Tuesday, October 21st, 1437, Home of the Porter family, Luminara, Oregon.

Knock, knock.

Ryan slowly drifted awake in an unfamiliar bed and unfamiliar room, his face buried in a pillow—not his pillow. Groggily, he turned his head sideways and peeked from the corner of his vision.

It was quite dark, a token amount of light filtering in from outside. What little he saw, he did not recognise. He was not in his bedroom. He untangled his thoughts.

Right. He had fallen asleep in his parents' basement, on the couch. Lucia had brought him blankets and a pillow. She had also brought him an old, oversized hoodie to sleep in. It had been one of his, and had not always been oversized, actually. But with yesterday's changes…

Yesterday's changes.

Ryan could not deny what had happened. But that did not make it believable. When Lucia told him he was turning to Kaelyn, he had simply laughed at her dismissively. But then, she had insisted. Pointed out to him all the changes in his own reflection.

How he floated inside the hoodie had just another piece of proof.

Knock, knock.

This time, he heard the sound and recognised it as someone knocking at the door.

Who could it be? Right in the middle of the night… Could it be Lucia coming to check on me? Maybe she can't sleep?

He grimaced. If not her, then perhaps his mother. Maybe Lucia failed to keep her promise, and his mother… He groaned and shifted in bed, his skin rubbing against the rough wool of his blanket.

Wait.

Ryan's brow furrowed. He had gone to bed surrounded by the feel of crisp, freshly laundered synthetic sheets, their clean scent a comforting presence. What he had felt just now was a heavy, scratchy blanket which smelled faintly of dust and incense.

He searched for his phone, trying to check the time, but his hands found nothing but rough wool blankets. No couch cushions dug under his weight, just the firm, unyielding surface of a narrow cot sitting on wooden planks.

The dawning awareness left him momentarily paralysed with fear.

His skin prickled, a cold dread rising. He shifted, trying to sit up, and pain—a sharp, tearing sensation—ripped across his cheek as something peeled away from the pillow, pulling like a half-healed wound torn open.

He flinched, staring at the fabric beneath him. A dull stain of dried, diluted blood covered half of the pillow.

What—?

He touched his face, fingers ghosting over the raw sting. The sensation was distant, disconnected. Like he was not fully in his own skin.

His breath came faster. His hands were trembling.

Memories of burrowing his head deep in the pillow in an attempt to stop the never-ending faucet of tears surfaced in his mind.

I don't remember crying myself to sleep…

Can you blame yourself, gatita?

Everything was wrong. This was not his parent's basement. There was no flickering blue light from the nearby FullDive rig, no bookshelves or standing mirror leaning against the walls. No smell of stale air or motor oil drifting in from the garage.

He finally paid attention to his surroundings, pulse thudding in his ears. A dim room stretched around him, moonlight slanting through a frost-covered small window too high on the wall to see out of. Wooden furniture, a warped brass mirror, a narrow cot. It was wrong and right at the same time. Home, and not.

His breath came quick and uneven as he pushed himself up—and froze.

His body felt off.

It did not feel like himself. Not Ryan's body, not the body he went to bed with, and not Kaelyn's body, either.

Had it happened already? Overnight? He had tried to prepare himself for it—for the fifty percent mark he was supposed to be approaching. But no, this was wrong. It was something more.

This is too much, too fast.

The news had given him three days. Three more days before he crossed the point of no return, before the transformation fully completed. But this… What would that even look or feel like? That state in-between.

His hands trembled as he lifted them to his face.

Slim fingers. A little too long, a little too delicate. Longer nails, but still practical—not the appealing manicured fingernails Kaelyn effortlessly wore, but nothing like his own either. The skin appeared wrong, too smooth, too soft, halfway there.

He inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat, while his heart thundered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pushed himself out of bed, nearly stumbling as his feet hit the floor—not his feet, smaller than they should be, the angles all wrong. His balance wobbled, something flicking behind him, an alien sensation dragging at his spine. He froze.

Is that…?

He turned to look, but his gaze froze at his reflection in the mirror.

But then his mind shattered. A stranger stared back. Not Kaelyn—not the image burned into his mind by every smug, sultry glance she had ever thrown his way. And not Ryan, either. It was someone else. The face was younger than Kaelyn's usual one, softer—eyes wide, panicked, rimmed red with exhaustion. A jagged cut ran down one cheek, dried blood smeared across delicate skin.

