The village square was a chaotic symphony of sounds that Patrick—now Jairo—found overwhelming. He could hear the rhythmic *thump-thump* of a heavy pestle grinding grain three houses away and the distant, high-pitched chatter of pups wrestling in the dirt. Every scent hit him like a physical blow: the musk of wet fur, the metallic tang of the butcher's slab, and the sweet, earthy aroma of roasting tubers. It was an sensory overload that made his head throb, a lingering reminder of the mace that had rewritten his life.
Ariel led him to a communal fire pit where several large stone pots were simmering. She didn't bother with formalities, simply scooping a thick, greyish stew into a wooden bowl and shoving it into his paws. "Eat. All of it. You're skin and bones, Jairo. If you're going to survive a week of my training, you need something in your stomach besides anxiety."
Jairo stared at the stew, the steam curling up into his nostrils. He didn't recognize the ingredients, but as the first spoonful hit his tongue, a primal instinct overrode his confusion. It tasted of wild roots and some kind of game meat, salty and rich, and he found himself eating with a ferocity that would have horrified his former self. He didn't use the spoon for long; it was easier to just lap at the bowl, his new tongue feeling broad and powerful.
"Slow down, or you'll choke," Ariel laughed, though she sounded more amused than critical. She leaned against a wooden post, watching him with an expression that was almost tender. "You've always been a weird one, Jairo. Even before the mace, you were the only one in the pack who preferred reading those old scrolls to hunting rabbits. But that's probably why you're still alive. You're too cautious to be stupid."
"Reading scrolls, huh?" Jairo murmured, the words vibrating in his chest. He looked around the village, noticing for the first time the small, thatch-roofed structures that served as libraries or archives. He wondered if there were any books here that could explain how he'd traded a gaming chair for a coat of fur and a concussion. He felt a strange, phantom itch in his fingertips, as if he were still trying to reach for a mouse that wasn't there.
"Don't get too hopeful about the reading," Ariel cautioned, noticing his gaze linger on the archives. "Most of those scrolls are just tax records and bloodlines. Not exactly a 'how-to' guide on not getting your skull cracked.' Now, finish up. We need to get you to the clearing before my father decides to check on your 'recovery' himself."
The mention of her father sent a fresh jolt of apprehension through Jairo. He didn't know the man, but the way Ariel said it suggested a level of intensity that he wasn't prepared for. As he stood, he felt a sudden, sharp imbalance, his center of gravity shifted by the weight of a tail he still hadn't quite learned how to coordinate. He stumbled, nearly tipping over into the fire pit, but Ariel caught him with a quick, steadying hand on his shoulder.
Careful! You're like a newborn pup," Ariel teased, though she didn't let go of his shoulder until she was sure he had his footing.
Jairo was just glad she didn't see his face. He looked like such an idiot. This girl was making him feel too comfortable. Half of the conversation Jairo was simply trying not to stare at her too long.
It seemed the real Jairo had a big crush on Ariel that he never got to bring up to her. That was quickly pushed to the back of his mind however, as his current goal was to live.
Ariel led him away from the fire, her pace brisk and confident, while Jairo struggled to keep his gait from looking like a drunken stumble.
And they were off to her home.