A leaf fluttered to the ground silently, the wind kicking it up again before it could fully rest upon the dew-dampened grass. It danced across the gentle breeze with a graceful fluidity as it caught the rays of sunlight just beginning to shine through the branches. Each seemingly more bare than the next, the skeletal fingers that held the remnants of summer were gilded by dawn's embrace.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Mikhail let the cool autumn breeze brush gently past his cheeks. His ears—attuned to his surroundings—captured the sounds of squirrels' claws scratching into the bark of trees and birds singing a final melody, marking the transition from one season to the next. However, it was the predatory snarl followed by a whimper of fear resonating from deep within the forest that truly grabbed his attention.

Drawn by instinct, he approached the edge of the well-worn path, leaning in toward the noise as he reached the thick stand of trees. He sniffed the air, identifying the scent of a wolf, hardly any distance separating him from it. The distinctive odor of fear mixed with the alluring essence of a human woman, and he had to stop himself from simply rushing in.

He had to shift: of that there was no doubt. He removed his cloak to reveal a thin cotton tunic and loosely fitted trousers—a necessary diversion from the typical Esporan attire, much to his fellow countrymen's chagrin. They made it possible for him to strip from his clothing and cast it aside easily, his bones already beginning to bend into a new shape.

Mikhail stifled a cry as the first joint popped, shifting into its new place. It was followed in quick succession by the others, his body contorting in an unnatural position that caused him no small amount of pain. Jaw and nose elongated, breaking and healing as they took the shape of a snout. Ears stretched into points and his hairline began to extend beyond his forehead. Body hair began to thicken until a smooth pelt covered every last inch of skin.

On his knees in agony, hands and feet gave way to paws, the slumping of his form beginning to feel more natural as he found balance on his new legs. Mikhail opened his eyes and saw the world in vibrant grayscale, though flickers of color were still revealed to him.

The sharp bark of a wolf drew him in the right direction, and he bounded through the brush. The scent of the predator led him to a clearing, the ground covered in a layer of decaying leaves.

The woman eyed Mikhail's approach with a horrified gaze, a hopeless moan escaping her lips as he drew near. The attention of his true target was also drawn by his presence, and it snarled menacingly at the threat to its territory. With a huff that drew in the potent fragrance of terror, Mikhail growled and leapt forward, his jaw snapping shut around the other wolf's throat.

He shook his head as his teeth ripped and tore at his victim's flesh, the shrill cries of a human drowned out almost entirely by the yelps and snarls of the animals. Blood filled Mikhail's mouth with its metallic tang: a taste he never grew used to. He would hunt on the occasion when food had become scarce for his family and he was left with no choice, but he hardly enjoyed killing another creature for sport—it was a key to survival and nothing more.

Releasing his vice grip on the wolf's mangled neck, the limp body fell to the rotting leaves in a heap. He was disgusted by the sight, and with himself. He could sense more than see the blood matting his fur, forcing him to begin licking it away. No matter the amount of time he put into cleaning, it seemed to lessen the saturation only slightly. Each swipe of his tongue or stroke of his paw increased his self-loathing for having killed another living being.

As he lifted his paw to rub at his snout once more, a soft whimpering reminded him that he wasn't alone in the clearing. He turned to the woman and saw fear still plain on her face. Mikhail realized that despite having not truly acknowledged her until now, she still thought he would kill her. With a small amount of hesitation, he slowly walked up to her, flinching away for just a moment when she screamed. With as human a flourish as he could muster, he ducked his head low in submission, hoping to put her at ease.

He peeked up at her to see the clear look of confusion in her dark eyes. To make his intentions more obvious, he stole away from the clearing to the path where he had left his clothes. The rustling of the leaves beneath his paws as the distance between him and his victim increased slowly eased his anxiety. Guilt still ate away at his conscience like a parasite, but he did his best to ignore it as the wind rapidly dried the blood on his fur into a heavy crust.

---

Tears streaked freely down Mikhail's cheeks as he simply sat with his back against a tree, out of view. The only thing worse than the agony of regret was the misery of transforming back to human form so quickly. Even after nearly a quarter of a century of learning to cope with his abilities, shifting never became any less painful: only faster and more precise.

The shuffling of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath light footsteps forced him to move, grabbing for his clothes and dressing quickly despite the pain. His muscles ached acutely as he tied his cloak at his throat. Wiping the moisture from his face, he turned in time to see the woman he had rescued coming out onto the path.

