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What does it mean to honor your family? Ever since I was young, my father has spoken about honor. Praising my achievements as “bringing our house honor" or scolding my behavior as “dishonorable." He must have used the word daily throughout my life, but I never understood what he meant. When I asked him what it meant, he explained that I would say I would understand “someday."

I suppose I thought that day would come when I became classified as an adult. But that time had long since come and gone. Even then, I didn't feel any different. Was I supposed to understand yet? In celebration, my father threw a lavish party to flaunt me to his business associates.

Another two years went by and I began to think I would understand after I finished my studies. I dedicated myself the art of sword fighting and became a master by 23. Still, my father's words were lost on me when he called it a “great badge of honor."

I am 25 now, I'm told most men my age are pursuing careers, starting families. As the eldest son of a nobleman, neither of these pursuits are within my control. It had been decided from the day of my birth that I would one day inherit my father's company, a large manufacturing conglomerate called Montgomery and Sons. He'd inherited it from his father, and he in turn from his. I'm told that this too will be a great honor and I'm lucky to have my future planned out for me.

My love life, on the other hand, is controlled entirely by my father, Roderick Montgomery III. I'm to be married off to the daughter of one of his myriad rivals to secure a trade alliance between our companies. This is how he met my mother, and his parents before him. I was not told, of course, about the bribes and massive dowry he'd receive as a part of this agreement. He kept those for himself.

Nor was I told about the private meeting that was being held between my father and his investors to figure out exactly which heiress would net them the largest profit. I had no idea that as I sat at a table feigning interest in the incessant gossip of a gaggle of young noble women, my fate was being woven in the cloistered halls beneath our manor house.

This was far from the first formal party I'd been forced to attend, with the exception, perhaps, of my own debut, it was proving to be the dullest. The woman to my left whom I had the misfortune of escorting this evening was one Pennelope Quinn. She was a stunningly beautiful young vixen with an auburn pelt. Her soft purple lipstick perfectly accented her pastel blue gown, and she smelled as delicate as she looked. The sole downside to being at her side on any given occasion was that she was all too was aware of her beauty and was all the more arrogant for it.

To our right was my younger brother and his date. We Montgomerie's are a long bloodline of hounds tracing our lineage back hundreds of years and across several continents. My brother Samuel had a dark brown coat, the color of well brewed coffee. Much closer to the deep black of our mother, now peppered with grey in her old age. I, on the other hand, was much closer in color to our father, long rusty fur with single patch of white in the center of my chest. My father told me that marking ran in our family, another symbol of my duty to uphold our house.

Being the second son, Samuel was far less valuable to our father and was allowed to date whomever he pleased. Samuel, as a show of loyalty to our father, had also debuted at 17 and entered the noble dating pool. His date this evening was another noble woman from some company I'd never heard of and didn't care to remember the name of. She and Pennelope had begun a match of one-upmanship the moment they'd locked eyes and nearly four hours had ensued while they argued about which company had more resources or whose father had more men at their disposal. Samuel didn't seem particularly interested in what the pair had to say either, but he was significantly more convincing in his feigned interest than I.

Two more couples sat across from us, who they were or why I should care was beyond me. The two men had the same practiced smile as Samuel as their dates underwent the exact same manor of inane dialogue. For my money, I can't tell you if any of the four had actually met before or whether or not they enjoyed each other's company.

What I can tell you is that by the time the sun began to set I was utterly exhausted and began a desperate search for any excuse that would allow me to escape the table. I swiftly grew tired of hunting for a polite reason, “I need a drink," I interjected to nobody in particular, not that anyone took note, “excuse me." Nobody seemed to even acknowledge my standing, so I didn't expect anyone would mind my absence either.

I wasn't much for alcohol, though I had gone to some parties at university. At this point, I would take any excuse to get away from the high society nonsense of the table, even if that was just drinking. As I made my way across the room, I quickly deduced ours was not the only table filled with conversations bickering about ever more arbitrary status symbols. In fact, the hall seemed brimming with nothing but the like. I made my way to the nearby bar; father always kept it fully stocked and staffed for special occasions. Through the crowd, it was hard to tell how many bartenders there were, much less if I had met any of them before.