Who did this to you?

His ears twitched at the sight—his ears? No, but not hers either. The felinae shape was there, but half-formed. Rounded, the fur shorter, finer. His hair was wild and dishevelled, its colour in the middle of a transition—fading from the light brown of Ryan's own to the golden blonde that should have been Kaelyn's.

The worst part was not the unfamiliarity. It was the fact this was exactly what he should have expected to see.

A cold, creeping horror settled over him, tightening around his ribs. Three days left, the news had said. But this was not a three days left kind of change! This was not even close to a gradual shift.

This was a sudden drop, a freefall. Like time itself had skipped forward. Like something—or someone—had hurried the process along. His stomach twisted, nausea clawing up his throat. He ripped his gaze from the mirror, struggling to steady his breathing. He forced himself to look away, to anchor himself in something, anything—

Knock, knock.

The sound, sharp and brutal, sliced through his very being. Ryan flinched violently, pulse slamming against his ribs.

Just leave me alone!

His first panicked thought was he would find his father at the door—that he had somehow followed him into this nightmare, that he was about to throw open the door and see what Ryan had become.

Except, this was not his parent's home. This was not even his life. A flicker of her memories slipped into his mind—not his own. Head spinning, he sat back on his cot.

First came the scent of parchments, then the weight of stares in dimly lit halls. Whispers curled through temple corridors like vines, choking the air. His ears flicked back at the thought, and he flattened them with both hands.

Fuck, stop doing that!

Kaelyn's hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her palms as memories came flooding back. Sneers, cruel remarks, and hateful laughter. The shove that had sent her sprawling into the marble steps outside the temple library. And the sharp crack of her cheek hitting the ground, the laughter swelling as she scrambled to gather her scattered things.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"See? Strays don't always land on their feet!" One of the older acolytes had taunted, her voice dripping with mockery.

"That'll teach you for daring to think you're better than any of us."

"Maybe you should've stayed home with the rest of you half-breeds and your temptress of a mother, you damned mongrel."

She clenched her jaw as a familiar ache bloomed in her chest. Home. How long had it been since she had seen her mother's face? Since she had felt her arms wrap around her, safe and warm, banishing every cruelty the world could throw her way?

Kaelyn longed to return to that warmth, to her mother's embrace, but she could never have it again.

Because Sousiane, our mother, is dead.

The thought hit him like a fist to the gut—it had been Kaelyn's voice. Except all the usual snark was nowhere to be heard. No funny Spanish words thrown in for levity. Instead, all he heard was unfiltered, raw emotion. Hurt.

What…? When did that happen?

As soon as he had asked, he regretted doing so. Because he could tell—No, more than that—He knew the answer.

Last winter. She died from some lung disease.

Disease? Is that why we're here? To study healing magic? To prevent the same tragedy?

Ah! What? Do you think of yourself as some kind of saint? This isn't who you created. What you made us be.

A sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

No, you know who we are. We're here because this is the only place that takes in orphans like us.

What about dad?

No idea, don't even know him. Half-blood Toms don't stick around. Mothers seek them out when they want children. Then they raise their young alone.

Kaelyn shook her head, trying to chase away the pain. After a moment, Ryan reached out once more.

Why are you showing me all this?

Me? This isn't my doing. Why would I bother? You don't care about me or my past. And don't act as if you suddenly do.

The resentment was palpable. A cold, gnawing thing, pressing into his ribs like a knife.

Ryan inhaled sharply.

Knock, knock.

The sound shattered the moment, yanking him back to the present.

His body—her body? Their body?—moved before he could think, straightening on instinct, bare feet pressing against the freezing stone floor.

Gah! Why is it so cold?

Kaelyn forced herself upright, her movements stiff and reluctant. Her tail, heavy with sleep, dragged limply behind her across the coarse wool blanket as she stepped away from the cot.

Because of the season. This is normal. But of course you wouldn't know; you haven't experienced any of this until now.

The biting cold was unforgiving, a harsh reminder of the coming winter and her current reality.