The eyes of a human allowed him to see in the true colors that he had been deprived of as a wolf. Her round, pale face was framed by shoulder length, gold hair—a color that rivaled the autumn sun in its vibrancy. Dark eyes that shimmered ruby in the morning light stared from beside a small nose with wide set nostrils.

Though not part of a typically beautiful face, her small mouth—just barely wider than her nose--was captivating in both shape and color. The lips looked to be painted a deep crimson that matched the leaves forming a canopy above her, and yet as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, not a hint of the color being unnatural was given.

"You saved me," she whispered, almost too quiet to be heard. "I thought I would die for sure."

In closer proximity, he could sense the small amount of magic lying dormant in her. It explained her knowledge of his shift, but raised another question as well. "You're a magus as well. Why did you not defend yourself?"

She looked away, her pale skin reddening. "I prefer not to use my abilities, especially around predatory animals."

"Why…" he trailed off as realization struck him square in the chest, and he had to keep himself from taking a step backward. The red eyes… "You are… Sanguimagus?"

"Yes. I am incapable of using the traditional magic within me, and my blood would have only brought the wolf upon me that much sooner. I wouldn't have had a chance." She took a step closer to him, her cheeks still flushed. "Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you had not come along."

"I would have done it for anyone." He gave a slight shrug, meeting her ruby eyes with his topaz as he continued with, "Though it is good to know I rescued one of my own kind."

"After being forced out of my homeland, you cannot understand how much that means to me." She smiled warmly at him, pulling out a water skin and dampening the hem of her cloak. She lifted it to his face—standing on tiptoes as she did—and Mikhail lifted an eyebrow. It was her turn to shrug, her cheeks darkening further. "You still have some blood on your face and neck."

"Oh." He could feel the color drain from his face entirely, the memory of his kill chilling his blood to ice. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. You could not have known I was Animatari. I must have appeared as just another beast to you."

"At first, yes," she said, the corner of her mouth pulling down in a half frown. Guilt glittered in her eyes as she looked up at him. "However, when one sees a wolf they think is trying to kill them bow and then run off, their opinion is bound to change. It is why I risked coming after you." She smiled a bit. "Thankfully, I did not get myself killed."

"I am glad that my signal was sufficient. I felt terrible that I had frightened you--I promise you, it was not my intention. I merely hoped that the wolf would run off, but it seems that I only served to agitate it further. I…" he sighed, regret bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "I had no choice but to attack."

She studied his eyes as she began to wipe away the blood on his cheeks. "You don't like what you do as an animal, do you?"

"I dislike being a predator, but it's simply easier to shift into the larger species. Sometimes instinct takes over, and I cannot help myself." As if to prove his point, Mikhail leaned into the young woman's touch as her attention moved to his jaw line, wiping gently over the stubble there.

"My name is Illyria," she blurted abruptly, beginning to wash along his throat. "Illyria Cantralt."

"Mikhail Orlov," he said as he opened his eyes and smiled at her, laughing slightly at the way his voice cracked with the slight pressure she was placing on his throat. "A pleasure to meet you, Illyria."

A soft whimper slipped from her parched throat. Illyria stared into the black eyes of her father, his glare causing her to shudder helplessly. His dark-skinned hand lashed out to connect violently with her pale cheek—as stark in contrast as the red welt his strike left behind. She cried out, her shoulder jerking roughly in her bonds.

Blood trickled from her nose into her mouth through slightly parted lips. She could feel power tingling where the blood touched her skin, but she did nothing. The beating would only become more severe if she so much as thought of using her abilities.

"She's had enough, Kristoff. Beat her any worse and we'll have to make one of the other children cook tonight." The coarse grind of her mother's voice in her ears left Illyria chilled, despite the heated gaze of her father.

She shook violently as her father cut the ropes holding her upright, collapsing to the ground in a nearly broken heap. Her pale blonde hair fell limp in front of her face. "You heard your mother, girl. Supper best be on the table in one candle mark, or you will be sleeping here with the horses tonight."

"Y-Yes, papa," she whispered hoarsely, keeping her head lowered to avoid looking at either of her parents.

A shrill cry tore from her throat as a rough hand tangled in her ponytail, pulling her into an unstable standing position. "Now, you useless twit." Her mother spat in her face, throwing her forward as she turned Illyria roughly. She stumbled before catching herself on unsteady legs, limping as she held her arms taut about her waist.

