It makes me smile that after all this time I still see the hit count on this story climbing slowly but steadily. Not a whole lot going on in this fandom these days but it looks like there's still a few of you guys are still out there and that makes me happy :)

I appreciate reviews, so even though the story is 'complete' feel free to send me a message or review with what you think. I'm always editing and looking for ways to improve quality and clarity. I'm having fun, hope you are too!

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, ... It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable." ~C.S. Lewis~

The world spins faster and people slow down around him. At least, that is how it seems when he runs. Voices blur together in the rushing wind and the fresh air would have been invigorating if not for the fear.

"The waterfront, Run."

The voice had not come from a member of his court, but from somewhere in the vicinity of the door. No one was there, and he shouldn't have been able to hear so clearly from across the room anyway. It appeared no one else had. Just as he was about to dismiss the occurrence, the voice repeated itself, now tinged with a touch of annoyance.

"Go, now."

Rosto looked back towards the door, noticing for the first time the purple eyes that bored into his before disappearing. Pounce...Pounce may not be a normal feline, but taking orders from a creature not 10 inches tall was not something the Rogue was accustomed to. He knew he would, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

But he could not run, not at first. With an authority that rivals the King himself; Rosto the Piper should be able to do whatever he liked, but as Rogue his role was significantly less stable than the traditional monarchy. His skill as a player was arguably more likely to keep him alive than fighting prowess. He was an actor in a role where faltering could be fatal. He could never forget that everyone is watching, and someone is always waiting.

Rosto's life was a precarious balance on the edge of a knife. One side was safe, protected, and so cold there in the dark. The other side is vulnerable. His vulnerability cares for the people of the city, for his friends, even for some of his rushers. It could get him killed.

So he laughed. She isn't funny, but a pretty doxie doesn't really have to be. That is how the game works and he is, after all, an exceptional player. Without allowing the lighthearted tone to drop, he told Aniki to send Kora to a waterfront meeting place and walked briskly out of the dove. No excuses necessary, of course, power does have its advantages.

As he walked he gradually slipped into the shadows. Between one shadow and the next he was released from his performance and broke into a run. He tried to enjoy the feeling of the sprint, to replace the nervous clenching of his stomach with the familiar burning in his legs. After all, there is no real reason to suspect trouble, only a voice in his head and the memory of purple eyes.

Watch ended over an hour ago, but Beka had yet to return home. Normally after watch she wished only to sleep, but today she was full of energy. In a city where rowdy taverns often exploded into dangerous brawls with very little warning, she was rarely bored, but today watch was dull. It left her with an odd feeling of foreboding.

She told herself she was just taking a walk, but it wasn't true. She clasped her baton too tightly and watched the crowd too closely. She wished Achoo was with her to ease her tension; but Achoo was spending the day with another Dog, training to be a handler. Apparently it wasn't going well...

Suddenly, a man caught her eye and she smiled. She had seen him before; frequently throughout her watch, always just far enough away that she couldn't get a good look at him. Rosto had sent one of his birdies to 'keep an eye on her' again. I can take care of myself without some pretty-boy-Rogue always watching over my shoulder, she fumed silently.

It was her turn to follow. She weaved after the rusher until he disappeared into a large warehouse. Her playful mood evaporated in an instant. One of Rosto's birdies would have no reason to hide.

She wasn't on watch. She had no partner to call. If she came back later he would certainly be gone - she might never know if he had really been following her. If he wasn't one of Rosto's than this had to be better than getting caught off guard next time. Besides, she would never live it down if he actually was one of Rosto's, and she ran. She tried to ignore Goodwin's scowling face in her head, telling her to stop being a fool. She grasped her baton tightly and closed her eyes for a few moments to acclimate them to the dark that might lie on the other side of the door before bursting through.

The man she had been following was leaning easily against a wall waiting for her. She heard a thud from behind her that sounded suspiciously like something being pushed against the other side of the door.

"You are the Terrier."

She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. "And who are you? You're not from around here?" she retorted.

"No," he smiled slightly, "But I have … family of sorts, in this city." A shock of blond hair was visible from under a dark hat and now that she could see his face, he was unusually pale. Rosto would be furious, vain cove; she knew he liked having the only 'sun-colored' hair in the city. She could see the outline of at least four hidden blades from the front alone. If this man was anything like the one he resembled, there were probably more for her to worry about. There was a venom, a laughing irony in his words. Whoever this newcomer was, he was no friend.