When I finally reached the distant shore of the sea of tables, I was greeted with a face I found familiar, though not from any party. It was the visage of Jesse Witt, a boorish black feline with piercing silver eyes. He'd been a sword fighter at a rival university and we had crossed blades on more than one occasion.

“Never expected to see a scrapper like you in a place like this," I sauntered to the counter and sat myself upon one of the sparsely inhabited stools across from Jesse.

“Not all of us can be born into money," he retorted, entirely unphased by my snide remark. His words cut like a rapier; they were truer than anything I'd heard all night, and that made their sting even harsher.

“Trust me," I gestured at a bottle in front of him, he grabbed it and began pouring two shots, “this isn't exactly my idea of an exciting evening." I downed the shot just as quickly as he finished pouring it and gestured for another immediately.

“What's got you hitting the sauce so hard," he poured another two shots, setting another aside for himself, “wife trouble?" the moment he finished speaking, his two shots went down in one fell motion, all without taking his eyes off of me. I couldn't tell if he was genuinely curious because of our history or if he was just fishing for a tip from one of the few customers who might actually bother. In either case it felt nice to be asked.

“I'm not married," I ordered another two shots for myself, and he followed suit with two of his own, “yet." Knocking back the next round, my head was swaying. I began to feel nauseous but I paid it no mind, it was better than the banality of whatever the fancy people were talking about. “This is," hiccup, “actually my engagement party." I doubled over, resting my head on the bar.

“No shit," he grabbed another shot for himself, finishing off the bottle and cracking open another, “who's the lucky lady."

“That's what I'd like to know." I started laughing, quietly at first, keeping it to myself, attempting to stifle it, the harder I resisted the harder it became to struggle against. I wasn't even sure what I was laughing about or if I was even laughing about something at all. I think it would be more accurate to call it a panic attack. I could hardly breathe, so suffocated with emotion that all my body could muster was laughter.

My eyes were a blur, I felt someone touch me, but had no idea who it was or what they were doing. My head and heart throbbed; my entire body felt hot. Another moment passed in this pandemonium before I finally came to my senses. I stood on an all too familiar balcony overlooking my family's estate. A cool breeze brushed across my fur and a firm hand was wrapped around my shoulder. Surprisingly it wasn't one of my family members, nor one of my father's employees. Jesse had carried me safely into the cool evening.

“You trying to get me fired, Monty?" he snapped at me the moment he noticed I was at least somewhat lucid.

“Don't-" I lurched forward, suspending myself halfway over the railing, “don't call me that." I felt as though I may be seeing my dinner again shortly, but I wasn't about to let some commoner talk down to me. “And this has nothing to do with you." I spun on my heels to march back into the party, stumbling immediately and falling into Jesse's arms.

“Whatever," he shoved me gently back toward the railing, “but I'm the one who served you," he stepped to the railing himself, pulling a small tin from within his trousers. He flicked it open and retrieved a tightly rolled paper. “Now I'm gonna look bad if you march back in there and make an ass of yourself." his words wafted on a plume of smoke that crackled against the crisp autumn air. He stood there silently, smoking whatever it was and paying me no mind. Whatever grievance I had caused him seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had arisen.

“What?" I look at him, perplexed.

“What do you mean, what?" he stares back at me, once more annoyed seemingly by my mere presence.

“First you're angry at me," hiccup, “then you're pulling me from the fires of social ostracism," without my meaning to, I had begun to wag a finger at him as if scolding a child, “then you shove me around." I managed to cease my finger wagging at last. “And now you act like I'm not even here?" I threw my hands up in a fit of frustration, “What is your problem?"

“My problem?" He ashed his smoke on the rail, turning a sharp clawed finger in my direction, “My Problem, is rich assholes like you and your lot who think they can take whatever they want with absolutely no repercussions." With each word, he thrust his finger toward me, a thrusting rapier that, were I more sound of mind, I would have handily avoided.

As he jabbed me, the impacts left very little impression on my drunken form. What little I did feel was further dulled by the thick tuft of fur lining my neck and upper chest. He lashed out with all the emotion he could muster, but for all I could tell, he may as well have been pounding against a brick wall.