The walk from the stable was sweltering. She forced herself to keep watching, the disgusted gazes of both of her parents as each of her wounds began to knit themselves together cleanly the only thing she could feel beyond the humid air, charged with the beginnings of a summer storm. Every lash—every major or minor cut inflicted by her father—healed at an unnatural pace. She hated her body, even more than her own parents. She never wanted to be what she was.

No words were spoken as she tripped over the threshold, landing on her hands and knees in front of the counter where she would prepare that evening's meal. Wooden splinters buried themselves in the tender flesh of her palms, and it was all she could do to keep from weeping from the pain. She was jerked upright by the collar of her dress and thrust against the counter, her father's own silent command to get to work.

"Your sister will be in here to keep an eye on you while you cook, to make sure you don't try anything." Her father's voice was gruff as he pushed through the door that led to the main room of the tavern the Cantralt family ran. Though very rarely frequented by more than the local drunk, it was the only tavern for miles in the northern Esporan countryside.

She set to work as soon as the sound of her father's heavy footfalls disappeared beneath the din of the tavern. An uncommonly busy night, she began peeling potatoes and carrots—the few that had been ready for harvest, despite it being late in the summer. As the scent of the beef cooking wafted over to her, she had to do all she could to keep from letting her mouth water. It felt as if she hadn't eaten in days, and in all likelihood, she hadn't.

The tavern noise increased momentarily as the door swung open, and Illyria kept her head down and eyes focused on her task as she felt her sister's presence growing ever closer. "'Lyria, are you alright?"

Blinking back tears at the voice of her youngest sister, Illyria looked over at the young girl, nearly twelve years old. "Yes, Katherine. Did papa send you in here?"

"I'm only to wait here until he finds Melaina, but she disappeared hours ago with one of the drunks. I don't think he's going to find her." The elder sister sighed softly, knowing full well what their sister was up to. Their father knew just as well, but the punishment for their precious Melaina would be significantly less severe than even the kindest of beatings Illyria experienced, since it was one of her 'duties'.

Becoming increasingly antsy and distracted the longer her youngest sister was left to watch over her, it wasn't long before Illyria had nicked herself with the dulling edge of the knife. She looked to Katherine with a fearful expression, used to her other sister being the one standing vigil in the kitchen. The one with her now simply looked away, pretending not to see as she wiped the blood onto an already stained patch on her dress. Tearing a piece of her gown from the hem, she wrapped it about her finger, closing her eyes to keep her nausea in check once she finished.

The rest of the meal preparation went by as seamlessly as could be hoped. Her father slammed into the room on more than one occasion, muttering under his breath as he stalked uncomfortably close to his eldest daughter. She could smell the cheap whiskey and ale that was all they could afford for the tavern on his stale breath as he leaned over her shoulder, watching as she stirred the stew, the distrust he emitted palpable.

"Hurry it up, girl. The guests are fit to riot, the rate you're going." He stalked back to the door for the final time, stopping just short of leaving before adding, "Keep your eyes open, Katherine. Something doesn't feel right about this night."

"What does he mean?" the young girl asked as the door swung shut behind their drunken father.

"Papa's drunk, Sister. His nonsensical ramblings are nothing you need concern yourself with. Just do as he asks so you don't end up in the stable with me, tonight." When she heard her sister's tiny gasp, she turned from her place by the boiling pot of stew. "You know that is not going to happen, Kat. Mama and Papa would never do that to you and Melaina. You're not dangerous like me." When a stray tear slid down Katherine's tanned cheek, Illyria approached her and wrapped her in a tight embrace. "I did not mean to frighten you. Please don't cry."

"It's fine, 'Lyria," she whispered, scuffing her boot against the ground as Illyria stepped back. Katherine looked up and smiled an impossibly small smile. "I just don't think it is fair the way they treat you. Why don't you just run away?"

"Because I'm no safer out there than I am here." With a sigh, she turned back to the cooking pot. "You have seen what I can do, Sister. I am a magus. Our people do not take kindly to magi in this area. I would be put to the noose before I had a chance to do anything for myself."

"But you could kill them all just from the blood father spills in one—"

"No!" Illyria cried, the ladle she was now using to dish stew into bowls clattering to the ground violently. She hissed as the hot food splattered onto her exposed skin, falling to her knees to begin cleaning up the mess as quickly as it had been made. "I swore to myself I would never use my abilities, no matter how bad things got here. I will allow death first."

