The Slaughtered Lamb was empty when I arrived.
Same bar. Same fire. Same jazz record spinning on the antique player. But Grimm wasn't behind the counter. The glasses were polished. The bottles were straight. Everything was in its place, waiting for an audience that wasn't there.
I stood in the doorway, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. The ambient hum of the Warrens didn't reach this place. Neither did the wind, or the distant cries of feral Ragers, or anything else that made the Stilts feel alive in its own dying way.
"Grimm?"
No answer.
I stepped inside. The door stayed open behind me. The fire crackled. My shadow stretched long across the wooden floor, and for a moment, it looked wrong. Too tall. Shoulders too broad. A shape that didn't quite match the scrawny salvage rat standing in the light.
I blinked. The shadow was normal again.
Great. Now I'm seeing things.
"Back here."
Grimm's voice came from beyond the bar. The metal door to the Nocturne was open. A sliver of artificial moonlight spilled through the gap, cold and silver.
I walked through.
The training room was different tonight.
The padded floor was gone. Instead, the ground was raw stone—rough, uneven, littered with loose gravel and jagged edges. The walls had receded, expanding the space into something that felt less like a room and more like a cave. A cavern. A den.
Grimm stood in the center, arms crossed. His silver hair was pulled back tighter than usual. His vest was gone. The shirt beneath was thin, and I could see the scars. Dozens of them. Old claw marks. Bullet wounds. Something that looked like a plasma burn across his ribs.
He looked like a man who had died a hundred times and refused to stay down.
"You're late."
"I was with Lena. Getting fitted."
"I know." He gestured at the gauntlet on my arm. "Good sync. She does quality work. But gear is a crutch, Cade. Tonight, you learn to walk without it."
He pointed at the stone floor.
"Sit."
I sat. The rock was cold. Uncomfortable. The artificial moonlight felt heavier than before, pressing down on my skin like a physical weight.
"The first shift is the hardest," Grimm said. "Not because it's painful—though it is. Not because it's dangerous—though it is that too. It's the hardest because it's the first time you meet the beast face to face. Not as a voice in your head. Not as a hunger in your gut. As you."
He began to pace, slow circles around me.
"Every Stalker's beast is different. Some are rage. Some are fear. Some are grief. The Lunacy takes whatever is already inside you—whatever you've buried, whatever you've denied—and gives it teeth. Your beast is yours alone. No one can tell you what it looks like. No one can tell you how to fight it."
He stopped in front of me.
"But I can tell you this: if you lose tonight, you won't come back. The beast will take the wheel, and I'll have to put you down. I've done it before. I'll do it again."
His cat-eyes reflected the moonlight. Cold. Serious.
"Do you understand?"
I nodded. My throat was dry.
"Good. Then let's begin."
He knelt in front of me, close enough that I could smell him—whiskey, old leather, and something underneath. Something wild. Something that made the hunger in my chest stir with recognition.
"Close your eyes."
I closed them.
"Breathe. Slow. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out."
I breathed. The air in the Nocturne was different—thicker, charged with something that made my skin prickle. The regulator disc hummed against my chest. The gauntlet was warm on my arm.
"Now. Find the hunger."
I didn't have to look far. It was always there, coiled at the base of my skull. A pressure. A want. It had been quiet in Lena's workshop, distracted by the new sensations. But here, in the dark, with nothing else to focus on, it stirred.
Rip. Kill. Howl.
"I feel it."
"Good. Don't push it away. Don't recite the Litany yet. Just... observe. What does it want?"
I focused. The hunger wasn't a single thing. It was layers. The surface was simple—meat. Blood. The crunch of bone. But beneath that, there was something else. A longing. A loneliness so vast and deep it felt like staring into the void between stars.
"It wants..." I struggled for words. "It wants to be seen. It wants to stop hiding."
Grimm was quiet for a moment.
"Interesting. Most Newbloods say it wants to kill. To dominate. Yours wants to be seen." I heard him shift. "That's either very good or very bad. Time will tell."
I kept my eyes closed. The hunger pulsed. Waiting.
"Now," Grimm said. "Recite the Litany. Not to suppress it. To invite it. Let it know you're willing to meet it halfway."
My claws are tools. My fangs are weapons. My mind is mine.
The words felt different now. Not a wall. A door.
I am the hunter. I am not the prey.
The hunger leaned forward. Interested.