His motions intensified; he beat his fists against my suit. In time, his rage quelled, his fists remained against my chest, anchored in a storm of anxiety and emotion. He laid his head against me and I could feel the steady thunder of his elevated heartrate. For the first time, I look at him not as my rival, not as someone I had once envied, but as a small, fragile individual. Perhaps it was my drunkenness, perhaps it was a longing for connection; it matters not.

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him tight. I shall never forget the warmth I felt when I held him in my arms that day, it was one far warmer than the summers I had lived prior or since. Holding him, being held by him, feeling needed by another person, it was a beautiful moment. And one all too fleeting for it.

I heard a cough from the door that led onto the balcony, I could tell before he uttered a word it was Samuel, “Is everything alright out here?" the cat pushed away from me the moment he heard the voice; no doubt too late for our embrace to have been witnessed.

“Yes, Samuel," I lurched toward him, still, it would seem, far from capable of maintaining my balance, “this is Jesse Witt." I gestured to Jesse, as though it were somehow uncertain to whom I was referring, “we were rival swordsmen back in university." Somehow even the plain truth sounded like a lie as it spewed from my lips, caught as we were in such a tender moment.

“Is that right?" He was just being polite; this was a phrase I knew all too well and which I dreaded. My siblings and I had all been trained in the same art of combative polite dialogue. This was a skill my mother had learned from her mother, and she passed it on to us. When a socialite says “Is that right?" they are responding to your comment by deriding you for wasting their time. It came up often when talking with people of lower social standing.

“Father sent a maid to find you," he pushed his glasses up the brim of his muzzle and inspected his claws, barely engaged with the conversation, “seemed urgent." He poked his head back inside leaving the words to hang in his wake.

“Wait, seemed?" I chased after him, flinging open the door with a force I didn't realize I could muster. The din of the party died to a hush in the aftermath of my reentering the room. I straightened my tie and cleared my throat, doing my best to play off the incident. Whether or not I was successful, I can't say. I strode toward my brother and the room regained its congested atmosphere.

“What do you mean seemed?" I pulled him into a nearby hall, shoving him against the wall; I'd learned my lesson after he weaseled his way out of one too many chores when we were young, if I didn't trap him in the conversation, he would manage to elude me without an explanation.

“That must have been ten, twenty minutes ago." He checked his pocket watch, a gift from our grandfather that each of us had been given. A silver locket with two dials, engraved on the surface with our family crest. They each had, more or less, the same message inside, “Dear Samuel, it is your duty to uphold the honor I fought so hard to earn. -Roderick Montgomery II."

“Why didn't you come find me?" I was already near boiling with rage.

“I tried," Samuel sounded genuinely apologetic, an unusual tone from him, “I looked around at the bar, but nobody had seen you." He was already looking down at the floor, well aware of just how incendiary the words he was concocting really were, “Apparently you were off snogging the help."

I punched the wall directly next to my brother's head. The crunch of bone accompanied a red-hot flash of pain and a crimson smudge upon the limestone bricks. My wound trickled down, staining my fur shades of ruby, I adjusted my tie with my unscathed hand and wiped some of the blood on the leg of my pants. “Get to the bloody point." I had not been this furious with him since we were children and he used to incessantly bully me. The difference now was that I stood a head higher than him, and I knew he held no actual power over me.

“He's already sent a second maid," he kept glancing back and forth between the wall beside him, my bloodied knuckles, and my face, glowering down at me, “and two or three guards." At the very least I could tell he wasn't lying any more; he would have been far too shaken for that. Nonetheless, my anger failed to fade as the severity of the situation crept in.

“Why didn't you lead with that?" I shoved his back against the wall, knocking some of the air out of him. If he'd mentioned earlier that father had already sent a second warning, I could have moved faster, but as it stood father was going to be furious. I no longer had the luxury of the time to engage in my brother's chicanery.

Nor did I have time to contemplate the ramifications of his stumbling upon the embrace between myself and Jesse. This too would be a problem to deal with another day. My father had a saying, “My first warning is a warning, my second is final," he would always perform some form of flourish at this point, emphasizing his point with a cigar, or a snifter of brandy. Once or twice, he'd even punctuated his speech with a spin of his revolver, “there will not be a third."