"Why have you been following me?"

"Well you see, you've a reputation for causing trouble. I'm afraid you are more useful to me dead," he responded.

Oddly, the man did not seem to be mocking her. His voice was cold, calm and a bit unnerving. In that moment she thought perhaps she understood the chill rats described after being on the receiving end of her icy glares. He was sizing her up with his eyes as he spoke with a taunting smile. "Don't you recognize me?"

Great, now he wants to play games. "Apparently you don't make much of an impression."

"I'm Rosto, my dear...at least that's what they will say when you turn up dead... the details are irrelevant. Dogs are brutal when someone takes one of their own, the suspicion will be sufficient to get him to the cages."

"Even if you could," Beka scoffed, "What makes you think that they wouldn't find you. And if the dogs didn't the rats would. Me, I'd take my chances with the Dogs." She was stalling, she had no desire to hash out the details of his plan, but he was stalling too. Why? For her, it was habit, to give the Dogs time to find her. They didn't know she was here, of course, so that was not the best plan she had ever come up with. Plan B: find cover.

"How long do you think he will survive with the cage dogs? Three hours, four? Be generous, give him most of the night... we both know there won't be a trial."He laughed, "Do you think it's been long enough, Beka? Probably. Can't have it looking like an ambush. It's not his style-"

Oh.

In a flurry of sudden movement knives were flying and Beka dove behind the crate she had spotted in her peripheral vision. She landed; surprised that the man had missed at such close range even given her anticipation of his attack. She grabbed one of the fallen knives and instantly understood. It was weighted strangely, barely noticeable even if you were paying attention. She launched it back in the direction it came from, compensating for the weighting and watching in satisfaction as it sailed squarely into his throwing arm. Her primary weapon was short-range, now his was too.

The man cried out in surprise, pain and anger as he pulled the blade from his arm. It slipped from his hand and she took her opportunity. Throwing herself forward she sent her baton flying towards his already bleeding arm. The impact sent him backward yelling in a foreign tongue.

He scrambled back to his feet, sending another of his throwing knives in her direction as she pressed forward. Of course he throws with the other arm too, Beka thought in frustration. He was powerful, even injured. She had to stay close; she had no chance at a distance. Up close she was a force to be reckoned with, at a distance she might as well be a target. He blocked her next series of blows with the handle of a strong blade and the parries nearly threw off her balance more than once. He was better armed and stronger, but maybe she was quicker? Maybe that would be enough? His blade was beautiful, sparkling with a glamor intended to distract. She found her eyes drawn by the way the light reflected off it. She watched intently, blocking his attacks and utilizing the blunt force of the baton to throw him off. He was too fast, she couldn't get ahead of him, couldn't catch him off guard. Then she saw her opening.

A crushing blow to her solar plexus stole her breath. She had not noticed him drawing her into creating an opening herself. She thought suddenly of how disappointed Goodwin would be that she had allowed such an obvious target. She couldn't breathe, could barely see, and pain radiated through her. She stumbled backwards in an attempt to give herself time to recover. There was no time. With a furious impact the man's blade tore through her abdomen in a puncture wound that threw her backwards, blade still intact. As the man approached her he revealed another of the knives she had seen beneath his clothes.

This was the moment, Beka realized, the one Ahuda told them to expect one day. The moment a dog could truly decide if they were going to live or die. Until this moment she has thought it was a reference to the Black God's Choice. But it wasn't about choosing death. It was about choosing life, choosing to fight.

She had been injured before, sometimes badly, but this was so much worse than she'd ever experienced. Every movement, however slight, sent fresh lances of fire through her. It would be so easy, so beautifully easy, to just let the blackness come. But she couldn't rest, he was still coming; and Beka did not have the slightest doubt that unconsciousness would mean her death.

Her first instinct was to remove the blade from her own body and give it right back to him. She crushed the impulse, knowing such a course would give her a weapon at the expense of her own life. Feeling around her, she found another of the fallen throwing knives. With a surge of desperation she threw it towards her assailant. Pain exploded through her at the movement and she fell backwards. She heard him cry out, but a growing rushing in her ears made it increasingly difficult for her to hear if he was still approaching. Get up, get up, get up now... Gritting her teeth against the pain she pulled herself upwards slightly just in time to see that her aim had been true. Her attacker stumbled away rather than trying to finish what he had started. She fell backwards again, against the box that had provided her original protection.

