Not for the first time, the creature that was once Amynta Tet loses itself staring at the many sheets of paper arranged in orderly stacks on Handler’s desk. All of them are covered in hundreds of little black scrawls and, as Hound stares at them, it feels increasingly certain that, once, they would have meant something to it. But the more it tries to focus, the more its attention slides between the symbols and lines like nails scraping across glass. The harder it tries to grasp them, the faster they slip away. Its head throbs dangerously. If it does not stop now, it risks a migraine or a nosebleed—or worse. But perhaps, if it could just concentrate properly…

In the end, it gives up. It does not want to upset its mistress. There is no world for it beyond the end of Her leash. Not in the strange, forbidden fruit of the symbols. Not anywhere. It forces its eyes away from the papers, and its attention drifts back to the conversation at hand just in time to catch one final pronouncement, a word imparted with the undisguised contempt usually reserved for hate-filled slurs.

“Sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” Handler Kione Monax repeats, eyebrow cocked, face etched into the smug, lop-sided smirk that rarely slips from Her countenance. “Seriously? You got everything on your wish list, but instead of breaking open a bottle, we’re here to talk about my party manners?”

“Yes.” The tall woman in black leathers sits behind her desk, so serene that the faint hints of her fathomless disappointment are all the more terrifying. She is not Hound’s handler—its one and only handler is Kione Monax—but Hound knows her as ‘Handler’ all the same. She is the very embodiment of the title. “It is of the utmost importance. And your propensity for—as you put it—breaking open a bottle is one of the very problems I intend to correct. Your behavior in Knossos was unacceptable.”

“Oh, I’m not allowed to drink now?” Kione snorts. She stands opposite Handler with Hound at Her heel. “When did I sign up for that?”

“When you gave yourself to me.” Handler’s thin-lipped smile bears as much promise as a mushroom cloud. “Do you remember it, Handler Kione? You knelt to me. You swore fealty. I have, until now, permitted you such liberties as befit a woman of your talents. But if a child cannot behave itself with a toy, it is liable to be placed on a high shelf.”

“That…” Kione lets out a dark laugh as Her fists clench. In sympathy for Her, Hound growls faintly. It is supposed to be still and quiet here, and it has inherited from Handler Kione a certain reverence for the woman sitting behind the desk, but its fierce, protective instincts cannot be fully quenched. “That is ridiculous.”

Hound’s growl stirs its rival from her reverie. Behind Handler, Sartha Thrace stands at attention, hands clasped behind her back, gaze far away. Most of the time she seems barely present, but even the suggestion of a threat to Handler has her as sharp as a fresh-honed knife. Hound shows her an ugly grin. In the privacy of its mutilated soul, it longs for a chance to put Sartha in her place. Though it does not understand why, it knows that her presence deeply unsettled Kione. Even now, She refuses to look in Sartha’s direction. That is more than enough reason for Hound to despise her.

“It is my instruction,” Handler replies icily. “For you to reflect on and heed. From now on, you will not partake.”

Handler is accustomed to utter obedience. Even a creature like Hound, unbound from the restrictions of personhood, feels the weight of her gravity. Perhaps that is why she is already turning her attention back to her papers as if oblivious of the struggling swelling within Hound’s mistress. Kione stands stiff and still for a moment, knuckles white, gathering Her courage.

“No.”

For a dozen seconds, Handler does not acknowledge Kione’s defiance. She simply sits, perhaps waiting for Her to recant. Kione does not, although She stands trembling in a manner Hound has never witnessed before. She is usually so brash and so smug, a font of supreme, well-earned arrogance. A goddess, and gods do not show fear. Not until now—but now more than ever, Hound’s heart swells. What could make a hound more proud than to see its beloved mistress show such courage? It would follow Kione into hell itself; as it notices Sartha bristle at Kione, Hound does the same, straightening its back and baring its fangs. It wears its muzzle and straitjacket, of course, but should Kione wish, Hound would be proud to put itself to the test.

“No?”

