Vivienne wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she took Akhenna’s offer. Perhaps a grand ceremony, or some kind of briefing on what it meant to be a champion of Chaos. Maybe even a hint about what lay ahead or a chance to mentally prepare herself.

Instead, she was hurled unceremoniously through the void, travelling at incomprehensible speed. There was no sensation of her physical body—no limbs, no heartbeat, no breathing—but her consciousness spun, tumbling through an endless, silent expanse. She fell for what felt like hours, days, maybe even centuries. And then, with a jarring halt, it ended.

Her entire body throbbed, an aching, all-encompassing pain that was almost like a full-body headache. A groan rumbled up from her chest, a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through her entire form, amplifying the discomfort. She tried to move, to bring her hand to her head, but the limb that lifted was not the arm she remembered.

In front of her, rather than a hand, was a dark, shifting tendril of inky blackness, sprouting eyes that blinked and met her gaze. Startled, she tried to jerk away, only to realise she was looking at herself.

It took her another moment to notice that her field of vision extended in every direction—a dizzying, inconsistent 360 degrees. What was more bizarre was how normal it felt, as though this disorienting view had always been natural to her.

She held up her tendril again, watching with fascination and dismay as the eyes on it blinked in unison, staring back at her. She was not human anymore. Her mind raced. She wasn’t even sure if she was remotely humanoid.

What have I gotten myself into?

A sigh escaped her—though it was more like a hollow, resonant hum—echoing faintly in the chamber around her. She took a moment to survey her surroundings, the aching in her new form subsiding just enough for her to focus. She was in a vast, shadowed hall with only dim light from glowing crystals set into moss-covered stone walls. Even in the dimness, she could see everything with crystal clarity, spotting details in the shadows that would have been hidden to human eyes.

That was when she noticed it—the massive creature in the corner, half-shrouded in darkness. It was a wolf, but unlike any she’d ever seen or imagined. Its size was almost mythical, towering and powerful, even in its weakened state. Dark grey fur covered its body, speckled with white markings that twisted in vine-like patterns. The beast lay on its side, each laboured breath exposing its ribs through its matted coat. It looked starved and frail, as if it had suffered greatly.

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Vivienne’s gaze narrowed when she noticed the thick leather collar fastened around its neck, bristling with spikes that pointed inward. Each cruel spike was embedded deeply into the wolf’s skin, crusted with old, dried blood. A surge of fury bubbled within her, and she slid closer, finding movement surprisingly effortless in her new form. Gliding over the cold stone felt natural, if alien, to someone so used to legs.

Ah. I can’t dance anymore, she thought with a pang of regret. What did I agree to?

The wolf, sensing her approach, let out a weak, fearful growl, its vibrant blue eyes reflecting both pain and mistrust. She hesitated, then moved closer, careful to keep her movements slow and steady. She wanted to ease its fear, though she knew her current appearance—whatever it might be—wasn’t likely to inspire calm.

The wolf’s growl weakened, and it lay still, its chest heaving with every shallow breath. Up close, its size was breathtaking. Even lying down, it dwarfed her current form.

Or maybe I’m just very small, she thought with a wry amusement.

She reached out with one tendril, gingerly brushing it along the wolf’s side. Her tendril sank into the coarse fur, but she felt disconnected, as though she was only half-aware of the texture. Yet as she made contact, a strange sensation washed over her—something tangible, like a river of emotion she could drink from. The wolf’s fear was palpable, almost like a mist, and she instinctively drew it into herself, feeling a cooling chill settle through her entire being. Along with it came flashes of memory—images, sensations, fragments of language.

Vivienne murmured softly, “Nearly done.” Her voice was low and guttural, a deep, resonant rumble. She winced inwardly at the sound—years of voice training, gone in an instant.

The clasp finally released with a satisfying snap, and she pulled the collar away. Her relief was short-lived as she realised the spikes had embedded themselves deeply into the wolf’s skin. She knew the next part was going to hurt, and she had no way to explain that to the creature lying before her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured gently, her voice a soft, apologetic rumble. “This will hurt.”

The wolf closed its great blue eye in understanding, its body tensing in anticipation. Bracing herself, Vivienne tightened her grip and, with a decisive tug, wrenched the collar free. Blood seeped from the fresh wounds, but the wolf barely reacted, letting out only a low growl of pain.

She tossed the collar aside, then backed away slightly, giving the creature space. But instead of lying still, the wolf began to stir, its form trembling, shifting in ways that defied logic.