The 5th hero had no idea why, but the people of Khenok treated Hallvar like a ticking time bomb. Lady Mena was tense and terse in her Crown-requested interactions, barely looking at the adventurer as she came and went.

She found a blue shawl with faded patterns, holding it out to Hallvar as if their mere touch would hurt her. As the hero reached for the fabric, they were reminded of the system notice – subclass produces physical changes that are permanent.

They no longer had fingernails. Instead, their fingertip seemed ever so slightly shorter and a curved talon was rooted into the bone. The point was painfully sharp, but it terminated on the same level as the pad of Hallvar’s finger. They could press their fingerpad flat against their arm without the talon digging in.

This change was probably obvious earlier, but the stress of bleeding and trying to maintain political politeness for the Queen had been too much for Hallvar to handle. They must have mentally blocked out the new physical changes.

The talons… and the odd stripes on their hands. They looked like tattoos, except instead of being a blue-undertone ink, they had the coloration of birthmarks, a near-black maroon. A few trailed across their index and middle finger, then spanned the breadth of their palm, with a large… spot taking up the meat of their thumb.

Hallvar knew immediately what it was. The fish hawk had markings like this at the wrist of the wing. They guessed this was how the patterns translated into a human hand.

Talons and feather markings. Hallvar could only hope that the other three forms would be more forgiving in their permanent changes. They silently winced at a thought; Stella might hate this, as talons weren’t exactly normal.

The hero was saved from that contemplation as a man entered and Lady Mena launched into a quick-paced discussion with him. Hallvar wrapped the blue shawl around their shoulders with some uncertainty; it wasn’t big enough to fully cover them, but they could use it for a slight sense of propriety in the meantime.

They could hear snippets of the conversation. Man. Beast. Leave. Physician.

Perhaps beastshapers were not welcome in the Qhai Republic.

With the same tense distance, the man gestured for Hallvar to follow. They were led through the waking city on foot to a high-walled building with a physician sign out front.

Upon entry, the man gave some rapid instructions to the first person he saw, then left. Glad to be rid of the hero, presumably.

Though white lab coats were not a thing here, Hallvar noticed that the bewildered person had their sleeves rolled up and pinned tightly – a sign of a medical professional, for sure.

The hero was greeted in Amnasín’s language, to their great relief. It seemed everything about them screamed foreigner once more. They would take it if it meant being able to converse.

The physician was friendlier, albeit professional. They used some kind of magic to numb Hallvar’s hand before carefully removing the bone fragments, trimming off the skin and shredded muscle before stitching it closed.

A small copper thimble of liquid was offered to Hallvar. A minute amount of healing potion, to seal the ‘new’ wound with scarred skin.

The physician expressed interest in their talons, idly examining the connection point as they waited for the healing potion to complete its process. They asked if the talons were the source of the accusations, to which Hallvar had no answer.

Apparently, they were either a chimere or omenic. Chimere from Staareaux folklore about half-beasts – a human who was eaten by a beast during a [ territory ] restoration would return as both. Omenics were from the Qhai Republic, a roughly translated word that didn’t reflect the original meaning. They were beast-people who heralded flares from local [ territories ], each with a different beast-trait to indicate what kind of trouble was on the way.

The physician calmly explained that in the eyes of the locals, Hallvar was an indication of impending magical distress. Either an undead not-human wandering their streets or mythological sign of war.

With a grimace, Hallvar thanked them and turned to leave. They were stopped almost immediately as the physician caught sight of the thin metal band wrapped around the base of their neck, half-hidden by shaggy hair.

That assessment took seconds, as the physician knew exactly what the device was for, but it resulted in Hallvar firmly and near forcefully being directed to a cot to rest. The device was intended to heal a targeted area slowly, used for the regrowth and mending of injuries where injuries could result in permanent damage.

Despite Hallvar’s half-hearted protests – as a nap sounded great right now – the physician insisted that if they were indeed an omenic or a chimere, they would be able to catch up with the carriage easily. Otherwise, if they were merely human, the exerted effort of whatever ability brought them here could – and would – severely damage their nervous system and potentially leave them disabled.

The hero elected to nap.

➳ ➳ ➳

After niceties with the physician, Hallvar took flight as soon as they were able to escape the eyes of Khenok. Their neck did feel significantly better, with a lot less strain and pain as they moved it from side to side.

Like everything else, it was something Hallvar was simply enduring until this trial was over; every pain, change, emotion could get tucked away for examining later.

They caught air currents, gliding high above the evergreen forests that filled the mountainous terrain below. The trees looked like a rolling ocean of pointed treetops, frosted in the far distance as they neared the Staargraaven whose peaks were hidden behind wisps of clouds.