One pointed echo is all it takes for Handler to command the room again. Slowly, she raises her eyes from her paperwork and regards Kione with, perhaps, some measure of respect. Kione trembles again. She is not accustomed to disobeying this woman. But in the end, She puffs out Her chest defiantly.

“No.” Battle lines drawn, some measure of Kione’s famous insouciance returns—and Her smirk with it. “I’m not simply another one of your dogs, and if you want to be my mother, you’re going to have to start complaining at me for wearing skirts. I promised you fealty, yes—but you promised me power and respect. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. You’ve seen my performance on sorties with the hounds. You know that I can control them and create them. So, it’s a no. But if it’s any consolation, you won’t be the first girl who’s tried—and failed—to fix one of Kione Monax’s vices.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. The ripples of Kione’s profane boast beat against Hound’s skin. She twitches nervously. Kione does too, when Handler rises abruptly to her feet. Though calm as ever, her footsteps are painfully loud as she walks over to a nearby cabinet, boots clacking against the hard floor. She opens it and produces a small, metal case.

“What’s that?” Kione cannot hide Her nervousness now. She already knows what it is. Hound does too. It has seen it and known its kiss many times; unlike Kione, it is not afraid when Handler opens the small case to reveal a needle-tipped, metal syringe full of liquid starlight.

“A lesson.”

Kione takes a step backwards. “You wouldn’t.”

Handler sighs. At last, the smile slips from her face. “It pleases me that you still possess so much spirit, and frustrates me that you still fail to understand. When I gave you the title of handler, Kione, I was removing the training wheels. Before, I was patient with you. Now you will answer for your mistakes.”

“What mistakes?” Kione hisses. She is a prisoner of Her own bravery. Backing down now would be one more ego death than She can take. Hound tries, ever so gently, to press against its mistress’s side. To give Her support. “I’ve served you faithfully. I’ve done everything you asked!”

“Faithfully, but not perfectly,” Handler replies mournfully. The better part of her attention is on the syringe. She taps on the glass window with gloved hands to bring the air bubbles up, then presses on the plunger until a few droplets of that effervescent, green liquid leak from the tip. “Not yet.”

“B-because I drank some wine?” Kione splutters. She takes a step backward. “You’re insane! I… I refuse to be treated like a child just because you have some puritanical fucking hangup about dr-“

“It is because you showed them weakness, Kione.” The whip of Handler’s voice carves effortlessly through Kione’s protest. She speaks now as a teacher to a student, the needle a birch rod in her hand. “Whatever victory we won in Knossos, make no mistake: all of those men and women now seek to control us using whatever weaknesses or vices they can find. We must give them nothing—but you paraded yours before their very eyes. Drinking to excess. Accosting Sartha. Following your hound into the private rooms to watch like some depraved voyeur. We must be above such appetites.” She pauses. Then smiles again. “I will ensure you are above such appetites.”

At the best of times, Hound struggles to contain the various tics and reflexive stims it has been left with. An ocean of violence and hate still sits beneath the surface of its psyche. Even in the kennels, where it is relatively calm, Kione ensures it wears its straitjacket. Without it, it is liable to bring harm to itself and others. Now, as a truly deadly atmosphere settles across the room, Hound cannot help but strain against the confining leather. It has not been given permission. But its handler needs it. It can tell.

“Y-you’re bluffing,” Kione attempts. Her eyes are fixed on the needle’s poisoned point. Far too late, Kione has begun to understand the gravity of Her crimes in Handler’s eyes. Bargaining is all that is left to Her. “You wouldn’t. You’ve invested too much in me. You need me. You’re not going to risk that… that damage. Not over this.”

“Oh, Kione.” Handler’s smile has not dwindled. Not for a moment. She alone is untouched and unmoved by Kione’s desperation. She alone is perfect. “Now we begin to reach the heart of it. You speak to me with such ingratitude for the same reason that you indulge in liquor. You believe yourself to have fallen so far, you have nothing left to lose to drunkenness or disobedience. In that you are, I am afraid, terribly mistaken.”