Katherine choked on an intake of breath, staring at her sister with wide-eyed horror. "What would happen to me if you died, 'Lyria?" When the blonde realized she had no answer, she simply placed the bowls she had filled on a tray and pushed it into her sister's arms. She motioned wordlessly for her to begin serving the guests. When Katherine returned moments later, she was followed by a taller version of herself: Melaina.

"It's about time you finished, Sister. Father was about to pitch a fit. You're lucky I was keeping him busy all this time." She sauntered forward and took the tray Illyria had just finished setting up off the counter. "I suppose you would be as busy as mother and father make me and Kat if you didn't have those disturbing red eyes and unnatural skin. Can't let you out in public, now, can we?"

Saying nothing, Illyria began dishing more stew into bowls that she placed on Katherine's tray. The girl waited patiently until she was all loaded up then disappeared into the front room once again. The process repeated until their father and mother followed them in, their dishes already waiting for them at the table. They ate in silence with her two younger siblings, all the while ignoring Illyria's presence until they had finished their meals.

"You can have a bowl of stew, girl," her father grunted, shoving his empty bowl into her waiting arms. "And you'll be sleeping inside tonight. But you will be up at dawn to prepare breakfast and deal with the animals, you hear me?"

"Yes, papa," she acquiesced, bowing her head to avoid meeting his gaze. She collected the other empty bowls from the table and set to washing them in the basin of water she had drawn while they ate, holding back a sigh as Melaina and Katherine dropped off two full trays of empty bowls for her to wash as well. The blessing of being able to sleep inside would mean nothing but comfort for the few hours she would actually sleep. She still had to make sure the kitchen was spotless before bed, which was asking quite a bit during a busy time such as this.

---

Illyria scoured a rather stubborn stain from one of the bowls, the scraping of the brush against hardened clay the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Illyria had hardly noticed the noise outside had dwindled, and it was surely well past any decent hour when she heard a soft crash come from the main room of the tavern. Carefully placing the bowl down and lifting a knife from the washbasin, she tiptoed to the door way, slowly pushing open the door to check for the source of the disturbance.

When the hinges creaked, she froze. Her eyes scanned the darkness as best she could, the embers from the fireplace leaving the hearth in a dim yellow haze that provided the only source of light. She kept her back to the wall as she slid into the room, listening intently for any other noise. A soft cry sounded from the far corner of the room, and she recognized it instantly as her youngest sister.

"Katherine?" she called, horror settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Oi! Who's there?" a voice slurred from where she had heard her sister. The dread burrowed deeper as she moved closer, unable to avoid the light cast from the fireplace in order to reach Katherine. She could feel lecherous eyes drinking in the sight of her, her skin crawling as she imagined what this man could be doing to the eleven-year-old. "What do we have here?" There was the sound of cloth ruffling, then the quiet scrape of metal on leather. "Looks like I won't be needing you any longer, little one."

Horrible gurgling noises began to emanate from where she had heard her sister, the sounds fading until nothing but Illyria's choked sobs filled the room. So great was her grief that she had no time to react before white hot pain blinded her, blood trickling down the side of her face from a small gash. She fell to the ground, landing on her back as the knife she held slid across the hearth beside her. She blinked rapidly, her vision clearing only enough to see a blur of a man looming above her, the gleam of steel in one hand and an indefinable object in the other.

"What is…" she could feel him studying her intently, leaning in close. The smell of sour ale turned her stomach, and the sensation was enough to snap her back to the present: she was a magus, and he was a typical Esporan. She snapped her eyes shut, hoping beyond hope that he hadn't been able to see them in the dim light available. When he hissed, "You're a magus," in a disgusted tone, she realized she had been too late.

His foot connected sharply with her side as what he had held fell to the ground with a loud clatter. She tried to turn away—to reach for the knife he had knocked from her grasp—but he only reared back and kicked her again, preventing her escape. She cried out meekly after each strike with the little air she was able to breathe in, her eyes squeezed shut in unimaginable pain.

The man stumbled a bit, the alcohol beginning to overpower his rage. Forcing her eyes open, Illyria searched her surroundings desperately, wincing as her attacker resumed his beating, though not with the same fervor as before. His kicks had weakened perceptibly, though the fire of his hatred continued to burn, hot and long.

