Mateo charged forward at the announcer’s call, lowering his head and grabbing for Quentin’s legs like a wrestler. In a split second, much faster than a human’s reaction time, Quentin’s wings snapped open, nearly meeting behind his back and then beating back toward the ground. He shot ten feet in the air, descending behind Mateo and slashing at his back with his talons.

Thin rivulets of blood ran down Mateo’s hide as he turned around to confront Quentin. The hawk gave him little time to react, battering him with his wings and unleashing a flurry of kicks.

“Quentin demonstrates excellent technique once again!” the announcer shouted. “How will Mateo react?”

Ember leaned forward, fascinated by Quentin’s unique style, a combination of the striking martial arts and the attack methods of a bird of prey. His superhuman speed and flexibility made his moves beyond impressive.

Quentin jumped and struck at the buffalo’s head, trying to throw him off balance. Mateo bellowed, shaking his horns and forcing his opponent backward. He threw a heavy punch at Quentin, but the agile hawk easily slipped to the side and countered with a series of jabs to Mateo’s face.

The fight sped up to a breakneck pace as the opponents clashed again and again. For each strike that Mateo attempted, Quentin was two steps ahead. Ember grimaced as Mateo’s dark hide grew wet with blood and his roars of pain echoed around the hippodrome, wondering how long the fight could continue. The spectators gasped with each hit, some cheering and others groaning as Quentin seemed to gain the upper hand. Endlessly he darted at the buffalo, striking with his hands or sinking his beak into Mateo’s skin, each attack part of a skillful combination of straight punches, hooks, uppercuts, and kicks.

But suddenly, Quentin beat his great wings, shooting twenty feet across the field and watching Mateo warily. “What’s he doing?” Ember asked aloud. “He was winning!”

“No,” Carn replied, pointing at Quentin as he fought to catch his breath. “He’s tired, and none of his attacks are working.”

“He’s right,” Naz agreed. “Look at Mateo. He’s bleeding, but he doesn’t look like he’s seriously injured. If anything, he’s angry.”

Ember narrowed her eyes, not seeing what they had. She had never watched a formal spar, only street brawls between the boys in her hometown or the factory workers in Ciradyl. As an academic, she had seen violence—whenever it arose—as a sign of immaturity amongst her peers or a method of control wielded by the administration. It had certainly never been a tool that she herself thought to utilize.

“The challenger has retreated to gather himself!” the announcer called out. “As expected, Mateo’s stamina is second to none. Quentin’s disadvantage increases the longer the fight carries on!”

Mateo ran at Quentin, giving him no time to recover. Once more Quentin flew out of reach, this time barely avoiding Mateo’s horns. “Why doesn’t he attack from above?” Ember questioned. “He might have a better chance of throwing Mateo off balance that way.”

“I don’t think he can fly properly,” Carn speculated, “only jump or glide. He may have wings like a bird, but he still has a human’s body weight.”

When Mateo charged for the third time, Quentin met him head-on. They exchanged blow after blow, with Quentin being pushed back until he was almost against the hippodrome’s walls. Even Ember could see that his combinations were sloppier than before, and as Mateo threw his heavy boxer’s punches or swung his horns, the hawk only managed to evade the moment before contact.

Crack! The crowd gasped as one of Mateo’s straight punches connected, sending Quentin staggering across the field with one of his arms hanging limp. His wings snapped open as he tried to create distance between them, but Mateo pursued him relentlessly, forcing him to defend himself from yet another sequence of punishing blows.

As Quentin faded, Mateo seemed to wake up. His speed, flexibility, and strength increased as he closed in and threw hooks and uppercuts, battering the hawk’s fragile body.

Ember turned away, shaken by the fighters’ brutality. They’re only a few years older than me, but they have the will and strength to kill.

The fight dragged on minute by minute. There were no breaks and no time-outs for the fighters, but still they continued, enhanced by their mutations and training.

The end came jarringly. Mateo bore down on Quentin, pummeling him with his massive fists. Then, swifter than Ember would have thought possible, he stooped and swung his horns sideways into Quentin's body. The blow caught the hawk just below his shoulder, puncturing his flesh and sending him flying a half-dozen yards across the field.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The arena held its breath as Quentin rolled twice, coming to a stop with his wings folded at awkward angles. Half a minute passed, and then Quentin raised his hand weakly in a sign of surrender. As the medics rushed forward to bandage his wounds, the announcer declared Mateo’s win. The spectators jumped to their feet and the hippodrome erupted into cheers.