This had been a rule applied throughout our lives from assigning chores to going on dates, and he'd found a number of creative punishments for all of us over the years. I was in no rush to discover what he had in store if I should fail to appear for a meeting as important as this.

I knew all too well that he would want me in his private dining room which could only be accessed through a hidden stairwell in the kitchen. I rushed as quickly as my body would carry me, no doubt leaving a dripping trail halfway down the hall.

When I reached the kitchen, the secret entrance was hanging wide open. Down the stairs, my father was already seated, a fine meal for four laid out before him. He looked as austere as he ever had and tapped his foot impatiently.

“Now boy," you wouldn't think it would be possible to strike fear into someone with as little as two words, yet to this day this pair can tear me down to my core faster than any other, “you know I hate to be kept waiting." He was a man of few words, which lent a certain gravitas to the few he did utter; if I wasn't sure that he needed me in good condition for this evening, he would have beaten me within an inch of my life.

I wanted to give an excuse, say anything that might sate his anger, but when you live with a man long enough, you learn not to rely on excuses when they won't do any good. “Yes, sir" my words were shaky, as much from the liquor coursing through me as from the terror he'd instilled into me over years, “sorry, father."

“Sit down, and shut up." He kicked out the chair to his right, his pose unbroken and statuesque. “The two of us are gonna chat," he did not look up, as he spoke, his gaze met the wall across the kitchen, but in truth it penetrated far deeper than that, “and then your bride to be, and her father, are going to join us for dinner."

I didn't respond; I dared not step out of line. How could I with the overwhelming force of his rage pressuring me from every angle. He was my puppet master and I his marionette, I had been disciplined more than enough times not to resist. I took the seat as quietly as I possibly could.

His lecture was no more coherent than usual, some nonsense or other about how honorable it was to have an arranged marriage; how this would help the company. As usual, I pretended to understand what he meant to avoid any wrath that might arise. It didn't really matter to him if I understood or not. He'd made it abundantly clear that nothing about this arrangement was about me, as always, the only thing my father cared about was his own bottom line.

At this point I was just glad it seemed he hadn't heard anything about my encounter with Jesse. For that, at least, I could be thankful. After about half an hour of continual scolding, he finally sent for his colleague and, by extension, the woman to whom I would soon be wed. The wait was excruciating; only a few minutes passed, but the silence gnawed at my insides like a ravenous beast.

The door opened and a man I had never seen before stepped into the small private dining room. His black pinstripe suit was neatly tailored to his form and his sharp features made his diminutive stature as daunting as a man three times his size. He was a grey rat with long black whiskers, his ears stuck out of a black fedora. His black metal cane scraped against the floor, coming to a sharp point on one end, it was capped off with a fairly large diamond at the other.

Whoever this man was, I could tell one thing for absolute certain from the first moment I laid eyes on him. The amount of wealth and power he had at his disposal was beyond my comprehension. He strode into the room like he owned the place, an attitude I would've been certain my father was about to dissuade. To my shock, he didn't do anything of the sort.

Instead, for the first time in my life, I saw my father ingratiating himself to someone. My father greeted him as “Mr. Henry," this man had managed to fill my father with so much terror that he didn't dare act of his own volition. For once, I got to see what this was like from the other side and it was exactly as degrading as expected.

Mr. Henry had drawn so much focus the moment he entered the room that I hardly even noticed his daughter trail in his wake. She wore a tight-fitting navy dress that sparkled as she walked through the room, it had clearly been custom designed to make the most of her fairly flat figure. In form, she looked quite similar to her father, daunting features and all. The most immediate differences were her light brown pelt and the substantial height she had over her father. Her hair was braided down her back and a pair of round spectacles drew the ensemble together.

Despite her standing a good head and a half above her father, it was clear that he had the same type of hold on her that he had on my father. The same kind my father had on me. I suppose that gave us at least one thing to talk about.

The dinner was quiet. I didn't speak, and neither did the woman who had been seated across from me. The only conversation that was to be had was about business and what exactly both of our companies would be getting out of the deal. I didn't pay it any heed. I had never really cared for business discussion, no matter how hard my father attempted to beat it into me. This time, however, went beyond that.

