Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 15: Grey Cat Inn

Arkai had never met the Saintess.

He only knew her name and the prophecies she produced. Well, he also knew she’d married the love of her life, the Tiger King’s son. She was famously generous and wise, with the face of an angel, or so he’d heard. A perfect, distant figure in a gilded southern cage.

The reason for his trip south this time was actually because of her. Or rather, her prophecy from a year ago warning of continued assassinations among the southern beast lords. Thanks to that, he’d had a hunch the culprit was one of his own estranged, outcast ex-members. A loose end from his own pack, staining the wider world.

Feeling responsible, he’d decided to go and check for himself, while making some connections and trade with the south. The Weregator Lord had accepted him kindly, and he’d gotten acquainted with the newly settled Werehorse Tribe too. It wasn’t at all a bad trip, even if they hadn’t gotten to the bottom of it yet.

He’d been wondering if the Saintess would give them more information in her new prophecy. A little divine insight to point the way.

But this... this?

"Hey, get me pen and paper," Arkai ordered, the decision solidifying in his gut. Borak, who had known him for decades, brought him a whole set of stationery without a word. The scratch of the quill was the only sound for a long moment before he signed it and folded the letter into an envelope.

"Send this to Vasiliev," he commanded, handing it over. "Ask him where his daughter-in-law is now. I have things to ask her." He left Borak to do his job, already turning toward his chamber.

"Lord," Borak called out, stopping him before he disappeared into the corridor. "Why are you looking for the fake?"

Arkai turned, shaking his head slowly. "Getting her on our side, if possible."

Borak blinked, then spread his arms in pure confusion. "But isn’t Vasiliev already on our side?"

"Precaution, Borak. Precaution," Arkai said as he left without looking back. A wise leader never kept all his alliances in one den. And something in his bones told him the so-called ’fake’ was the realest player left on the board.

***

"This is amazing," Oathran sighed, the sound full of pleasure and relaxation. The warmth of the bone broth soup flowed down his throat and chest, before spreading a comforting heat through his stomach. The mild spice activated a different neuron in his head than his usual meals. "So this is why you wanted to eat it..."

Beside him, Cecilia smiled, looking up at him. Between the hot steam rising from the bowl and the thick, savory scent hanging in the air, she felt a gentle, swelling satisfaction. That feeling of joy of introducing something you love to someone, and seeing them love it too.

"Do you know how to make it?" Oathran asked, turning to her.

Cecilia nodded, her smile turning a little sly.

He creased his eyebrows, an amused smile gracing his lips. "You can?"

Seeing him look so skeptical, as if he’d never expected her to possess such a mundane skill, made Cecilia giggle.

"What is this?" Oathran narrowed his eyes. "You don’t offer to cook it for me?"

"Oh, I’m sure people offer to cook for you all the time, Your Majesty," Cecilia snarked, lifting her chin with a playful ’hmph’. "Not me."

More suspicious now, Oathran lowered his head, invading her space. "Something’s amiss here."

"What?" Cecilia backed away defensively, pressing her back against her seat.

"What did you say when I asked you what kind of bone broth soup you liked?" he reminded her. "You said ’cow’s’. Not ’beef’."

"What’s wrong with that?" Cecilia raised her chin higher.

"What kind of person," Oathran pressed, his eyes glinting, "calls ’beef bone broth soup’... ’cow’s bone broth soup’?"

Cecilia let out an awkward scoff. She wouldn’t admit that at the end of her life, she hadn’t wanted to reduce a once-living creature to just its meat term—alright, yes, it was ridiculous. Fine.

But still.

"It’s just how I always say it," she challenged, doubling down. "Why do we have to call a cow’s meat ’beef’ anyway? It’s still a cow."

Oathran nodded, solemnly agreed. "Of course. I feel the same. Last night, I clearly said ’pork’ and you misheard it as ’orc’."

"You’re changing your words now, Your Majesty?" Cecilia burst into disbelieving laughter.

"I’m going along with you," the man glared, the effect ruined by the tender amusement in his misty eyes, "and you won’t go along with me?"

Her laughter only grew harder, ringing through the cozy space, and he found he would rewrite the entire dictionary just to hear the sound again.

After the scrumptious dinner, the two walked through the lantern lit city to find an inn. Somewhere with a warm bath and clean sheets. A simple luxury after dirt, blood, and death.

Oathran’s eyes almost never left Cecilia. He wondered what she wanted to do next. Revenge... or just... leave. He knew a fury burned in her, but after knowing her this far, there was also a possibility she might choose to simply... disappear.

He understood. He would hide her forever if she asked. And he would take that revenge for her, unless she begged him not to.

And even if she did beg, she would need a damn convincing argument for why he shouldn’t reduce her enemies to ash. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

But judging by how she walked without a shred of effort to hide her face in the capital, it seemed she had her own plan. After all, no one knew the weretiger prince had ’killed’ her yet. She was a ghost without a pulse, moving freely among those who had cast her out.

They found the inn, and Oathran noted the cozy, unassuming interior. It was warm, clean, and smelled of baking bread and dried herbs. The kind of place that suited Cecilia far more than a gilded temple ever had. The way she seemed familiar with it confirmed his guess.

