A Cold Arc
A deep rumble stirred low in my throat. My tail shifted against the carpet, and I felt the solid grip of my own claws in the weave beneath me. Ahead stood a dark, curved metal leg resting on a wheel. Moving deliberately, I leaned forward and tapped the cold curve with the tip of my snout. A sharp, clipped hiss slipped past my teeth as the metal stayed firm against my weight. I planted both feet and held my ground in the morning quiet.