Dem stretched, the soft furs of his bedroll warm against his skin. To most, the small tent would have seemed sparse, but the street rat smiled with contentment fit for a noble lost in luxury.
He felt eyes on him and turned slightly.
"Morning, Dem."
Gram's blankets were pulled up to her chin, her eyes amused. "Did you have fun last night?"
"Yes," Dem said simply.
"Danced with pretty girls?" Yada teased from the other side of her mother's bed.
Dem shrugged. "Some were. Others not so much. But that doesn't really matter—we had fun."
Ai sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes before unbraiding her hair, dark waves falling across her shoulders. "The second round of the archery contest is this afternoon. I doubt I'll advance, but I'd like to beat Telo."
Dem chuckled. "You can do it, dosu."
An hour later
The small crowd watched as Dem demonstrated defense from the neutral stance. One by one, his students attacked while he countered—knocking blades aside, disarming, stepping just far enough to avoid their reach. His movements were crisp, fluid, economical.
"Watch your opponent's feet," he said. "Some wave their blades or feint with their hands—it's distraction. They can't touch you until they step forward."
More spectators than usual had gathered. Some wanted to ask about the Sentry force, others were drawn to the interesting Sybasi style with its dance-like movements.
Among them stood Mamar and Elspeth, both silent.
Elspeth's expression stayed neutral, but her stomach sank each time Dem moved. "We were going to intimidate him?" she whispered. "Saints, I was an idiot."
Mamar nodded thoughtfully, her gaze sharp. "Despite everything, I sense no malice in him. Only restraint."
On the practice field, Ai charged at Dem after losing her blade, laughing as she tried to grab him—only to end up clutching at empty air as he spun effortlessly aside.
When the Sybasi class ended, Dem bowed to his students. Curious onlookers stepped forward, asking respectful questions as he followed Huntmaster Dern toward a nearby clearing.
"Where's he going?" Elspeth asked, watching.
"Spear training," someone said from nearby.
Mamar arched an eyebrow. "Why is he learning the spear? He's clearly already skilled." She watched as the Huntmaster jumped right into sparring, pausing every few minutes to give advice or answer questions. "Tribal males start that training as soon as they can walk."
"He's a fosterling," explained a young Swiftwind woman who'd overheard. "Joined our clan during the Gathering."
"So he's not of the blood?" Elspeth asked.
"He is," the girl replied. "Fosterlings are tribals who were born or raised outside the clans. My father was one."
Before Elspeth could respond, another voice—smooth, cool—cut in. "You should ask Dem yourself if you're curious."
Elspeth turned to find a stunning Frostridge woman standing beside her, pale hair braided neatly, blue eyes bright enough to shame the sky. "It's his story to tell—or to keep to himself."
Elspeth smiled politely. "Of course. I only spoke with him briefly last night. He's fascinating."
Reyka snorted. "You're too old for him."
"What? I was just making conversation!" Elspeth said, but the Frostridge girl was already walking away.
Elspeth sighed. "What an annoying person."
The younger Swiftwind woman beside her chuckled. "That's Reyka, daughter of the Frostridge Clan Chief. She likes Dem—for obvious reasons."
Elspeth raised a brow. "And what are those reasons, exactly?"
The young woman blushed. "I've said too much." She hurried off, leaving Elspeth alone in the hum of the training ground, where the young fosterling everyone whispered about moved with the quiet confidence of someone entirely at ease in his own skin.
"Dem?" Huntmaster Dern lowered his spear, his weathered face creasing with concern.
"Hmm?" Dem glanced up, blinking as his vision blurred. His eyes stung; when he touched his cheek, his fingers came away crimson.
"Come with me." Dern gripped his arm firmly and broke into a trot.
Dem kept pace easily—until a violent cramp twisted through his gut. He hunched over, gasping.
"Keep moving." Dern's tone left no room for argument. He waved off the gathering onlookers. "Small cut—nothing serious," he said quickly, silencing questions as he half-guided, half-dragged the boy forward.
Telo spotted them and sprinted to catch up just as they reached the Swiftwind camp. Yada and the white-painted shaman sat outside their tent, laughing softly together until they saw Dem's bent posture.
"Dem?" the shaman called, already on her feet. Her smile vanished. "Inside. Now!"
Telo followed close behind as Dern helped Dem down onto the furs. Blood welled from Dem's eyes though there was no wound to be found.