Kione recoils as if slapped. For a moment, the look on Her face is almost hateful. “Am I?” She hisses.

“Yes.” That awful smile sharpens. “I would never allow you to reach rock bottom. Whether you appreciate it or not, you possess something very, very precious indeed.”

She turns her head and looks straight at Hound.

Kione shudders like She’s been punched in the gut.

“Administer this, if you would.” Handler shifts her grip on the syringe, offering it to Kione. Kione looks at it like She’s been handed a gun with one bullet.

“N-no,” Kione attempts.

“No?” Handler’s voice makes a mockery of Kione’s defiance. All of them can tell the balance has shifted. Even Hound.

“I… I refuse.” Kione’s eyes flit nervously between Handler, Hound, and the needle. “What then? What if I refuse?”

“Then I will make you.”

“Make me? What, by force?” Kione barks a laugh as she sips at the last, most bitter dregs of Her courage. “That I’d like to see. Pretty sure I’ve been in more barroom brawls. Pretty sure you aren’t wearing your sidearm, either.”

Handler laughs too, like the two of them are sharing a friendly joke—but when she speaks, she is a cold star the light of friendliness has never warmed. “Not like that, Kione. No, all I’d have to do is use those three words.”

“W-what?” Kione blinks. Then She catches her meaning. Her face turns to ash. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Handler just looks at Her.

“Oh, fuck off!” Kione attempts again. Her desperation is making Her angry now. “Those words don’t mean anything to me!”

Still, Handler just looks.

“They don’t!” Kione is tense all over. She reminds Hound of a tree so drained of moisture, it’s about to snap. “It… it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t! I’m not like them. You’re not in my head!”

“Are you really so sure, Kione?” Handler takes another step forward; Kione’s wounded pride will not let Her back down, and so Handler is free to descend upon Her like a lover, so close the hems of their sweeping coats touch. So close, she can put her pale lips right to Kione’s cheek and whisper to her, gentle and sadistically slow. “You were in quite the state when I took you in. A full psychological breakdown. I nursed you back to health, but you were so vulnerable at first. Do you imagine me the kind of woman who does not take precautions? Do you think it would have been difficult to make you forget? Shall we put it to the test?”

“N-no,” Kione whimpers. Hound is too stunned to be angry. A goddess afraid is a sight to shake its threadbare soul. “P-please…”

“Off,” Handler begins, as slowly as a torturer. “The. L-”

“Fine!” Kione yelps. She squirms away from Handler until Her back hits the office door, and casts Her eyes down in defeat. “F-fine, you made your… Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Very good.” Handler does not boast or mock in the wake of the capitulation. She simply hands Kione the needle.

Kione hesitates for a moment. When She takes the needle and turns to Hound, a smile like a bent length of rebar forces itself to Her face. “Come here,” She beckons. There is nothing in Her voice.

She doesn’t want Hound to obey. Hound can tell. It knows its mistress intimately. In weeks, it has scarcely left Her side. It can sense from Her a silent plea to stay back, to keep itself distant and safe. Instead, Hound heads immediately to Her side.

It’s a good dog. It does what it’s told. As long as it does what it’s told, Kione will be proud of it.

Even so, it cannot help but flinch when Kione brandishes the needle. Hound knows the starlight drug intimately, and while it has learned to accept its kiss willingly, it remains wary of its power. Kione’s discomfort feeds Her hound’s fear. She does not want to do this; thus, neither does Hound. As it always does during anxious moments, its fathomless, animal rage begins to simmer to the surface. A growl slips Hound’s lips as Kione advances the needle’s tip toward its neck. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

“Hey, girl,” Kione says softly, voice cracking but all the kinder for it. “Relax. It’s all going to be OK.”

That’s all it takes. All Hound needs to hear. When Handler Kione tells it that, it believes. Always. Kione’s free hand comes to its cheek, gloves brushing its skin, gentle pressure adjusting the way Hound holds its head. Hound closes its eyes. Its growls die away. Its rage dies away. Warm waves of pleasure wash through the core of its being, and it melts gratefully into its handler’s caress. One touch, and all is right again.