She looked up into his face as well as she could, seeing in him the same abhorrence she witnessed daily in her father, mother and sister… Melaina. The memory of one sister only renewed the pain of losing the other, and her own anger was felt more acutely than she could ever remember. This man had taken the only one who had ever cared anything for her away. She would not let him take her life as well.

Through tear-glazed eyes she saw the knife he had dropped, along with what appeared to be one of the clay bowls in which they served dinner. Slowly she reached for the weapon, careful not to draw too much attention to herself. When her hand wrapped around the hilt, she slashed it in a sidelong arc toward herself, catching her attacker in the calf.

He growled in pain, reaching down to his injured leg as he nearly fell backward. Illyria took the opportunity to scramble away as quickly as her injured body would allow, focusing as much of her energy as possible into healing, without losing sight of the man who could easily kill her. On her knees in front of the fire, she could feel the warmth of it on her back. She broke out in a nervous sweat—aided by the heat—as she held the sharpened edge of the blade to her pale skin.

When the attacker saw the weapon, he stilled in his limping approach. "And what are you going to do with that, you filthy brat?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. Illyria had never tapped into the power she felt when her blood touched her skin—there was no telling what she could do when she harnessed it and used it against someone. Staring up at the man who was now slowly making his way toward her once more, she glimpsed a patch of his sleeve, dark with the blood of her sister. What consequences may come of what she was about to do, she had no idea, but it wasn't going to stop her from taking revenge.

Hesitating only briefly as the steel began to bite into her skin and the first droplets of blood slipped from the wound, she drew the knife over her arm. She covered the wound with the palm of her hand, eyes closed as she focused on the warm blood coating her palm, drawing energy from it. She noticed that as long as she held her hand there, the blood continued to flow, and when she opened her eyes the blood had slipped over her hand and lower arm, almost as if it were a second skin.

As her anxiety began to set in, the blood receded, and she realized that would ruin her chances of defending herself. She steeled her psyche against the nerves that wracked her mind with her eyes squeezed shut, concentrating as hard as she could on building her power. When she opened her eyes once more, she found both her arms covered to the shoulders in the crimson substance that would lend her power.

She looked up to find the man just over an arm's length in front of her, and without thinking she held out her hands, unleashing the energy she had allowed to build. Her body lurched forward with the force of the blood pulling her until she was able to regain her balance, planting her feet firmly on the hearth. She heard her sister's murderer grunt as he stumbled backward: glaring at him as two ethereally bloody hands reached out and clawed at his face and chest.

A blood-curdling scream filled the inn as one caught hold of his shoulder, tearing through his clothing as the other reached through his stomach. Blood spilled in thick rivulets from the corners of his mouth as his screams were cut off by gurgles reminiscent of her sister's. The horror of the scene turned Illyria's stomach, but she did not falter.

She felt no satisfaction as he fell limp just beyond her sight: only terror as a glimmer of a candle began to light the staircase. The initial shock wore off as she hurried to her feet, tripping as she made for the kitchen door. There was no doubt what she had done was unforgivable. Her parents wouldn't even be able to save her; if they even desired to, anyway. With a desperate cry, she realized she would either have to resign to her fate, or run.

The only thing that had kept her in the wretched place she called home was dead, lying somewhere in the dining area, covered in blood and—she didn't even want to think about what else defiled her poor baby sister's corpse. As the shocked whispers of whoever had made their way downstairs finally drifted into the kitchen, Illyria made her decision: she would run, and never dare to look back.

Holding the knife—still covered in a mixture of blood consisting of her sister's, her attacker's, and her own—she grasped her loose ponytail with her other hand. With as swift a movement as she could manage, she detached the mass of hair from above the tie and tossed it aside. She panicked as footsteps shuffled closer to the door that led into the main room, running for the door that led to the barns, keeping a firm grip on the only weapon she had been able to obtain.

A brief moment of guilt overwhelmed her as droplets of rain began to pelt her pale skin. It was slow at first, but in moments—with a bright flash of lightning and violent clap of thunder that spoke of a storm that had held off far too long—did it begin to surge in sheets on top of her. The rain mixed with the tears that began to stream steadily down her cheeks once more as she hurried into the forest beyond the barn, refusing to look back as the memory of her sister—impossibly understanding and beautiful, inside and out—was gone, and there was no bringing her back.