My mind wandered to Jesse and what his life had been like after university. I wondered what my life would've been like if he and I had been friends, perhaps even more. I was so lost in my own mind, I didn't notice Mr. Henry ask me a question. I may have stayed in that fantasy all night had he not immediately started snapping his fingers at me.

“You deaf or something?" He hardly looked up from the meal which he remained intently focused on, apparently berating me required less attention than a steak and some vegetables. “You ready to get to work or not?"

I took this opportunity to use another technique my mother taught me; if you missed a question, you can always just smile and nod politely. And it was this innocuous decision that led me down a road of irreparable ruin. I had no idea at the time, but the “work" I'd just agreed to had to do with someone who owed Mr. Henry a great deal of money, and before the end of the night, I would see the true nature of the Henry Family's business.

For now, though, all I needed to know was that my father was proud or, at least, as close to pride as he could muster. He clapped me on the back, one of less than a handful of occasions I could remember in which he had ever touched me without hostile intent, “Atta boy."

After he finished eating, Mr. Henry donned his coat and immediately made for a different door than he'd entered. This one led into the tunnels under the house. As he reached the exit, he paused briefly, still not taking the effort to turn and look me in the eye, “you waitin' for an invitation?" He checked his watch, clearly he had somewhere to be. Or rather, we had somewhere to be. I followed him silently out of the room and down the empty hallway.

Few people knew about the hidden rooms under our manor, not even most of our staff knew. There was something surreal about being led down these secret halls I had become so intimately familiar with over decades by a man who I'd just met. We emerged from a little used entrance near one of the guest houses and were greeted by a long black car. A short man in a black suit similar to Mr. Henry's ushered us in without a word.

In the back of the car were four more men in nearly identical suits, each wearing a pair of dark glasses despite it being long past sunset. Under normal circumstances, it would've been hard to discern where they were looking. It didn't take much to realize that every eye in that car was on me.

After a few minutes of awkward silence as the car rumbled down the road, I finally dared to speak. “So," my voice was shaky, this was the first I'd thought about it but I hadn't spoken since I'd confronted my brother; that felt like ages ago now, “Where exactly are we going?" I addressed my question to nobody in particular, none of them seemed particularly amenable to answering.

After a moment, one of the large men seated on either side of me gave Mr. Henry a look, seemingly asking for permission. This assumption was proved correct as Mr. Henry replied with a very slight nod of his head and the man began to explain the nights itinerary to me.

He told me that we were making a quick stop on our way to Henry Ironworks. Apparently in addition to manufacturing of ironware, my soon to be father in law was also in the business of finance, at least that's how he put it. We were on our way to collect from someone who owed him a great deal of money. After this less than adequate explanation, we continued in silence for at least another ten minutes.

To my surprise, the car pulled to a stop in front of a relatively normal looking one-story house across from a field of corn. Still silent, Mr. Henry flicked his wrist in my general direction, the men on either side of me took this queue to usher me out of the car. The larger of the two men made his way to the back of the car and began rummaging around while the other, who still had a good foot or so on me, explained the plan.

“Alright, kid, let me do the talkin," his tone was assertive, I got the sense this was not the first time he'd had to teach someone the ropes with a moment's notice, “you won't have to do anything unless he doesn't pay."

“And if he doesn't?" It was at that moment the larger man returned from the back of the car brandishing a tommy gun himself and two pistols, one of which he handed to the other man. He held the other gun out to me, I had never seen one in person before. I'll never forget the weight of it as he forced it into my grip.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that." He directed his attention to the front door and started walking, muttering under his breath as he went, “something tells me you don't know how to handle this thing." I didn't say anything, firstly, I wasn't sure I was intended to have heard the remark, but more over he had a point.

We made our way up the stone path through the garden, the other men concealed their weapons, one more successfully than the other. I made my best effort to do the same though I have no idea if I was successful. As we finished our approach, the larger man pounded on the door.

The time that passed must have been less than a minute, but between the pressure of a weapon I didn't understand digging into my back and the seedy nature of the whole encounter, it felt like an eternity. At long last, a frail looking woman poked her head out the door.