The mountains extended southward down Amnasín’s established border. Though these mountains were traversable, they still blocked the movement of clouds and rain into the Qhai Republic. Amnasín’s land along the border shifted from tundra to sparse prairies then into the desert sands.

The road took the easiest path along the rough landscape, carving out safe travel for merchants and Queen’s alike. The hero spotted the gilded carriage from a distance, as it wound its way out of the dense forests to a more temperate woodland. The road followed the treeline by a grassland, cutting across the green-gold expanse infrequently.

They followed the carriage for hours on end, stopping only when a river or lake peeked through the trees. This form had to eat much more frequently than their human body did.

When the carriage stopped at night, so did Hallvar. Staying in bird form was not a threatening experience; in fact, it prevented them from overthinking and worrying about what would happen next, or what happened before. The caravan set off the next morning without noticing the fish hawk eating their breakfast a distance away.

Hallvar broke off from their bored stalking of the gilded carriage once the castle was within their eyesight. As a fish hawk, they could see an impressive distance on the wing, which gave them at least an hour or two before the Queen reached the walls of the capital.

They shuddered back into existence in bone-rending transformation, well out of the eyesight of the gate guard. Their only remaining possessions were in their pocket under their waistband – their coin purse and the key to Stella’s house.

Pipkin rushed them as the hero unlocked the front door, tweets of alarm shifting to scolding chirps and clicks on recognition. Hallvar took a moment to calm the beast down, giving her plenty of scratchies and affection as she nipped at their new talons.

“We don’t have much time,” they told the akergryph gently, who flitted and scurried from surface to surface following their beastmaster.

Hallvar cleaned up the best they could with a washcloth and basin, trying to get the majority of the grime and sweat off their still-tired body. This was close to relaxation and their body knew it. Their lower back felt tight and sore from the whip scars; their entire body felt like it was stretched by a taffy puller from the transformations.

It was tolerable. Their endurance was the only thing holding them together. While pulling on a fresh pair of trousers – and socks and boots! – it struck Hallvar that their mental endurance was just as hardy as their physical endurance. Perhaps a 20 in that particular attribute was worth far more than Hallvar realized.

Was that what dulled their fear response? Could that be the culprit?

They tried not to think too much about their fear over the past few days, especially as they shaved and cleaned up their messy hair, trying to look presentable.

On the one hand, looking haggard and in-pain would earn sympathy. Yet, on the other, Hallvar wanted to give a very clear fuck you to Cyciphos and explain without words how they were utterly unaffected by the torture.

When fully dressed, Hallvar still felt like they were missing something. The pauldron and arm guard took them from standard guy to adventurer, certainly, but it lacked the drama Hallvar needed to really piss off Cyciphos. They didn’t need to be like the grandmama meme from years ago, but it might help to find… a cape? Or something furred, maybe?

Staring at themselves in a long mirror near Stella’s room, Hallvar couldn’t help but think of how awkward their hands looked. The new talons felt odd, so they spread their fingers out a bit, failing to relax at all. It gave the sense that Hallvar had developed Pipkin’s small-mammal neuroticism but on a 6’2” body.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

With a sigh, Hallvar picked up their axe. Holding it felt awkward with their talons, which meant they would need to do a lot more training to be mildly successful in combat. They wondered if Kiran would be mad about unannounced visitors.

The adventurer waved over Pipkin, giving her orders to hunt for a meal as they stepped outside. The akergryph gleefully complied, flitting into the courtyard garden to hunt down bugs and little pests. She didn’t need to understand the nuances of human languages to make sense of go eat!

Now, Hallvar needed to talk to Viktor.

The transformations were simple to activate but complicated in process. Big to small felt like being whittled down, muscles atrophying into nothing, pinpricks of feathers pushing out from skin like hot needles.

They shook off, feathers poofing up and settling once the bodily discomfort subsided. The guildmaster’s window was locked, as predicted, but Hallvar knocked loudly and insistently with their beak until that sliver of unknown color appeared in the far doorway.

Once inside, the bird followed the sliver of color into the hallway, where Viktor dispelled the magical effect. He remained crouched, waiting for some bird communication or whatever the beast wanted. Yet, even the guildmaster looked surprised as Hallvar stretched back into a human form.

“Is it painful?” the man asked after a few moments of careful observation. He stood now that he didn’t need to be eye level with a hawk or dodge a window.

“Every nerve fires at once as they are ripped and pulled apart, then sudden numbness as the old nerves disappear in favor of the new ones.” Hallvar stated bluntly, as if they had been waiting to explain the experience to anyone who would listen. “So, yes.”

The guildmaster hummed a quiet acknowledgement, waiting for the hero to explain their presence.

Hallvar did, without hesitation. “The Queen will pass here within the next hour, maybe an hour and a half. You should meet her outside and catch a ride to the keep.”

They gestured at the guildmaster’s unusual attire. “With less armor and defenses, maybe. That Blaine seems serious.”