She moved toward the door, wincing at the faint throbbing in her bruised cheekbone. She looked back at her reflection in the warped brass mirror—a wounded, slender girl with wild, unkempt hair, feline ears twitching faintly in agitation, and eyes rimmed red with exhaustion.

The femme fatale, the manipulator—the woman she would one day become—was nowhere to be found in her current reflection. Just a scared, homesick girl too young to be here. Too young to understand why the gods would let her suffer like this.

Her tail curled tight against her leg.

Stop noticing it, stop noticing it!

But the sensation would not fade.

With a trembling hand, Kaelyn reached for the door. And hesitated.

He swallowed hard, the sting of the wound on his cheek burning against his skin. Was this punishment? A lesson? Some fucked-up way for Kaelyn to teach him a lesson? To make him understand how she turned out to be the way she is?

It is my fault? Did I cause this?

Bile rose in his throat at the guilt. He looked at the door, wondering who was beyond.

If I open this door… if I see their faces… will they call me Kaelyn? Or Ryan?

His fingers trembled against the doorknob.

Who am I even supposed to be?

He pulled the door open.

A tall, statuesque figure stood in the dim corridor, arms crossed in severe disapproval. Mother Nyxara Vervaine. Shadow sylvani. Instructor. Executioner of failure.

She was taller than most sylvani Ryan had seen, her lithe, angular frame wrapped in dark layers of ceremonial robes, lined with silver filigree. A thin, violet sash wound around her waist, the only trace of colour against the near-black fabric.

Her face was pale and carved like a stone statue. Her piercing violet eyes glowed faintly in the dark, watching, unblinking, as if she could see into his very soul.

Ryan shrank back, Kaelyn's ears flattening instinctively.

The woman spoke; her voice was calm, controlled, and disappointed. "About time, Acolyte." She glared down at the felinae, hands on her hips.

She tilted her head slightly, gaze falling upon the jagged cut on Kaelyn's cheek. She breathed slowly, shifted her weight and watched, as though deciding something. "You skipped class again today. And for such a little thing?"

Ryan felt his cheeks burn up from guilt and shame, lifting one hand to Kaelyn's face, attempting to cover the wound. The second his fingers brushed the raw flesh, pain seared through his nerves. He recoiled, breath catching.

Before he could recover, Vervaine moved. Her hand shot out, seizing his wrist swiftly and firmly. Her grip was iron, unwavering, effortless. Kaelyn's tiny muscles were nothing to her. Ryan tried to free himself, to pull away, but she did not give an inch.

"Let me see," she ordered, as she leaned forward. Her other hand grasped Kaelyn's chin, cold, firm fingers pressing into her jawline.

Ryan swallowed.

Why am I so weak? Or is she just this much stronger?

Vervaine tilted his face one way, then the other, inspecting the wound like one might examine a blade to check for imperfections.

The silence stretched, but Ryan's pulse thundered in his ears. The awkwardness of the inspection, the weight of her grip—he felt like a bug pinned under glass. He held his breath.

Finally, she let go. "Hmm."

Ryan finally let out the breath he had been holding.

Vervaine released her and straightened up. "It will heal on its own," she said with a completely unconcerned tone.

Ryan felt an uneasy mix of relief at the news and disappointment at the lack of magical assistance.

She grinned wickedly. "—It'll leave you with a magnificent scar, indeed," she added.

His stomach dropped. The way she said it—like it was some kind of compliment or badge of honour—made his skin crawl.

"Or perhaps," she said coolly, a vicious smile on her lips, "that will finally be incentive enough for you to apply yourself to your studies?"

Ryan clenched his fists. "Could healing magic fix it…?" he asked.

Vervaine raised an eyebrow, but grinned. "You tell me, acolyte. Can magic mend such injuries?"

He looked down at his feet. He knew where this conversation was going, and he hated every second of it. "Yes..."

She nodded. "Very good. So why don't you use the magic we're teaching you to fix it?"

Ryan shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mother Vervaine," he said, Kaelyn's voice softer than he intended. "I can't use light magic. It appears I have no talent for it."

Vervaine inhaled sharply. And then, before he could react, she slapped him. The impact snapped his head sideways. Pain exploded across his other cheek—sharp, searing, absolute.

Oww! What the?!

Kaelyn burst out laughing in his head.

Oh, poor baby! Trust me, it wasn't the first slap, and it won't be the last. You'll just have to get used to it.

