The room is barely big enough for the seven in our Circle. With only five we have room to pace. Our frustrations echo in the snarls and rumbling coughs. Chapat enters quietly, had the door not chimed he would have caught us. We leap to our feet to face him. The roars and snarls echo well in such a small room. Fangs flash in the lights. Claws rake gouges in the flimsily ceramic floors. Our rage is heavy as snow and blankets Chalapt, burying him in waves of musk.

Any other Chat would falter under out display. We are the best, the proudest, and our battle rage is unequaled. Yet Chalapt walks to his place in the Circle without raising a single hair. I am tempted to strike to see if I could spark his rage. But it is a useless thought. Cowed by his display of contempt we grovel, baring neck and chest to his claws. We would die for him now without a thought. There are very few grey areas in the Chat society. The Circle is not one of them.