“You spoke to the Queen.”

“Briefly and probably stupidly, yes. She said that if my story was true, I would find my way back to the castle to seek justice or something equally noble.”

The guildmaster glanced over the hero as he weighed his options. The changes to Hallvar were impossible to ignore, especially with Viktor’s awareness. Markings, talons, the metal strip on their neck. The missing finger became apparent as Hallvar made an indecisive gesture in the guildmaster’s direction.

“I also need to borrow clothes. Well, not clothes-clothes. Something dramatic and sharp.” The guildmaster’s personal style was reserved, dark-colored and simple. Hallvar thought that maybe he might have spares or something flashy of Anton’s around.

Viktor eyed the hero, taking stock of their outfit for the first time. Fashion certainly wasn’t something the guildmaster enjoyed; he was long past the days of keeping up with trends for his spy work.

But Hallvar was correct, if Viktor’s assumption that drama implied conveying spite or pride. They looked like an adventurer, an amateur. Their face had a natural expression of tiredness, so with real pain and conflict at hand, Hallvar’s appearance conveyed unkempt, unwell, and unprofessional.

“You need a waistcoat. A different shirt would help. Something darker, cleaner.” The one Hallvar wore was a completely normal shade of tan, but it conveyed dirt to the upper classes.

The guildmaster gestured for Hallvar to follow, leading them into a side room which turned out to be storage. Viktor pointed out a large chest wedged under some shelves.

“If nothing in there is suitable, Grimvold is your next option.”

The trunk contained years-old disguises. The guildmaster always preferred to keep his normal clothes fitted, so that his silhouette in a too-large disguise would be completely obscured. For a poor sailor begging for a job, the loose clothing was normal.

Hallvar was easily four or five inches taller than the guildmaster, so clothing that was loose on Viktor might just fit the hero perfectly. If not, Grim was a muscular, demanding presence; he certainly had something to lend out.

The guildmaster disappeared as Hallvar pulled out the trunk, grip unsteady as they adjusted to pricking talons. Most of the clothing was light-colored and meant for laborers, but toward the bottom were gently folded pieces with embroidery and annoyingly clever buttons.

There were two waistcoats – which Hallvar discovered were formal, fancy vests in their original dialect, the kind you wore with a full suit. One was too small; the other fit, though perhaps short. They pawed through the nice shirts with care, trying not to snag delicate details with the talons.

A dark brown, long-sleeved tunic fit snugly, but well-enough that Hallvar wasn’t entirely self-conscious. With the short waistcoat, it looked professional enough. Would have practically been formal wear in Hallvar’s old world.

They secured their pauldron over top so that Pipkin would have a place to rest; the same for the arm guard laced over the narrow sleeve.

“Is this better?” Hallvar asked as they stepped back into the hallway.

There was no answer, a door toward the end of the hall was cracked, but Hallvar knew better than to enter. The guildmaster needed to change too, after all.

They struggled with a few straggling waistcoat buttons for the entire time it took for Viktor to reappear. Talons were not meant for button loops.

The guildmaster was no longer in light armor, instead back to his usual attire – a one-armed capelet over fitted clothing, this time with his own waistcoat. Everything seemed a touch more expensive.

They were meeting the Queen; it made sense to look their best.

Viktor nodded at Hallvar and made his way to the office, holding something in his hand. He brought out a tiny pair of scissors from his desk and sat down to use them cryptically. Once finished, the guildmaster offered the things to Hallvar.

“You should ask Stella to help you.”

Gloves, black gloves that blended easily with the color of their talons. Each finger had a hole cut in the end, except for the left pinky, which seemed to be secured by thread to the ring finger. Ah, so Viktor noticed.

Hallvar felt… not ashamed or overwhelmed, but… seen, in a strange light. Noticed. The guildmaster was curt and sharp and blunt, but he was quietly helpful.

Viktor left for the downstairs without betraying any more kindness, leading the pair into the front of the guild, where the staff stood whispering about the odd noises upstairs.

They were first shocked by the guildmaster’s presence, as he’d been absent for a week, disappearing the same day that the flower announced Hallvar’s arrest.

Then, the shock continued as Hallvar emerged, thought to be locked in the castle for unknown crimes.

Viktor didn’t give them much time to chatter, issuing a few short orders. Zarin was to stand watch and alert him of any activity from the forest path, namely carriages or knights. Rami could continue helping the amateur adventurers who happened to pick this vital moment to search for new quests.

Hallvar gingerly pulled Stella back to the kitchen for a moment of privacy, upon which they were enveloped in a big hug.

“You keep disappearing! Should I just plan on this from now on?”

The hero gave her an apologetic smile. “I didn’t expect it, to be fair, but with my luck, yeah… you should probably assume I’ll disappear again.”