A sharp scratch pierces the loving tranquility.

“Good,” Handler says to Kione, as she watches Her depress the plunger. Hound lets out a weak groan. The nausea is instant. “You may sit down over there. You have done your part.”

She gestures to a small chair tucked away in the corner of the room. A concession to hospitality, however rarely she invites guests to use it. Kione slumps down heavily, Her fighting spirit already broken. With that, Hound finds herself the sole focus of Handler’s attention. Magnified by starlight, its pressure is almost more than it can bear. Hound can feel something cold and alien flowing through its veins. With each heartbeat, it spreads. Above it, the dim overhead lights multiply in strange patterns. Hound looks at them, then away; by misfortune, its eyes meet Handler’s. They are, at once, hypnotic. Hound can only look deeper; as it does, it finds itself perceiving, impossibly, rings within rings within rings, concentric, growing, somehow, deep and away from her like boreholes in ice. Nausea becomes vertigo. The hound feels itself tumbling to a crushing depth. It feels the gravity of the great, malicious star into which it falls.

And it feels a stirring of the very same all-consuming reverence it feels toward Kione.

Then She turns away. A mercy, but the strange impression persists as a dizzying afterimage etched into Hound’s dilated pupils. Hound is left swaying as Handler returns to Her desk, retrieves a small, leather satchel from beneath it, and sits back down into Her throne of a chair.

“Here,” She commands. Hound follows to the spot She indicated. Handler does not yet fully own it the way Kione does, but still. It understands its place, and the drug soaring through its system has torn disobedience from its mind. “Sit.”

Hound slumps to its knees. Its vertigo worsens. It does not feel grounded. It feels as though it is swimming in the void. With each breath, more and more stars appear in its vision.

“I don’t believe we shall need this.” Handler bends forward and begins to unfasten the straps of Hound’s straitjacket. Within moments, the heavy, leather garment comes loose. “You will behave perfectly for me.”

Hound twitches as it shrugs the straitjacket from its shoulders—but only once. Its instinctive gratitude for the ability to flex its aching shoulders is tempered by an instilled aversion to the very sensation of being unbound. The straitjacket is Kione’s gift, as meaningful as a muzzle or a collar. The straitjacket keeps it safe. Without it, it begins to feel the telltale itching beneath its skin. It yearns to scratch until it sees red, but it will not. In moments, the itching fades. Handler’s words command biology itself. Whatever She speaks is written into Hound’s reality.

It will behave perfectly for Her.

“I do not believe that Handler Kione has instructed you in this particular skill,” Handler says as She sits back and opens Her leather satchel. “She lacks a taste for it. But I shall have you learn. First, take this.” She reaches into it and produces a fine, cotton cloth. After wetting it very slightly from a small bottle, She offers it down to Hound. After it takes it, Handler crosses one of her long legs over the other, presenting, in the process, the tip of one of Her tall, black, leather boots toward it. “And remove the lace.”

Hound hears a faint whimper from the corner of the room.

But it does not heed the sound. Hound will behave perfectly, and to behave perfectly is to obey. With shaking fingers that slowly settle as the liquid starlight performs its work, Hound unties Her bootlace and pulls it free before setting it down on the ground reverently.

“Good. Now use the cloth to clean my boot. Remove every mote of dust.”

Hound obeys.

It is, as Handler suggested, a stranger to the task. In its usual condition it is not well-suited to such service and Kione has never asked it of it, but it quickly discovers that the simple exercise of cleaning a boot is infinitely fascinating. The mere fact that Handler told it to do this ensures that the work takes on utmost primacy in its mind. Hound would sooner stop breathing than leave a single blemish upon the leather. As it cleans, it becomes intimately acquainted with the geography of the sacred relic before her. The crevice of the welt. The slope of the vamp. Each contour of the stitching, and the intimate, inner folds around the tongue. Each detail is, to Hound, a journey and a monument, etched instantly into a mind that has lost track of so many things. And then there is the material itself. The leather, tough yet supple, finished to a perfect, ink-black sheen. In Hound’s starlit mind, it is as though it is touching the very substance of divinity, the texture beckoning it to both worshipful fascination and profane arousal. How could anything be so wondrous?