“Quentin’s season has come to an end, while Mateo will fight in the quarterfinals. Join us next week for the second match!”

***

“It’s nice to meet you,” Professor Bloomberry said, dragging his chair into place behind his desk. Each word made the bright red comb atop his head and the wrinkly wattle beneath his chin jiggle. “Your name is Ember Whitlock, correct?”

Ember blinked, trying to tear her eyes away from his strange physique. He was so obviously a rooster (easily recognized from her childhood in a farming village) that she found it almost absurd. “Yes,” she confirmed.

“My secretary noted that you’ve had your first mutation. Can you describe what you’re experiencing?”

“Sure. A few days ago I was eating greens when suddenly they started to taste revolting. I haven’t been able to eat fruits or vegetables ever since.”

Bloomberry nodded. “Is that your only symptom?”

“So far, yes. Does this mean I’m a carnivore?”

He stroked his waggle thoughtfully. “Well, that is the most likely option, but not the only one. It’s quite hard to tell so early on. Our sense of smell is one of the most significant influences on taste, so any change in your olfactory system could be the cause. Some species are much more sensitive to smell than humans, while others have no sense of smell at all… and if smell isn’t responsible, it could be that you’re one of the specialist species that prefer a specific group of foods.”

Ember frowned. “I had hoped that I was closer to discovering my species.”

“Sorry, dear, it might be a while yet. However, we will start you on a microdose of the treatment.” He reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a vial of small white pills. “You should take one a day, and come back to me if any more changes appear.”

“Will I have to eat only meat from now on?”

“No, no. Based on your description, you might prefer not to eat vegetables, but your body still needs them, at least for now. Think of it this way—you’re almost entirely human, and humans need certain vitamins to avoid becoming malnourished. A lack of vitamin C can cause scurvy, for example.”

Ember cringed, remembering the taste of the salad. “Try mixing the greens with juices from the meat,” Bloomberry added sympathetically.

She picked up the vial and rolled it across her palm, watching as the pills tumbled backward. She trusted the Linnaeans, but not blindly, and the treatment had always been shadowed in obscurity. “How do they work, exactly?”

“That’s a complex question, even for me,” the advisor chuckled. “As far as I understand, each pill has two components. One lowers your metabolism, which decreases the rate at which you grow and mutate, and the other contains certain chemicals that Corax’s team has identified to lessen the severity of the mutations themselves. I believe that this effect is rooted in the genetic sequence. That’s the extent of my knowledge, but I’m sure the headmaster would be glad to tell you more if you made an appointment with him."

Tilting her head, Ember attempted to sift through the mess of information. “Genetics… my friend mentioned something like that. About you being more likely to be Linnaean if one of your parents had the condition.”

“Yes, we know that to be true. But with so many Linnaeans and their families being killed, and with the possibility of developing the condition at any stage of life, it’s difficult to discern the inheritance pattern.”

Ember nodded in acknowledgment, making a mental note to figure out exactly what it all meant later. “Do you have any more questions?” Bloomberry asked.

My head is spinning with questions. But I don’t even know what to ask. “Just one. Is it possible to send a letter to someone outside of Mendel?”

The advisor’s face sank with pity. “I’m afraid not. Only Mendel’s leaders can communicate with the mainland, and anyone attempting to get a letter past the walls of a city-state would be considered a spy.”

Ember groaned internally, clenching the bridge of her nose and holding back tears. Bad news again… will I ever be able to contact my father?

Bloomberry patted her arm. “You’re not the only one around here that hopes things will change.”

“Thank you,” Ember sighed, mentally exhausted. The two said their goodbyes, with Ember promising to report her next mutations as they appeared. She pushed back her chair and stood, leaving the small office and stepping out onto the campus path.

The forest air was crisp and cool, and Mendel’s army of insects had taken up the call of dusk. She tilted her head upward, where a sliver of the moon could just barely be seen through the tree canopy. Between her first mutation, the match, and the advising appointment, the last few days had been almost unbearably overwhelming. The fight had left her unsettled, and the involuntary changes in her own body weren’t completely welcome either.

But worst of all was her failure to contact her father. She missed him enough to make her heart ache, and the discussion of genetics had left her wondering about someone she hadn’t thought about in a long time: her mother.