“Can I help you gentlemen?" her voice was far warmer than I would expect from someone who found themselves confronted by three men carrying weapons. Then again, she was blissfully unaware of our armed nature.

“We're looking for a Mr. Jesse Witt," my heart skipped a beat when I heard Jesse's name, “is he in?" I felt a gnawing in my stomach as the conversation continued. A ringing in my ears kept me from hearing the woman's reply, but she had disappeared by the time I looked back at the door.

Some amount of time passed as I watched the door in silence, only occasionally glancing at either of the men I was accompanying. My heart raced and my entire body shook with a cold fear I couldn't explain. Eventually, Jesse too made an appearance at the door.

“Jesse Witt?" His tone implied it was a question, though the look on his face betrayed that he was already certain this was Jesse. The moment he laid eyes on Jesse, his foot became lodged in the door, ensuring Jesse wouldn't be able to retreat from the encounter.

“I take it Mr. Henry wants his money?" Jesse failed to take heed of my presence or, at least, if he had he made no indication to the others that he knew me in the slightest. If I hadn't been at the back of the group, I would not be able to say the same of myself, I was aghast at the uncanny connection between the man I had held so tenderly and the man who would become my father-in-law.

“Do you have it or not?" The larger man spoke up, it was the first I'd heard of his voice, shockingly light considering his immense stature.

“I just need a few more weeks-" Jesse began to stammer. It seemed the two had been prepared for this eventuality and, before I could even process what had happened, Jesse had been thrown face first to the ground outside.

“We warned you," Jesse crept his way across the yard, trying in vain to increase the distance between them, “this was your last chance." After a few moments of allowing him to struggle, he grew weary of waiting and pulled out his gun, shooting Jesse in the back of one of his knees. Jesse cried out, but continued dragging himself away as best he could, a scarlet trail amassing behind him.

“Hey new kid." He turned to me expectantly and echoes of his earlier words stabbed me like a knife. He had said I would only have to use the gun if Jesse didn't have the money, and here we were. He stepped over to me as Jesse writhed in pain and clapped me on the shoulder, “you finish him off." Now both of the men gave me the same expectant look, it seemed that to them this was any other job, neither of them knew about my connection to Jesse or, if they did, it was of no concern to them. Even through the tinted windows, I could tell that Mr. Henry was watching as well.

Despite every fiber of my being screaming at me to run, to hide, to do anything other than comply, my body began to move. My hands were drenched in sweat, my knees felt as though they might give way beneath me at any moment, but I persisted. As I stood over him, for the second time that evening I could see just how frail he really was.

I held a moment gazing upon him. My back was to both the car and the men who had accompanied me to the door, nobody could see my face. Not even Jesse who remained face down in the dirt. Nobody could see the tears cascading down my cheeks as I stood over the man I loved and knew I had to kill him. I took my aim, my hands trembling with such vigor that a clear shot evaded me.

I lowered the weapon, taking a moment to steady my breathing and my quaking hands. When I raised it again, I was ready. I pulled the trigger; a deafening ring filled my ears and the kickback nearly sent the gun flying out of my hand. The once struggling Jesse Witt had been brought to an abrupt halt. I felt something warm and wet drip down my face, it the haze I could not tell if it was more of my own tears or a spatter of Jesse's blood. In truth, I knew the answer as I had long since run out of tears to shed, but my mind was desperate for any explanation that would let me fain innocence for just a moment longer; perhaps it was too late for that.

The larger man stepped up to me and patted me on the shoulder again, “Good work, Kid." He and his partner adjourned to the vehicle, leaving me to stand over my victim alone. A chill wind blew through the black night, freezing me to my core. I wish I could say that I felt sad, or afraid, or even happy for that matter; I wish I could say that I felt anything at all. But the only thing I felt in that moment was a bitter emptiness in my core. Was this honor?

I made no notice of the sound of another door opening, or the faint steps of Mr. Henry approaching from behind. I hardly even noticed when he put his hand on my shoulder. The last thing I remember from that night were the first words he spoke to me after Jesse's death, “Good work," his voice was quiet, nearing a whisper, “Son." He returned to the car, as silently as he had approached and, again, I was alone.