The only thing that keeps it from drooling all over them is that it dare not risk the grave sin of so soiling Handler’s boot.

“Good,” Handler tells it eventually. Hound must have met Her standards; the implied approval glows warmer in its breast than any fire. She presents Hound with a small tin and another cloth. “Wrap that around your fingertips and use it to apply this polish. Only a little is needed.”

Drugged beyond belief though it is, Hound still spares a moment to admonish itself for ever feeling afraid of Handler—or worse, angry at Her for the way She menaced its handler. It can scarcely believe it ever failed to see Her as She truly is: a guiding star, a font of benevolence, a goddess of endless patience. It seems so obvious now, and no less real for Hound’s previous experiences with the starlight drug. It owes Handler its utmost loyalty. For Her, it would do anything and everything.

It has felt all of this toward Kione too, of course. But not now.

Hound cracks open the tin. The scent of polish slams into its head with such force that it almost passes out. At once, its drug-fucked brain begins to rewire itself, breaking bonds, building associations. The addiction is instant. The sensation is so great that it floods the banks of Hound’s olfactory bulb and swamps its visual cortex, veiling the world with a synesthetic, oil-smear haze of petroleum and turpentine. With utmost reverence, it takes a little of the black wax onto its cotton-wrapped fingertips.

It must not waste even a speck. This is ambrosia.

And it is not merely Hound’s vision that has begun to misfire thanks to the heady cocktail of starlight and polish. It feels the polish’s toxic, jet-black caress racing across its skin. The stimulation stokes its desires. It has never been so hard.

If Handler takes offense, She is kind enough not to show it. “Yes, it’s quite something. Most come to enjoy it greatly. You will too.” Hound nods fervently. Its arousal doubles and strains against its tight-fitting clothes. It will enjoy this greatly—but not like that. Its cock’s plea for release will go unheeded. Polishing Handler’s boot is infinitely more important.

“Alright, that’s enough.” A voice, from the corner of the room. A familiar one. A frantic one. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

Handler ignores it; thus, so does Hound. In this moment, the world is that simple. It bends forward to attend to Her boot.

“Puppy.” That voice again, calling out in plaintive desperation. “My hound. My… Radio Girl. Come here. Heed me.”

Hound’s ears prick up. Yes, it knows that voice. It belongs to its handler, Kione. It must always do what Kione tells it—but it has Handler’s boot to service. Torn between conflicting commands, it begins to turn its head.

“No,” Handler instructs. She does not need to raise Her voice. “Do not look at her. Do not listen. Only to me. All that matters is my voice.”

A smile settles on Hound’s face. So much easier that way. It relaxes back into its place: on its knees, attending to Her boot.

“Please.” There it is again. Hound pays it no mind. None at all. It does not matter. “I… I’m sorry. OK? There. I’m sorry. I-I’ll do what you ask, so just-”

“Be quiet.” Again, She does not raise Her voice. She never does—but the reproach remains sharp enough that Hound flinches from fear. “This is the consequence of your actions, Kione. Bear it with dignity.”

Another whimper. Then—nothing.

Hound has already ceased to listen. As carefully as it can, it uses its fingertips to daub the black polish onto Handler’s boot in several places, then to spread it across the leather surface in an even coat. The scent is overwhelming. Hound has never experienced a more potent aphrodisiac. It could easily let the acrid aroma carry it away. It could easily pleasure itself to a mere whiff for hours—but for now, the only thing it can do is apply the polish to Handler’s boot. Once that’s done, Handler hands down Her next blessing: a large brush, itself a piece of fine craftsmanship.

“To buff the polish,” Handler teaches. “Work the brush in circles. It will take effort and patience. I expect perfection.”

