As she spoke of body counts and odd numbers, Kier just gazed up at her with a look of genuine reverence — not all pretend — and a shiver that ran down his spine. Maybe worshipping her wouldn’t be such a chore after all. You said you were willing to kill to be under me? Perfect. He stood up a little taller, drawing his forepaws together attentively, ready for instruction.

And then she started listing off names. For the first time that night, doubt — unwillingness, even — stirred in Kier’s gut. As she mentioned Bermondsey, he began to reluctantly go through the list of his kits — Laertes would be the easiest, though he’d just begun to train him… — but it felt like walking through treacle, like his thoughts were heavy with hesitancy, with aversion. And when finally she said the final name, he had descended so deep into his own reluctant thoughts that his head snapped up in alarm. He didn’t even stop to relish in the idea that he was considered part of an old royal line, didn’t give any time at all to being selfish; there was just pure horror, all the more sharp and terrible for its unexpectedness. His father? He’d always had a confusing relationship with him, both loved him helplessly as the cat who’d raised him and resented him icily for letting his siblings rob him of his childhood with no more than a half-hearted reprimand and a weary flop back down to the ground, but the thought of killing him… He didn’t know why his throat closed up, why he felt close to weeping, why he felt all the guilt of a child crying out in horror that he owed his father for his life, that he’d cared for him when his mother had abandoned him, that he loved him…

But he couldn’t say any of that to Aspenstar. He needed time to think, and she wasn’t going to grant him that here. If he ended up refusing, he would deal with that when it came — if worst came to worst, he could retreat back to the moors. For the first time in his life, a deep family loyalty clawed its way out and outweighed Kier’s joyful apathy. He suddenly realised that he could simply kill any of the others she’d named — it didn’t have to be Harley. And yet, the very fact that he’d immediately smeared out the names of all the others and focused in on his father felt like a terrible, subconscious choice in itself. Beneath the horror that now felt untrustworthy, manufactured, a response that he’d known he ought to have felt and that he’d given himself to assuage any future guilt, to give himself the illusion that it had been a difficult decision — Kier didn’t know whether to believe it or not, was so bewildered — this was the opportunity he’d been waiting his whole life for. The inarguable choice that would take his festering feelings for his father and turn them into oh, well, I had no choice. I had to do it. When he didn’t. When he absolutely didn’t.

There would be no shame. No guilt. Aspenstar had ordered his father’s death — he had no choice. Who was he to refuse? Beneath the horror, something else now reared its blackened head: a deep, sadistic, blameless satisfaction. The satisfaction of a tortured child given an out. And, on top of it all, it would utterly prove himself to Aspenstar in a way no other murder could. Now, bypassing all the suppressed grief that still wailed in a pitiful kit’s wail for him to reconsider, he found his heart speeding up.

Raising his head and looking Aspenstar in the eye, he told her with a quiet, cold, barely audible purr in his voice and a hateful little half-smile, “Harley is my father.”

---

Kier wasn’t a subtle killer. Well, he was in the methods he used — but half the fun of it was doing it within full sight of everyone else and still going unseen. So he didn’t wait for his father to be separated from the rest of the League, didn’t wait for him to venture into a quiet, lonely spot. With Kier, Harley’s son, safely tucked away so he couldn’t stop him and Kier the self-aggrandising upstart in his place, he just walked up to his father sitting on the rickety old wood of the Mansion’s back porch and sat down beside him without a word. He looked out over the grey, overgrown garden for a long moment, listening to the mournful cry of a magpie cut slowly through the bleak winter quiet, before finally turning his head to look at his father.

He stayed like that for a long time. And gazing at his father now, all he could think of was all the times he hadn’t given him the love he needed. All the times Mal had pinned him to the ground, all the times Kate had whispered cruelties in his ear, and his father had done nothing. All the times Kier had shivered in the cold; all the times he’d asked about his mother and been given tired, dismissive answers; all the times Harley had coughed and coughed and coughed, so weak, so disgusting, so unworthy of his place at the head of the family, and Kier had stayed by his side and nursed him — and for what? For what? No thank you. No acknowledgement. As he sat there beside his father, he felt all the bitter memories stoking pure hatred in his gut. The guilt, the fear, the sobs wracking his chest and breaking apart his ribs, the shaking paws scrubbed frantically in a stream but the blood wouldn’t come off, it wouldn’t come off — that would come later. The yawning, terrifying loneliness because he’d gotten rid of the one cat who might have loved him unconditionally — that would surface in the night. For now, his blood felt like it was made from pure, electrical, agonised loathing. So painful to control, to keep quiet, to contain. He was surprised his old head twitch didn’t come back; his body felt like it was going to splinter at the seams from how much effort he was having to put into not trembling. By now, his blood pounded so loudly in his ears he could hardly hear a thing.

“Why was I never the favourite?” he asked, still gazing at Harley, and he was surprised by how casual, how cheerful his voice sounded. But it was almost more threatening than if it had been choked and shaking with rage; it was so final, so innocently, offhandedly blameless. And for a child who had spent every waking moment blaming his father, that was the most terrifying sound in the world. To have him sound so forgiving, because it wasn’t going to matter in a minute anyway. Kier smiled, soft and loving and harmless.

It said there’s no point in running, Father. I’ll catch you. It’s over now. Just sit with me a while longer.

Harley could only have known what was going to happen to him now; Kier had all but said it, sitting there beside him in the calm, grey quiet of the garden. He wondered if he’d expected it to be this child that got him in the end. Wondered if he was surprised. If he would feel sad. Kier felt sad now too, in a peaceful, final way; it was hard not to, with the birds singing so quietly. He turned his head back to the garden to watch them. It was nice, it was right, for it to end this way. A peaceful moment with his father before he died. And finally, Kier held the power in such a moment, just quietly, like he’d laid a knife between them to offer gentle, comforting assurance of how it would happen more than a threat. He closed his eyes and breathed in a calm, smiling breath. It was a beautiful morning; he wanted his father to have that, to know his son cared.