"What's happening?" Telo demanded.
Dem cursed under his breath, his body convulsing in a violent spasm. A sheen of cold sweat broke across his skin, dark hair sticking to his forehead.
"Shaman?" Yada's voice trembled.
The shaman placed a hand on Dem's brow. He was burning hot, but beneath the pain there was calm—unnervingly so. His once-dark eyes were now burning red.
"What are your symptoms? How long has—ahhh!"
She staggered as her own muscles seized, collapsing beside him. Telo cried out and fell next, followed by Dern and Yada, all four gasping as invisible pressure crushed the air from their lungs.
The tent itself seemed to thicken—the air heavy as water, every breath dragging like liquid through their throats. The crimson glow in Dem's eyes brightened until it filled the small space like blood-tinted light. A low roar filled his ears, drowning everything else.
Then, in a sudden flash, he was gone.
Clothes fell in a heap where he'd been.
In his place stood a black rat—small, sharp-eyed, and eerily calm. The pain was gone, replaced by perfect clarity.
The others on the floor blinked in unison as their bodies began to shift.
Bones lengthened, shortened. Fur rippled through skin. In seconds, where once four tribals lay, there now stood:
Telomere, a red fox.
Huntmaster Dern, a gray wolf.
The shaman, a slender pine marten.
Yada, a sleek black feline.
They turned in slow confusion, blinking and spinning as if trying to make sense of their new forms.
"Oh, fuck," Dem squeaked—the words coming out high and chittering in his tiny rodent voice.
He stared up at the towering, furred figures, whiskers twitching. "This… is bad."
It ended almost as quickly as it began.
With a single thought, Dem's impromptu transformation reversed, his small form stretching and twisting until he was human again.
For a heartbeat, the tent was silent.
Then chaos erupted—four people scrambling for blankets, clothes, and anything within reach to cover themselves.
Only the shaman remained still. Her painted face carried an expression of wonder tinged with disappointment. "So that's my beast form," she murmured. "I've seen it at last."
With deliberate care, she dressed—each movement unhurried—as the others stumbled into their clothes.
"We all changed," Huntmaster Dern said finally, voice low with disbelief. "My bloodline's too thin for that. But… it was glorious."
The statement hung in the air. No one spoke for a long moment.
"Sorry," Dem offered quietly, guilt flickering across his face.
Telo suddenly snapped his fingers. "Now I remember!"
The shaman turned toward him. "Remember what?"
"During the third month of my Massat—when the pirate ship attacked. The Pirate Queen, Ember… she shouted Escadomai—and her whole crew turned into beasts."
"I didn't say anything," Dem pointed out.
"Ember?" The shaman's eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at him. That name had come up before—a few days earlier—during his bloodline ritual. A whisper between the midwife and the birth mother.
Dem shrugged. "I think Ember might be my birth mother. But I didn't speak any word, and I don't even know what it means."
"What I forgot," Telo continued, oblivious to the tension building in the room, "was that Ember's eyes turned blood red when she said it." He winced. "That would've been a great hook for my telling. Damn it."
"Focus, Telo," the shaman said, smiling despite herself. "How do you feel, Dem?"
Dem took a moment to listen to his body. "Good. Refreshed, even."
"Same here," Dern agreed.
Yada rolled her shoulder experimentally. "The pain I've had for weeks—it's gone."
The shaman stepped closer, pressing her palm lightly to Dem's forehead. Her sharp eyes studied his skin; she even leaned in to sniff, prompting a quiet chuckle from him.
"The change is near," she said softly. "Not the beast change—the other one. The shift from boy to man. I suspect… unforeseen things will come with it."
Yada's eyes filled with concern. "If Ember is truly his birth mother, then that would make her…"
"The granddaughter of Demetrius," the shaman finished quietly. "The Rat King himself."
The words hit like a dropped stone. Even the air seemed to still.
"Did you notice anything before your eyes began bleeding?" she asked.
Dem thought for a moment. "Not really. My mouth tasted like burnt oil this morning, but I figured it was from the fleet fish."
"Maybe," the shaman said, unconvinced. "Pay close attention to yourself. If you feel strange again, return here immediately."
Dem nodded. "I feel fine now. The taste is gone."
Telo, eager to break the tension, grinned. "I was a fox! A red fox, from the Redfox Clan. Coincidence? I doubt it."