Perfection. The word fills Hound with equal parts anxiety and determination. No matter what, it must not disappoint Handler. Its one and only purpose is the leather wrapped around Her foot. Stars in its eyes, it grips the brush and begins.

As promised, buffing the polish to a shine is hard work. Hound feels clumsy at first as it finds the technique; once it does, once it begins moving across the boot’s surface, its arms, confined in the straitjacket for so long, soon begin to ache from the exertion. Hound does not stop or slow. It does not resent the task. The burning in its seldom-used arm muscles is merely the fire of adulation that drives it onward in search of the perfection Handler requires. Its world has shrunk to the space of one beautiful, glorious boot. To see them at a mirror shine has become an all-consuming obsession. It works the brush in a circle, then another, then another, then another, on and endless, starry eyes widening as, with each stroke, the leather’s luster grows.

“I am not surprised to see that you take well to the task,” Handler muses from on high. Her voice, though light, makes Hound’s head resonate like a struck bell. “So many do, with the proper instruction. There is a calm to be found in it. It is simple and meticulous—just as you ought to be. You may think of it as a form of meditation.”

A calm. Yes. Meditation. Hound nods as eagerly as it can without distracting itself. It understands perfectly. It has never felt such stillness as it does in this moment. Normally, a seething, hateful heartbeat pounds beneath its skin, barely contained. It lives in constant longing for the moments it is permitted to shed its fetters and unleash itself upon the enemy. Any enemy. But not now. Its throat is free of growls. Its hands are still and steady. It wants for nothing.

A gift. A priceless gift.

“And thanks to Handler Kione, you, above all, are such a creature of violence,” Handler tells it. “Let this be an oasis to you. You will find this enjoyable. You will come to long for it. For this peace. This focus. This task.”

Another nod—and with it, not a growl, but a needy whine.

Yes. Hound enjoys this. It longs for it. Its body sings with need.

The only thing that keeps it from attending to its own need is that it requires both hands to properly black Handler’s boot.

“Yes, that’s it. You’re doing well. Good dog.”

The whine becomes a moan. Hound sees white. Those are its two favorite words—but they mean so much more in this moment than they ever have before. It redoubles its efforts. A weak, pained groan drifts from the corner of the room. Perhaps even a stifled sob. Both Handler and Hound ignore it. It doesn’t matter.

“Good dog,” Handler repeats. Another burst of ecstasy. Of perfect pride. “Yes, these are coming to a nice shine.”

They are, and Hound could not be more pleased. The harder it works, the more glorious Handler’s boot becomes. It is an unspeakable privilege to see Hound’s devoted worship made manifest in Handler’s radiance. To see Her walking around in the boot it has polished—its heart could burst with joy at the mere thought. It keeps going. Her boot must be perfect. Everywhere, perfect.

The harder it works, the brighter the starlight glows.

Slowly but steadily, they approach a mirror sheen. And in that obsidian mirror, Hound sees it: the night sky. The cosmos itself. A thousand thousand pinpricks of light that glow and glow with an illumination that defies all reason. They captivate it. They hypnotize it. It feels that same starlight in its veins, and it feels at one with each and every star it sees. There is a mad ecstasy to the moment that surpasses any mundane drunkenness. Conviction seizes it: this impossible starlight is Handler’s. Her radiance. Though the work of Hound’s hands brings it into the world, She is its true author. Hound is a mere vessel; through Her, even it can be a miracle worker. The effort Hound pours into its ordained task echoes back at it, each stroke and ache wearing grooves into its pliable mind and deepening the importance it attaches to Handler’s boot. The work itself becomes a confirmation of faith.

It understands now.

This is more important than anything.

Handler’s boot is more important than anything.

This is what it yearns for. What it needs. Hound’s need is leaking messily through its clothes now, discharged thanks to a surging pleasure even though it has not been touched.

It does not question it. Merely says a silent prayer of thanks to Handler for the reward.

Yes. This is what it lives for.

For Handler. For Her.

“That’s enough. You have finished.”