"Hello, boss," Cecilia greeted the person behind the counter.

"Oh, long time no see!" the man, a werecat standing on two legs, his head and body still completely covered in sleek grey fur, straightened his back and started a rumbling purr. "Missus Cece, is this your husb... hmm... no. Different scent."

"Yes, I got divorced from my mate lately," Cecilia said, the casual finality of the word ’divorced’ making Oathran’s chest tighten. "This... this is my... umm, partner?" she hesitated.

"Wait, what? I’m so sorry, what? Oh, what did I tell you, Missus?" The werecat shook his head, his purring stuttering to a stop. "That man you married is no good. I just know it, the way you talked about him... bad man..." He looked between them with wide, sympathetic eyes.

Cecilia nodded and smiled. "You were right. I should’ve known." She then turned toward Oathran. "This is... Lord Oath."

"Nice to meet you," Oathran nodded.

"Nice to meet you, good sir. I am Stormy, the Inn Master. Welcome." Stormy tapped his chest, the loud, motor-like purr starting up again. He was disarmingly friendly.

"This is your first time bringing along someone for a work break with you, Missus. But it’s bad. My inn is small, and there’s only ten rooms in total here. Nine of them booked. Is it okay to get you two in a room together?" Stormy asked, his tone tactful.

Oathran was opening his mouth, about to say he didn’t need to sleep and could just guard the door or find a tavern, but Cecilia suddenly nodded.

"It’s okay. One room is enough for the two of us."

Ah.

Oathran almost dropped his cane. Rather than his heart skipping a beat, he looked at her with concern. "My lady, I don’t think that’s wise." She had just learned of a deep, intimate violation. The last thing she needed was a new male sharing her private space, no matter how trusted.

Cecilia smiled, reading his worry and choosing to tease it. "We’ve already been through life and death together. And last night also counts as us sleeping together under the sky. This is the best inn in the capital, just do as I say."

Oathran’s tongue was now thoroughly tied.

Hearing Cecilia’s assured words, Stormy laughed, a sound like pleasant, rattling gravel. "Of course! Missus’ taste is the best! And good sir," he added, leaning in, wiggling the furry ridges above his eyes, "this is the perfect time to get to know your lady... even better."

After they got the key, they walked upstairs. The inn corridor was a quiet bustle of beasts and humans, quite a microcosm of the city itself. While it was just general public interaction, it made him question if anyone they passed on the street today recognized the Saintess.

But judging by the way she moved with a practiced ease in her anonymity, and the way Stormy interacted with her as a regular patron... she was used to going incognito. Alone.

Alone, huh.

So it had been a lonely life.

Cecilia unlocked the door to their room, and as she pushed it open, the reality of the situation finally slammed into him.

They were about to spend the night together. For real now.

Not in the woods with their hands interlocked, facing the uncaring sky, waiting for death.

In a room. With a door. A bed. No sky. No dying.

"I’m taking a bath first, okay, Your Majesty?" Cecilia said, already shrugging off her coat casually.

"Mm," the man managed a nod, his voice strangely tight.

Oathran Alicei, 430 years old, never in a relationship.

Hmm...

There was always a first for everything.

Dragon God Isaiah was 600 years old when he married the Elf Mother Goddess Tashr. The first Dragon Lord, named after him, married the Ice Dragon Kirana at the ripe age of 577.

Oathran felt he wasn’t late to the game at all. He was practically a spring chicken. A fledgling. A—

No. He wasn’t old at all. Of course not. He was young and robust. In his absolute prime.

But why were those two great men married so ’late’? Could it be... a lack of confidence? Could it be that his own lack of practical experience was... a problem?

It was too late to research or find a practice partner now. He must... just... do it. Wing it.

He mustn’t panic. She was most probably just tired and would go straight to sleep. He shouldn’t expect anything. He would be a gentleman. A statue. A very calm, very experienced-seeming statue.

Yes.

Calm.

Expect nothing and be ready for everything.

Correct, Dragon Lord Oathran Alicei. Correct.

Expect nothing... and be ready for eve—

CLICK!

The bathroom door opened. A cloud of steam billowed out, carrying the clean, warm scent of soap and her skin. And there was Cecilia, wrapped in a single, thin bathrobe and nothing else, a towel draped over her shoulder. "They only prepared one set of bathrobe and towels. Wait a minute, I’ll ring the bell and request some for you."

She moved toward the pull-string beside the bed, but Oathran shot to his feet. The man hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. She was already done.

"It’s okay. I’ll go and fetch it myself. You should rest," Oathran said, his voice a bit too rough as he strode toward the door, desperate for a moment of cold corridor air to reset his brain.

But Cecilia’s hand shot out, her fingers gently grasping his.

Looking down at her, he saw her soft smile.

"Oathran," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Can you cover me with your scent?"

Oathran’s eyes widened, his entire world faltering on its axis.

"Is it selfish to ask that of you," she continued, "when all I want is to eliminate all of his trace from my body?"

Something broke.

Something. Everything. Everywhere. It was the world. But it was intangible.

Oathran’s hand tightened around hers.

"It is an honor, Saintess Cecilia."