs as he strode back into his quarters, eyes landing on the raised bed at the enormous room's center. It wasn't the bed that drew his attention, but the clothes draped over it. Tunics and trousers, jackets and shirts, each placed with care, not a wrinkle in sight.

He sighed again and threw himself onto the bed, turning the meticulously smoothed bed sheets into a tumultuous sea, waves of fabric cresting and falling, shirtsleeves flailing like tentacles. He tried to banish his thoughts and focus on the upcoming Memorial and his journey into the human realm, but they proved ruthless.

As ruthless as Lord Cerine of Swift Moon, who alongside Blood and Harvest Moon Houses, called for the extermination of the Cloudian refugees because they were seen as weak. The strong survived in Aelurus, Cerine had reminded him.

For many among the Aelurian noble Houses, the Cloudians represented a race who should have died when their planet had. Their asylum on Aelurus soil only extended the inevitable end their race would meet, while exhausting resources already too scarce to sustain the Aelurian population.

Sebbi ran his fingers along his temple. He'd tried to change their way of thinking and had only been meant with resistance. What would an outsider know of the ways of Aelurus? What would a hemma submissive know of survival and strength?

Sebbi hadn't been ruler for more than a cycle before his countrymen had bared their fangs, disgust and hatred for their newest ben' nessren sizzling in their gazes.

He clenched the fabric of a tunic between his fingers and set his jaw. The only break from their anger had been his excursions to Mirea, wherein the ghosts haunting his most beloved dreams materialized into tangible flesh and blood.

Where familiar blue eyes stared back at him and blond hair blew in the breeze. Where Abby's hand was always outstretched, though, time and again, he refused it, refused her, not acknowledging his growing need to do so.

He would see Abby again. That'd been his mantra over the years. Day in, day out, he'd thought it, he'd whispered it, hoping the more he said it, the faster it would come true.

Feeling the tension melt away from his shoulders, Sebbi glimpsed the gift he'd commissioned- a silk ribbon, a deep crimson and hand woven with an intricate, interlocking design of protection runes known only to those of the Keldaer Order.

The red he'd chosen, after mulling over a selection of fabric bolts spanning the length of the great hall, he'd thought, would best compliment Abby's complexion.

Able to breathe a bit better, without the extra weight of a kingdom bogging down his shoulders, Sebbi moved from the bed, grabbing a tunic and a pair of trousers at random. Holding both, he positioned himself in front of a floor-length mirror, scrutinizing every thread.

Lucy'd told him it was customary to visit the dead in white, that the color symbolized the stars. But Sebbi hated white. Any time he'd been stuffed into a robe or stiff dress of that color, it ended up dirty within seconds, and with Sebbi on the receiving end of another of Reven's lectures.

His poor cat ears, much as his soul, needed a reprieve.

The light blue fabric he held now looked fine. And the brown trousers? Fine. Everything he'd commissioned of Tabs, the owner of Catillian's Finery, was fine.

His eyes narrowed, furrowing his brow, the crescent moon mark between his eyes crinkling into a blurry circle. Fine wasn't good enough.

Abby would look her best. Lucy would look ridiculous but pretend like he looked his best. And that boy – Sebbi's grip around the fabric tightened – that boy who refused to leave Abby's side, would stand tall and regal, and continue occupying that spot at Abby's left. The spot, that should have been Sebbi's.

Something warm burst across his bottom lip as Sebbi pressed his fangs together. He growled, wiped the blood away and hurled the clothes back onto the bed.

This was embarrassing.

What did it matter what he looked like? Why did he care what he looked like?

Starting to get embroiled in his thoughts again, Sebbi pivoted away from the mirror. His gaze landed on a small bottle, perched on a bookshelf to his left. In sloppy, hurried handwriting, a tag noosed around the bottle's cork read, "Give me a sip."

Margo always had to be so 'Margo' about these things. When he'd ask for her help to open communication with the Cloude, the mousy woman wanted her payment in full, up front, the ten wheels of fresh made boar's cheese delivered directly to her doorstep. And when he'd sought her out again to make him a digestible cosmetic glamor to turn him into a human temporarily?

Margo had demanded she have the freedom to do it however she wanted, and that she wouldn't be held accountable if he turned into a toad. While the terms weren't the greatest, Sebbi had agreed since the spell needed to be created under the utmost discretion. A loyal friend would be best to trust with the brewing and the secrecy, and to Sebbi's surprise, Margo had become just that - his friend. 

This time, Margo had delivered her spell in a bottle that looked ancient, made of molded hide, cracked from heat and faded from light. A stench seeped from the bottle into the room, black, chunky liquid trailing down the curve of the bottleneck. 

"Different every time," he said, taking the potion in his hand.

Though no bigger than his palm, its scent plowed into him like a mountain. He gasped as a rancid, rotten odor filled his lungs. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, his throat drying up faster than rain in the Black Sands. As queasiness exploded in his stomach, the fur along Sebbi's spine stood on end, his tail rigid, the metallic circlets encasing it, clanking together. 

Margo's last potion might have filled his mouth with enough grit to have him picking it out from his fangs from a full cycle, but at least he could be around it without the urge to heave.

Potions don't have expiration dates, do they?

Aside from the smell that continued to leak into the room, the bottle itself felt hot. Despite the cool night air, despite having been delivered in the morning, it emanated a warmth that spread from Sebbi's fingers to his chest, as though it'd been freshly brewed.

If only he could ask Abby. She'd know in an instant whether it was good or rancid. She hadn't spent all her life reading Wizard Kellog books and drooling over potion making sets out of boredom.

Ah. There he went again. Thinking. Always about things that couldn't be.

Through a veil of black fur, Sebbi glimpsed his reflection. The golden eyes of an Aelurian stared back. Gems adorning his whiskers dazzled under the moonlight. Sebbi smiled, a vicious set of fangs snarling back at him.

If a hemma met him like this, say that boy who acted like Abby's second shadow, if they glimpsed the real Sebbi– the imposing, all-muscle and fur walking beast he was – how would they react?

They'd run. Because they'd be afraid.

Aelurians and humans. Different. Different species living in different worlds. Sebbi didn't deserve to stand beside Abby. Not like this.

No matter how much she grew, how tall she got, he'd always eclipse her size, while she'd always outshine him with her smile - him the darkness, and her, his constant light.