Squirt nudged the last mewling kitten back into the pile and sighed. Four of them now, orphaned and squirming, dumped into his careful life like spilled milk. He had decided already: these tiny scraps would grow into the finest mannered cats Luminara had ever seen. But first, they had to stop rolling toward the stairs. He surveyed the open room with a soldier's eye. Too many corners. Too many drafts. One kitten was already gumming the leg of a chair. Another wobbled toward a gap behind the cabinet. Squirt's tail twitched. This would not do. He found what he needed in the quiet alcove: a woven nest of soft, glowing fibers, domed and deep enough to hold every kitten at once. He dragged it into place with his teeth, fluffed the inside, and tucked a smooth, gently warm stone among the bedding. One by one, he carried the kittens in. They curled against the stone and quieted. Satisfied, Squirt climbed the tall carved perch beside the nest and settled at its highest tier. From here he could see every whisker. The kittens were contained. The kittens were safe. And already, one was trying to climb out.

From his high perch, Squirt heard the cries shift. Hunger, not fear. Four small mouths, opening and closing on empty air. The warm stone could not feed them. Neither could he. His chest tightened. They would weaken before the night was out if he did nothing. He leapt down and pulled a slim leather book from beneath the cabinet. Its pages glowed faintly in the low light. He pawed it open and pressed a claw against the first blank line. Milk. Bottle. Vendor. He drew a simple route in his head and marked each step. A plan, written down, could not be forgotten. He found a clear glass bottle on a low shelf, cork still snug in its mouth. He carried it gently between his teeth and slipped out into the cool morning. The cries faded behind him. His paws moved fast across the stones. The milk stall stood open already, awning bright, bottles lined in tidy rows. Squirt set his bottle on the counter and stared up. The vendor understood. Warm milk poured in. The cork went back. Squirt paid with a small bright coin from his logbook's pouch and turned for home. Back at the nest, he tipped a careful drop onto his paw and offered it to the smallest kitten. She latched on. Then the next. Then the next. One by one, the crying stopped. Squirt sat back, bottle half full, and felt his shoulders drop. They were fed. But the bottle would empty again by midday, and he had only one coin left.

By midmorning, the kittens squirmed. Squirt knew the signs. Full bellies meant full bladders, and the nest was warm, soft, and the only safe place he had built. One puddle would ruin it. He could not let that happen. He slipped outside and studied the yard. A line of smooth stones glowed faintly along the grass, leading to a quiet corner. There, he dragged over a low box with crystal edges and filled it with fine, soft sand. A digging place. A proper one. Back inside, he pulled down a glowing scroll from a high shelf. Its symbols pulsed in steady rhythm. Squirt traced one with his claw and pressed it gently against each kitten's paw. A small habit, started early. He hung a soft pink cloth across the nest's opening so they would learn the threshold meant out, not in. One by one, he carried them down the lit stones to the sand box. The smallest sniffed, then scratched. The next copied her. Tiny paws dug. Tiny paws covered. Squirt watched, still as stone, barely breathing. When the last kitten trotted back up the path, the nest was still clean. Squirt let out a long breath. Four kittens, four lessons learned. But as he counted them safe inside, he noticed the smallest shivering, her fur damp with morning dew. The cold had found her first.

The smallest kitten shivered against Squirt's chest, and he felt the damp seep into the nest's lower edge. Dew had crept in overnight. By dusk, every kitten would be soaked. He had to move them, and fast. Squirt pulled the wet bedding free and dragged it outside. A flat, porous stone sat near the path, its glowing veins pulsing warm. He spread the damp cloth across it. The veins drank the wet up like thirsty roots. Good. That bought him time. He scanned the yard. A small dome tent shimmered in one corner, its crystal panels catching the morning light. Dry inside, but too far from the path. Then he saw it — a stone pavilion with a domed glass roof, close, sturdy, lifted off the wet grass. He chose the pavilion. One problem: four kittens, one trip. A gentle draft horse stood grazing nearby, calm and patient. Squirt nudged a folded blanket onto its broad back, then carried each kitten up, one by one. The horse walked slow. Squirt rode with them, steady, counting heads. Inside the pavilion, the floor was dry stone. He laid the warmed bedding down and tucked all four kittens close. The smallest stopped shivering. Squirt sat at the threshold, watching them breathe. The nest was gone, but the litter was safe — and now he would have to build everything new.