The hunger serves me. I do not serve the hunger.
And then it moved.
Not physically. Not yet. But inside my mind, something shifted. The coiled pressure at the base of my skull unfurled. It spread through my chest, down my arms, into my fingers. My bones ached. My skin burned. My gums blazed as my canines lengthened.
I felt myself changing.
"Eyes open," Grimm commanded.
I opened them.
The world was different.
Everything was sharper. The artificial moonlight wasn't just light anymore—it was a substance, thick and silver, pooling in the cracks of the stone floor. I could smell Grimm. Not just the surface scents of whiskey and leather, but the layers beneath. Old blood. Older grief. And something else—a scent like ozone and starlight, the mark of a Stalker who had climbed far beyond Newblood.
I could hear his heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Fifty-two beats per minute.
I could hear the Nocturne itself—a low hum, like the vibration of a plucked string stretched across dimensions.
And I could feel the beast.
It was looking through my eyes. Breathing through my lungs. It wasn't separate anymore. It was me. A version of me with sharper edges and fewer restraints. A version that wanted to run. To hunt. To howl.
"Look at your hands."
I looked down.
My hands were still human-shaped. Mostly. But the fingers were longer. The knuckles more prominent. And from the tips, extending slowly, came claws. Not the keratin of a normal animal—something darker. Matte black, with a faint silver sheen where the moonlight caught them. They slid out of my nail beds without pain, like they'd always been there, waiting.
My reflection in a polished section of the stone wall showed me a face I almost recognized. My features were still there—the gaunt cheeks, the stubborn jaw. But my eyes had changed. The silver had spread, consuming the whites, the pupils. They glowed. Faintly. Like twin moons in a dark sky.
And my teeth. My canines had extended past my lower lip. Sharp. White. Hungry.
"Well done." Grimm's voice was calm. Approving. "You're still you. That's the hard part. Most Newbloods lose themselves in the first shift. The beast takes over and they wake up covered in blood with no memory of how it got there. You held the line."
I tried to speak. My voice came out rougher. Deeper. Resonating in my chest in a way that felt primal.
"I don't... feel like I'm holding anything. I feel like I'm falling."
"That's the trick." Grimm stood, backing up a few steps. "You're always falling. The Litany doesn't stop the fall. It just reminds you which way is up."
He settled into a fighting stance.
"Now. Let's see what you can do."
I stood.
The movement was wrong. Too smooth. Too fast. My body didn't feel like a body anymore—it felt like a weapon someone had just unsheathed. The stone floor cracked under my bare feet. I hadn't even noticed I'd lost my boots.
"Your balance is off," Grimm observed. "You're used to compensating for a bad leg. The beast healed it. You need to relearn how to stand."
He moved.
Not toward me. Around me. A blur of silver hair and pale skin, circling. Testing my reaction time.
I turned to follow him. Too fast. I overcorrected and stumbled, catching myself on a clawed hand. The stone crunched under my grip like dry bread.
"Slow," Grimm said. "You're fighting your own speed. Let it happen. Don't control it—guide it."
He lunged.
I didn't think. I reacted. My body twisted, claws coming up, and I met his strike with a block that sent sparks flying. The impact rattled my bones, but it didn't hurt. It felt good. The beast purred.
Grimm grinned. "Better."
He pressed the attack. A flurry of strikes—fast, precise, aimed at my throat, my ribs, my knees. I blocked most of them. Dodged a few. Took one hit to the shoulder that would have shattered the old Cade's collarbone.
I barely felt it.
The beast wanted more. It wanted to strike back. It wanted to taste blood.
My mind is mine.
I held the leash. Barely.
Grimm disengaged, breathing steady. I was panting. Not from exertion—from restraint. The hunger was screaming now, furious that I hadn't let it loose.
"Good control," Grimm said. "For a first shift, that was exceptional. Most Newbloods would have tried to rip my throat out by now."
He walked to the edge of the cavern and pressed a panel I hadn't noticed. A section of the stone wall slid open, revealing a cage. Inside, something moved. Something big.
"Unfortunately, control is only half the lesson."
The cage door opened.
The Rager that emerged was a Tier-3. I knew the classification from the PSA vids—bigger than a Tier-1, smarter, with armored plates on its shoulders and a skull thick enough to stop small-arms fire. Its eyes were red, not white. It wasn't Void-Touched. Just a regular monster.
