Zotara

By the time the sun dipped low, the air had taken on that soft, gold-drenched hue that made the grass seem to glow. The game slowed in fits and starts — cubs pausing to pant, tongues lolling, ears flicking lazily in the breeze.

One by one, they let their beast-shapes fall away.

It happened like a slow ripple through the field. A shimmer of faint, silvery light around each body, followed by the soft crack of bone, the stretch of sinew, and the quiet exhale as fur gave way to skin.

Esmond was among the first to shift back, rising to his feet in a tangle of limbs, brushing dirt and grass from his bronze-hued arms. His hair stuck up in wild tufts, sweat-darkened at the edges, and his antler nubs caught the last rays of sun.

Jim followed, letting the wolf fall from his bones.

The shift came easy — instinctive now — and as the fur receded and his body straightened, the soul-thread tug in his chest dimmed to a low hum. When the light faded, Jim stood in the evening grass, breath coming steady.

He was tall for his age, with lean shoulders and long limbs, the wiry build of someone born to run. His skin was burnished bronze, kissed by sun and wind, and faint scars marked his forearms — old cuts from wild climbs and reckless dares.

His hair, an untamed mess of dark brown, hung down to his brow in shaggy waves, the kind of hair that never lay flat no matter how it was cut. In certain light, it shimmered with faint undertones of deep auburn, a shade that caught only when the sun was angled just so.

But it was his eyes that marked him most.

Storm-washed amber, sharp and unsettling. They didn't shine like the eyes of the noble bloodlines, nor glow like the Royals — but they held a clarity, a depth that unsettled strangers and made even seasoned traders glance twice.

A soul born of wildness.

And in that moment, with the sun burning low and the fields humming with the last warmth of the day, it made him look older than he was. Older, and somehow… not quite ordinary.

Esmond elbowed him in the ribs. "Beat you to three tags."

Jim snorted, a grin breaking through. "You tripped over your own tail."

"Did not."

"Did too."

The cubs laughed, the last scraps of the day falling around them like dry leaves. And for a little while longer, the world was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

One by one, the other cubs let their shapes fall away, scattered across the field in small groups. The long grass rustled with the last flutters of soul-light and the quiet crackle of returning bones.

Mira, the quick-footed fox cub, was first — the one who'd called out when they arrived. She stood now with a crooked grin and a shock of pale gray hair that hung over one eye. Her ears twitched, even in humanoid form, and she always smelled faintly of mint leaves. Mira was fast, clever, and endlessly smug about it.

Harren, the panther cub, shifted back in a single, practiced motion. He was solidly built, a shade taller than the others, with deep-set, dusk-colored eyes and a scar across one cheek that none of them dared ask about. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his words carried weight. Harren's shifts were clean, the mark of a boy with blood better than he admitted to.

The twin hawk cubs, Lina and Kohr, dropped from the air together, wings folding into gangly arms. Their hair was sun-bleached blonde, their skin pale from hours spent in the air. Lina had a gap-toothed grin and a mean streak in games, while Kohr was quieter, always trailing a half-step behind her.

There was Revek, a broad-shouldered boy who preferred shifting into a stocky boar cub. His hair was coarse, dark, and always seemed damp, and his laugh came in short, barking bursts. Revek's family bred beasts for the hunts, and it showed — his forms hit harder, though his turns were clumsy.

Last was Ilari, smallest of the group, her hair a tumble of dark curls and her skin olive-brown. She'd taken the shape of a lean hare during the game, darting through the grass in quick, sharp bounds. Ilari was quiet, with quick eyes and a sharp tongue when pushed.

They all knew each other the way cubs did — through games, fights, and stolen sweets.

But in the Low Fields, for a little while, they were just cubs.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the far hills when the last of the cubs called the game. Breathless and grass-streaked, they traded mock snarls and ragged laughs before breaking apart in twos and threes, heading toward the village paths that wove back up the slope.

Jim and Esmond walked the trail side by side, Esmond occasionally kicking pebbles off the edge of the path to see how long they took to vanish into the mist-veiled dips below. The evening air cooled as they climbed, and the scents of earth, crushed grass, and woodsmoke drifted from the homes ahead.

The Garden Tiers rose in a gentle series of stone-ringed plateaus built into the valley wall. Low, sprawling homes of living wood and vine-cradled windows lined each tier, their roofs shaped by old soul-shapers so they curved like sheltering leaves. Small lantern-globes hung from woven branches, catching the deepening light in soft glimmers.

The lower tiers were for the common families — cobblers, fishers, beast herders, and stone-haulers. The higher you went, the finer the homes, though even there the houses grew from the land rather than sat upon it.

A narrow stair of pale stone led up through the middle of it all, winding past small gardens, clustered vegetable plots, and hanging herb charms that jingled faintly in the evening wind.

Their home sat near the middle tier — not fine, not shabby. A house shaped by careful hands, its walls smooth and pale, the wood marked by age and familiar touch.

The door stood open.

Light spilled from it in a soft wash, and the scent of simmering herbs and slow-cooked roots met them at the path. Their mother stood on the small landing just beyond the doorway, a woven basket hooked over one arm, her other hand resting against the frame.

Her hair had come loose from its knot, falling in long sun-blonde strands over her shoulder. She wore a simple wrap-dress of faded green cloth, worn at the hem but clean, smelling of cedar and salt. In the glow of the evening, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepened when she smiled.