When I find Commander Vex, I will rip his larynx from his spine, consequences be stuck down the gullet of a dragon. My lips pull up in a snarl, knowing where he's going to be and why. He's a dead man walking. There are few I would break my promise for. For him, it will be worth it to tell Heather she need not fear him any longer.

But I have a feeling it wouldn’t come to that, should Heather be present. She could easily snap his neck if she so desired. Whoever makes an enemy of a Shifter is a stupid human indeed.

Heather leaves soon after her words, and I wonder why she told me what she did.

I turn back to the village, searching my heart for my decision and knowing what I must do. I cannot leave these people in good conscience. Not yet. I will stay... depending on what exactly Watchman comes back with when I find him.

Perhaps this is why Heather came with her tale. Maybe I was vastly manipulated—if so, they are better than any of the grumpy political royals where I grew up.

The decision to stay both eases my soul and makes my heart tremble. I know where my family is... for now.

Greyston is my last chance before my family is practically lost to me, at least with little planning and the vast possibility of dismemberment and death for—not only myself—but anyone who helps should I fail.

Plus, I need to recover my strength before I follow. Of course, my brain can follow the logic, but my heart mourns my absence of choice.

With that decision in place, I follow Heather's trail back to the village. I put on the trousers that slipped off with the phase, leaning against a tree for support as my body calls me all the names in the book for being such an idiot.

It steals my breath doing such a simple task.

If only The Masters could see you now, the pesky internal voice says, laughter coating the words.

Shut up, I reply with little bite. The laughter grows in my mind.

I meander back inside the inn, my steps smaller with a slight limp I can't hide.

“There’s the lost Kursk,” Jace says with a smile.

I look around the inn. Most of the inhabitants of earlier are gone, leaving a few gristled old men nursing their ale and a few late night boys enjoying the fact that their parents are too busy this night to give them a scolding for being home late.

The innkeeper watches us from the corner of his eye as he wipes out a wooden tankard and sets it back with its kin for the next round of ale on the morrow.

A few serving wenches sweep the floor, boys following behind, putting out a fresh sheet of thresh that doesn't stink of ale and blood.

Jace leads me to a table that hasn't been upturned for the sweeping, and I choose the wooden chair that will place my back to the wall.

Jace groans as he sits down across from me. “These old bones ain’t what they used to be.”

I almost smile despite my exhaustion as I practically flop onto the hard seat. “You’re what, five years older than me?”

He does grin. “You’re young for a Shifter, aye?”

“Depends on who you ask. Any little ones of your own running around this joint?” I ask.

He smiles, a soft thing that makes his eyes warm with pride. “Got a young boy still suckling from his momma. Got her eyes and smile, but was unlucky enough to get his daddy’s hair.” He rubs his bald plate and I chuckle before remembering it hurts.

He continues to prattle on about his beautiful catch of a wife. She sounds quite… interesting. Apparently he prefers guard duty to listening to her inane chatter, which I find odd. If you don’t like to listen to someone speak of what they enjoy, why did you tie yourself to them for life?

Eventually, after a late supper and a bit of watered down ale, he hands me a key, helps me into a bed on the second story of the inn, then leaves me to my sleep. I watch the moon drift past the window, then get up to set the chamber pot by the door and a very unsharp knife I stole from my dinner in the window's wood. I crawl over to curl up in the moon’s light, letting the warmth soothe the aches and pains hounding for my attention. Sleep soon draws me into its uneasy embrace.

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~~~

"The pup," a voice said.

“That stench? What happened to daily bathing?” a second voice asked with a cough.

“Wasn’t allowed for this one. Bloodfang, they’re calling him. Because he betrayed the Red, they were supposed to take his fangs. One of the higher Masters barely talked them out of making the pup useless,” the first responded.

“Better not let one of the Masters catch you calling the Second that. You’d be in more misery than this pup.”

I shivered in the cold, bleak cell beneath The Shadow Grounds. Not that the Grounds were forever cloaked in shadow, but the Masters did like to train us in the deep darkness beneath the upper levels both day and night. Sometimes I felt the only thing left for me was shadows, but not of the night.

At twelve, I already knew my place and had already killed. But still I balked, and punishment was my constant companion.

Hands clamped like vises around my scruffy neck, pulling sharply and dumping me in a cage. They rolled me before the Fourth Master, also called Master Blue. The Master of Punishment.