Those two simple words release Hound from the spell and permit it to rock back onto its ankles, panting from exhaustion. It sets down the brush. It looks around and discovers Handler’s office anew. It had almost forgotten where it was.

It is kneeling before Handler. That, above all, makes sense.

Next it sees Sartha Thrace, muzzled and at attention, still standing behind Handler. Hound feels a brief pang of envy. Why can it not always be Hers, as Sartha is? But Sartha’s face mirrors its envy. She is territorial, and furious that Hound has stolen the privilege of polishing Her boot. That is more than enough to banish Hound’s longing and replace it with a victor’s smugness. Today, Hound is the lucky one. The blessed one.

In the corner of the room is Kione. Hound had almost forgotten about her too. It loves her, of course.

But right now, a brighter star shines in the sky.

“Yes, very good,” Handler murmurs, inspecting Her boot. All over, the leather is resplendent. So polished it is unearthly in its brightness. “Especially for your first time. Good dog. Very good dog.”

Hound twitches and drools its thanks down into its lap as another orgasm hits. Handler’s words of praise will echo through its hollowed skull forever.

“Are you done?” Kione asks, defeated.

This time, Handler turns to look at Kione; thus, so does Hound. The other handler’s eyes are hollowed pits. Her voice, a lead weight. She is not angry. Not anymore. It has been burnt out of her. The punishment has done its work.

“Of course not,” Handler replies. She shifts in Her seat, crossing Her legs the other way. A new object presents itself for Hound’s worship. This time, it knows exactly what to do. It reaches for the cleaning cloth again. “I have another boot, after all.”

By the time Handler Kione and Her hound leave Handler’s office, the starlight drug has almost worn off. Hound is back in its straitjacket. Amidst the strange comedown, it is grateful for the familiar, grounding object. So far, Kione has not said a word to it as She leads it through the labyrinthine passageways of the Kennels. That does not bother Hound. It is far too busy basking in the glory of what it has just experienced. The afterglow is cut short, however, when Kione stops in Her tracks and slumps heavily against the nearby wall.

At once Hound presses close to Her, concerned. Sobriety is reasserting itself. It remembers now what Kione means to it, and the loyalty it holds for Her. Its time under Handler’s spell has not diminished the feeling. Not in any lasting way, at least. Merely shared it.

“I’m sorry,” Kione says quietly. Desperately.

Hound cocks its head curiously.

“I’m sorry, Amynta.” There it is. The strange name that sometimes slips from Kione’s lips when She’s inebriated. It means nothing to Hound, although it has learned to answer to it in moments like these. “I’m sorry, I… I thought… gods.” She goes still for a moment. “I really thought… that I could at least keep Her out of your head. But…”

With that, all the strength seems to go out of Her. She cannot bear to look directly at Hound; Her gaze is cast away and afar, veiled by unformed tears and curdling shame. Hound has never seen its beloved handler on the brink of collapse like this. Its chest throbs with sympathetic woe. It must do something.

“N… n…” Kione twitches sharply as Hound fights to muster its voice. It very seldom speaks. It is a battle to muster the words and fit them in order. It always leaves Hound’s head aching fiercely. But for its handler, it will bear any agony. “No. Need. To. Be. Sorry.”

“N-no?” Kione whispers. She is on the cusp of breaking open. Guilt, stoked into a manic fire, dances in Her eyes.

“No,” Hound tells Her, as firmly as it can. It wants desperately to reassure Her, however little it can fathom of Her pain. All it knows is that Kione is sorry to it for something. “Don’t. Be. Sorry. It’s. OK.”

“But…” Kione stifles Her protest. She hangs on Hound’s words. She needs what’s coming so very badly.

“No.” A starlit smile comes to Hound’s muzzled face. “I. Liked. It.” It sighs fondly, and drools a little down its front. “It. Felt. Wonderful.”

Kione shudders like She has been shot. A long moment passes. Then, stiffly, She hauls herself back upright and begins to walk, leading Hound back toward Her quarters. And She tugs Her handler’s cap down low over Her brow so that nobody they pass will be able to see Her eyes.