Her mind was surprisingly clear. Adrenaline gave her a few moments to evaluate her injuries before she lost the ability to think clearly. She thought of her training. Most of their training was, well... to avoid being stabbed in the first place. She had been predictable, and she had lost.

She couldn't go anywhere. Even if she could get up that would shift the blade and she might just make it outside in time for someone to watch her bleed to death. It was irrelevant; the door behind her was blocked, the one her attacker had taken was too far away. She wouldn't make it out of this building in her current state.

She needed to slow the bleeding. If she could stay awake... She began to count, gradually increasing the seconds between each breath. It hurt to breathe anyway. That would give her more time. Time for what, she wonders.

1...2...3

No one was around; and worse, no one had any reason to wonder where she was. As blackness began to press into her vision she called out for the only one that might be able to find her. "Pounce!" What good was a constellation if he couldn't find her when she did something stupid? How long would it take a constellation to find a wayward dog? Stay still, stay awake. 1...2...3...4...

Rosto was patrolling the various taverns known for the worst brawls. There were no Dogs hovering, no injuries and no Beka. The relief was intoxicating. He began to enjoy the run now that the knot in his stomach had loosened; though it did occur to him that this suggested the "you've-lost-it" hypothesis of the voice that had sent him here. The sarden feline probably wanted someone to buy him fish, Rosto thought grumpily. As he ran he allowed his senses to roam. The familiar surroundings were comforting. The sound of the wind, the smell of freshly baked pastries, dogs barking, people yelling. Still, something was out-of-place. Rosto knew this city better than his own reflection, and some might say he knew that a bit too well. A metallic taste had grounded him to the spot and he glanced down an alley already knowing what he would see. Blood, clearly left recently. The trail was slightly darker to the south, slightly older. He could only start in one direction, and if anyone was left behind they were likely gone or dead. He started to follow the trail North, following the one who had walked away.

No, the other way. A voice corrected, nearly making Rosto jump as the voice from earlier called to him again. I'm trying to fetch a healer. You'd think people would be more receptive to 'Gods touched creatures...'

Why is he sending me backwards, Rosto wondered, trying to ignore the painfully obvious conclusion. It pressed itself into his mind anyway. Beka... she hadn't been the one to walk away this time.

The coppery smell grew stronger as he ran, eventually bringing him to the door to a large warehouse where a small pool of blood had gathered. He loosened the knives at his wrist. One did not stay in his position for very long without expecting an ambush in situations such as this. His mind rebelled; I am walking into a deserted building on the advice of a voice in my head. What a convenient way to ambush a rival. He remembered purple eyes... He hesitated only a moment longer; he couldn't take the risk.

There was a piece of heavy wood blocking the door to the warehouse. They blocked her in. That was good; there was no reason to lock in a dead Dog. Pushing it aside he entered and froze. He could see Beka on the ground leaning against a crate. Like in a dream, he had lost all coordination, was incapable of moving towards her. He wondered briefly if he was in a night terror. It must be a night terror.

It isn't a night terror. He recognized the symptoms of shock and fought against them as he charged forward. Reaching down towards Beka, he hesitated, suddenly afraid to know the answer to the unspoken question. She was so still, so pale. Is she already...? He almost couldn't bring himself to touch her. At this moment - everything could still be fine. She could open her eyes, get better, go back to blushing and punching him in the face... If he touched her and she was cold, then everything would change.

But he had to know.

He reached forward and touched her neck searching for a pulse. She was warm, breathing, alive.

"Cooper... can you hear me?" he began to cut strips of cloth from his tunic. She was awake but unresponsive, watching him with a look of confusion. "Cooper?"

"Pounce?" she replied quietly.

"It's Rosto, love." There was a lot of blood and she was clearly disoriented. He began to wrap the cloth, working around the blade as gently as possible. He needed to slow the bleeding but could not risk jarring the knife further, not without a healer present. He took a calming breath; he was going to hurt her if he couldn't prevent his hands from shaking. "Look at me, Cooper, talk to me. Are there any other wounds? Is anyone else still here?"

She hadn't answered his question, but surely if someone was waiting to ambush him they would have done so already. His entire focus was on Beka. It wasn't smart, but that didn't matter, it wasn't a choice.