“For failure to fulfill His First’s directives, for committing treason by defying your Trainer, for breaking into…” The voice continued to impede on my mind, but I shoved it out. I swore to myself I would never become what they wanted. I saved the life of another pup three days prior, only to have him betray me to The Masters for a steak.

My heart beat pounded with anger within me, pulsing and insistent that I defend my honor. But there is no honor among those who only wish for a golem: a being without will whose only purpose was to fulfill the will of The Supreme Master, the one who even the Master's whispered of in tones of reverence and fear.

Who was the Supreme? The Master of what? Even at that age, I knew. The Master of deception. Of night. Of horror. Of pleasure. Of whatever he so needed to be in order to win. And who but him could unravel the twisted mind of the Master's who turns two- and three-year-old babes into monsters?

I promised myself I would always think for myself, even if the choices given weren't the best. I wouldn't be their golem. Never.

As the whip covered in silver scored my back, I swore to do everything in my power to kill the Masters, even if was the last thing I did.

~~~

I wake to a pounding on my door, and groan as I peel myself from the cold, hard floor. It's not as easy to sleep on the bare floor in this form, especially at my old age.

We aren't old, he says, annoyed.

I amuse myself with my internal voice's annoyance and the thought of Jace’s wife’s inane chatter. One person’s inane chatter is another's gossip.

I splash water on my face, trying to wash away the nightmare and the feelings it invoked. That was one of the first times I chose for myself, and it began a long road to freedom. If constantly looking over one's shoulder while chasing after family can be considered freedom.

I remove the chamber pot and put it in its usual spot before opening the door.

Healer Morgana’s pinched face greets me. “Ya ain’t dead yet, huh, sweetie pie?” She breaks out into a slight smile around her wrinkles.

I grunt. “Death wouldn’t hurt this much.”

She chuckles. “No, I daresay it wouldn’t. Let me see ya, now.”

My eyes narrow, but she only stares until my breath releases in a huff and I open the door wider to let her in. I grab the bag from her slightly wrinkled, yet strong, calloused hands.

“Why, he has manners!” she says while making herself at home in my small room.

I watch as she bustles around, setting a few dried herbs out along with a mortle and pestle.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with arms crossed over my chest, even as she tugs her bag from my hand.

She harrumphs. “Well, how’s that for grateful? Come to patch ‘em up and he’s as riled as a dog defending its territory.”

I stiffen as the analogy hits a little too close for comfort.

She pats my cheek with a wry smile, ignoring my flinch. “Don’t worry, deary. You’re gonna be just fine. I won’t intrude unless I gotta, and you, my boy, need as much help as I can give ya”—that… is very true, I grudgingly admit to myself—“Now, lay back on the bed there. Let me change out those poultices and I’ll have the lovely maid from downstairs make you some tea.”

I about choke on my spit. “No.”

She pats my cheek again and lures me over to the bed. “Yes.”

I try to glare, but it’s against my genes to glare at such a spindly, old, helpless lady. At least in daylight. I distinctly remember glaring last night, but that was in extenuating circumstances.

She kicks the back of my knee, and I collapse on the bed. Methinks I should rethink my previous statement about helpless old ladies.

She lifts my shirt over my shoulders without another word, then clicks and grunts over my wounds until I want to throw her out the window.

“There ya go, sweetie. Seems to be healin’ just fine to my eyes. David is rounding up the village lads to train with ya, so best be getting ready to knock some sense into those young’uns.” I look up at the odd catch in her voice, and I'm surprised to see tears pooling in the bottom of her lids. “Help ‘em survive, if you wouldn’t mind a request from a senile old lady, deary. They sure ain’t much to look at, but they be the pride and joy of their families.” She meets my gaze with one that has seen much in her time as a healer, perhaps more than even one such as I can imagine.

I give one succinct nod.

She blinks, and the tears dissipate. “Thank ye kindly, deary.”

The next instant, the vulnerability is gone as the maid from downstairs brings up the tea.

“I said, NO. I have no wish for any more of your Truth Serum!” I say emphatically.

“Deary,” she says in a patient voice, continuing with a bit more bite in her words, “ya know as well as I ya need this. Stop being a stubborn jack-o-monkey!”

Eventually, she leaves, grumbling about stubborn shifters. I grin in triumph as the tea goes with her.

It’s the small things.