"Talented?!" The word was spat like an insult. "A loser's excuse."

Ryan's head whipped back, glaring daggers. His hand flew to his stinging cheek, muscles tensed with outrage. He wanted to snap back, to chew her out— But nothing came. Because she was right. It was a shitty excuse.

You've got no fight in you at all, have you? How utterly pathetic of you.

Vervaine studied his reaction. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Then, with something resembling approval, she exhaled. "Good. They haven't quite broken you yet."

Ryan swallowed, fingers curling into Kaelyn's tunic. He dared to ask. "They?"

Vervaine tilted her head, as if studying an insect beneath her boot. "The other acolytes. Your peers."

She said it with no surprise, no anger, no urgency. As if it were as natural as sunrise. Ryan stared at her.

What? She knew? And let it happen? Of course she did.

Vervaine tapped a long, painted fingernail against her forearm. "I assume you expected one of us to intervene?" Her lips curled and Ryan's throat went dry. "They are your adversaries, Acolyte. It is your battle to fight. Not mine."

Ryan's jaw clenched as Kaelyn's ears twitched backward.

I'm on my own.

The teachers would not help. Kaelyn would not help. He would have to get stronger so he could protect himself.

"Homini children band together to make sure they can keep you down. They are as afraid of you as you are of them, child."

Ryan wanted to scream.

If you know that, then why aren't you—the school—doing anything about it?!

The same answer for everything else in our life, gatita; nobody will ever help you unless you offer something in exchange.

Vervaine studied him for a moment. "So, what are you going to do about that injury?"

Ryan glared at her, but tried to contain his anger. "Can I learn?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Now," she flicked her wrist. "Explain to me, Acolyte. How does a simple light spell work?"

Ryan's mind scrambled. Searched Kaelyn's memories—but found nothing.

Shit, is she blocking me access…? Okay… Physics lessons, then. That's all I have.

"You generate a small orb of light," he said slowly, "which radiates energy outward in all directions."

Vervaine nodded once. "And then?"

Ryan inhaled.

Think.

"The light travels, collides with objects and reflects into your eyes, allowing you to see?"

The teacher raised a hand. A small orb of pale silver light flickered to life in her palm, casting long, shifting shadows along the stone corridor. "Correct. The light chases the shadows away. Now, how about black ink on a sheet of parchment? How does that work?"

Where is she going with this?

Ryan tried his best to echo his physics teacher's lessons. "Hmm. Black ink absorbs most wavelengths of visible light, reflecting very little back to your eyes. Since it swallows almost all light, it appears dark to your mind?"

Vervaine smiled with approval. "Correct. If the ink is pure enough, no flood of light will ever make it bright."

Then she raised her other hand. "Now, you claim being unable to generate any light…" A bead of pure darkness formed—dense, heavy, unnatural. "Perhaps you've been trying the wrong approach."

Ryan nodded, transfixed by the orb of darkness. Slowly, tendrils of shadow pulled inward, sucked toward the black mass as if gravity itself had inverted.

"Rather than trying to add more light, have you considered wiping the darkness away?"

At first, the effect was subtle. But then he noticed as shadows vanished all around him, as if drawn into the orb. The dimly lit bedroom and hallway brightened, not from light, but from the sheer absence of darkness.

Ryan stared. "How—?"

Vervaine's lips curled slightly. "Let's keep it our secret, little Moonshadow."

Hearing the nickname sent a chill through him.

You don't like it? It suits us, don't you agree?

"There is more than one way to bring succour. If there is no light to be found inside that empty heart of yours, then there should be plenty of room to fill it with darkness. Take all the shadows. Take in everyone's hurt and pain inside."

His teacher spun around, already walking away, voice drifting behind her like mist. "Practice. Before long, no one will be able to tell the difference between our magic and theirs."

Her footsteps faded into the hall.

Shadow magic? But I thought Kaelyn used Light magic all this time.

I do. Shadow and Light? Nocturne and Luxoria? Simply two sides of the same coin.

Ryan looked down. Floating a few inches above one of Kaelyn's hands, a tiny bead of darkness was slowly sucking away at the shadows of their room.

Word of advice, gatita? Hurry up and fix that nasty cut before we end up permanently disfigured.

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