It saw me and snarled.
"What's this?" I asked, my voice still rough with the shift.
"Final exam." Grimm stepped back. "You've held the leash while sparring with a friend. Now you hold it while fighting something that wants to kill you. The beast will scream for release. It will offer you power. Speed. Fury. And if you give in, you'll win the fight—and lose yourself."
He crossed his arms.
"Don't give in."
The Rager charged.
It was fast. Faster than the one that bit me. Its claws scraped sparks from the stone as it closed the distance, jaws wide, aiming for my throat.
I moved.
Not with thought. With instinct. My body flowed sideways, claws raking across the Rager's flank as it passed. The black claws cut deep. Blood sprayed—hot, red, and the smell of it hit me like a drug.
The beast howled inside my skull.
Yes. More. Kill.
The Rager turned, snarling. The wound on its flank was already closing. Tier-3s healed fast. Not as fast as a Stalker, but fast enough to be dangerous.
It came at me again. Lower this time. Smarter. Aiming for my legs.
I jumped. Not a human jump—a Stalker jump. I cleared ten feet straight up, twisting in the air, and came down behind it. My claws found its back. Dug deep.
The Rager screamed. Thrashed. Threw me off.
I hit the stone wall and bounced back, lungs burning, heart pounding. The beast was right there, pressing against the inside of my skin, demanding to be let out. Promising me I could end this in seconds if I just let go.
My claws are tools. My fangs are weapons. My mind is mine.
The Litany was a whisper against a hurricane.
The Rager charged again.
I met it head-on.
Claws clashed. Teeth snapped. We became a blur of motion—strike, dodge, counter-strike. My new speed was intoxicating. My strength was terrifying. I could feel the Rager's bones creak under my grip. I could smell its fear.
The beast loved it.
Kill. Rip. Howl.
I wrenched the Rager's head to the side and bit down.
My fangs sank into its throat. Hot blood flooded my mouth. The taste was—
No.
I released. Staggered back. The Rager collapsed, gurgling, bleeding out on the stone floor.
I stood over it, chest heaving, blood dripping from my chin. The beast was roaring in triumph. I could feel my control slipping, the silver in my eyes burning brighter, my claws lengthening further—
"My mind is mine."
I said it out loud. My voice was barely human.
"My mind is mine."
I closed my eyes. Breathed. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out.
The beast screamed. Fought. Tried to claw its way back to the surface.
I held.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the shift receded. My claws retracted. My fangs shortened. The silver in my vision faded back to normal.
When I opened my eyes, I was on my knees. Human again. Covered in blood. Shaking.
Grimm stood over me. His expression was unreadable.
"You stopped."
I couldn't speak. I just nodded.
"You had it. The kill. The beast wanted the throat. And you stopped." He knelt, putting a hand on my shoulder. "That's the difference, Cade. That's the line between Stalker and monster. You can kill. You will kill. But you choose when to stop."
He helped me stand. My legs were weak. The regulator disc was hot against my chest—it had been working overtime, capping the Lunacy spike.
"The first shift is the hardest," Grimm said again. "But not because of the pain. Because afterward, you know what you're capable of. And you have to live with it."
I looked at the dead Rager. At the blood on my hands.
"Does it get easier?"
"No." Grimm's voice was quiet. "But you get stronger. The Litany becomes habit. The beast becomes... not a friend. An ally. A weapon you carry inside your skin. One day, you'll shift without thinking. Fight without losing yourself. And on that day, you'll be ready for what comes next."
He started toward the door.
"Clean up. Rest. Tomorrow, we work on partial shifts—claws only, fangs only. Control without full transformation. And after that..." He paused. "After that, you meet the Pack."
I looked up. "The Iron Maw?"
"No." Grimm's smile was thin. "My Pack. What's left of it."
He walked out, leaving me alone in the cavern with the dead Rager and the silver moonlight.
I stood there for a long time.
The hunger was quiet now. Sated. Not by the blood—by the control. By proving that I was still in charge.
My claws are tools. My fangs are weapons. My mind is mine.
I looked at my reflection in the polished stone. Human face. Human eyes. But behind them, something else watched. Patient. Waiting.
I see you, I thought. And I'm not afraid.
The beast didn't answer.
But I felt it acknowledge me.
And that, I realized, was the first real step on the Red Path.