Stella snorted, composing herself as she brushed a hand across Hallvar’s face. Oh, that feeling of relaxation was back, and with the lack of tension came feelings, worries, doubt, fear, angst.

They inhaled sharply to keep it together, carefully pushing Stella’s hand away.

“I need help. I’m sorry, the Queen will be here soon, minutes maybe. I have to follow her, but I need your help to put on these gloves.”

They held out the dark leather, letting Stella take a moment to assess the new marks on Hallvar’s hands, the missing finger, and the talons themselves.

“I don’t have time to explain, but I will, I promise. I can’t rest until this is over. I need you to tru—”

The elf took the gloves, standing on her toes to kiss Hallvar’s cheek, then took the hero’s hand to start carefully threading the talons through. She fetched a scrap of parchment paper to fill out the empty pinky.

The gratitude Hallvar felt was hard to keep under control, especially when mixed with their fondness and blooming love for the woman. They didn’t have time to sweep her off her feet into a kiss.

And if they tried, Hallvar knew their blockade of mental endurance would give out like an emotional floodgate opening, which would absolutely lead to a meltdown.

It felt callous and cruel, but Hallvar couldn’t stop to manage Stella’s feelings right now.

The gloves did blend in spectacularly with the talons, giving the look of a costume, intentionally clawed and vicious. They reminded Hallvar of the fancy helmets knights used to wear, the ones where the visor was fitted between the fangs of a lion’s maw or something similar.

The missing finger bent with the ring finger, carefully placed knots holding true. If Hallvar wasn’t viscerally aware of its absence, they might not have noticed the change at all.

“Hallvar, Stella,” came the guildmaster’s warning call from the front.

The hero carefully placed the meat of their palm against Stella’s cheek, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “I have to go. I’ll be back after all this is resolved.”

They couldn’t enjoy the stolen moment, not while the Queen’s carriage was fast approaching.

Viktor barked out a few orders to the guild staff – the poor adventurers hovered by the request board, trapped and out of their league watching the gilded carriage arrive.

“Rami, you are in charge. I expect we will be back before nightfall; lock up if not.”

Stella only had time to shift her head in confusion before the guildmaster addressed her.

“You are coming with me. Regardless of your stake in Hallvar’s survival, this is guild business.”

She exchanged a glance with the hero, who shrugged. Their plan did not hinge on the guildmaster or Stella. Both of their presences would make Hallvar more assured, but more uneasy at the potential for danger.

As they stepped out into the sunlight, they watched the gate guard go from alert at the Queen’s arrival, to a distant waving figure, startled into action by the presence of not one but two fugitives.

Hallvar stepped away from the guildmaster and Stella, who was nervously fixing her clothing. She always looked professional and cute, so that wasn’t a—

Wait.

The beastmaster took off for the elf’s house, lifting their fingers to whistle for Pipkin as they did. They caught a talon on their lip before realizing that kind of whistle wouldn’t work anymore. With a swear, Hallvar pushed into Stella’s room, grabbing her staff and heading back out.

bad luck boon 1% chance failed

Bleeding and a tad bit embarrassed, Hallvar huffed back over to the elf with the staff, handing it over.

Little Pipkin caught sight of her beastmaster’s movement and flitted onto their shoulder. As soon as the akergryph was accounted for, Hallvar transformed in a flurry of feathers and took off.

The Queen’s carriage slowed to a controlled stop with mounted knights in between her and the guildmaster. Perhaps he was bound to not harm the kingdom, but it was better not to take chances with someone of Viktor’s reputation.

A footman gestured for Viktor and Stella to approach the opened carriage door, where Blaine stood at the ready, in case of any foolishness.

“Master Veðraldi. The whispers spoke of your disappearance, yet you are here. They suggested you committed an act of treason before vanishing, but assuredly you would not do such thing.”

The guildmaster was prepared; the Queen’s quips were not as cutting as Anton’s but it required a delicate dance regardless.

“I am bound to the kingdom as always, Your Majesty.”

“Then you will see no issue attending an immediate meeting in Saltkrow Keep.”

The Queen summoned a servant through a complicated series of nods and gestures between all parties present.

“See to it that Master Veðraldi and Lady Harnell are escorted to the throne room upon arrival.”

The servant nodded and stepped away from the carriage, waiting on the side with the guildmaster as the Queen’s carriage was closed and set back into motion.

They walked alongside the slow-moving caravan of carts until they could arrange for their own transportation, the servant displaying a badge and ordering use of a carriage-for-hire.

Soon enough, the guildmaster and Stella joined the caravan, waiting impatiently as they were brought closer and closer to Saltkrow Castle.

They didn’t know what would happen, but it was clear things had to change. The King-Consort could not be at odds with a hero, let alone the court itself.

Stella just wanted to know why the Queen knew her by name.