Mac’s voice didn’t soften. It steadied. “You do what Soldiers always do when they meet the unknown. You learn.”
Reynolds followed their exchange, frowning faintly as if sensing a conversation just beyond hearing. “So what does that make me?” he asked at last. “Something bit me out there. I know that much. But this… this isn’t normal.”
Mac’s eyes shifted briefly toward the Stewards. The High Steward inclined his head once.
Permission.
Mac turned back to the bed. “What bit you wasn’t an animal,” he said. “And what’s happening to you isn’t something medicine can undo.”
Reynolds studied him. “Then just tell me what it is.”
Melvin stepped a little closer, keeping his posture open. “It’s a change,” he said.
Reynolds’ eyes moved between them. “You mean like werewolves.”
Mac gave a small nod. “Close enough to start with.”
Reynolds absorbed that with surprising calm. “So both of you?” he asked.
Mac answered first. “I’m wolf.”
Reynolds’ gaze shifted to Melvin.
“Panther,” Melvin said.
Reynolds blinked once. “Panther,” he repeated slowly. “Didn’t realize that was on the menu.”
Melvin allowed the smallest hint of a smile. “Most people don’t.”
Reynolds leaned back against the pillow, breathing carefully. “Well,” he said after a moment, “when I woke up this morning witches weren’t real either, so it’s not like you’re going to shock me much further.”
He paused.
“Actually now that I’ve said that out loud, maybe I should take it back.”
The attempt at humor was dry and understated, exactly the kind soldiers used to steady themselves.
For the first time since their arrival, one of the Stewards moved. The woman stepped forward a fraction, her expression unreadable.
“A resilient mind,” she said. “That will serve him well.”
The High Steward gave a slight nod. “Acceptance without denial,” he said. “Few manage it so quickly.”
Reynolds looked faintly uncomfortable at being discussed. “You do realize I’m still in the room,” he said. “And it still feels a little early to call it acceptance.”
The High Steward regarded him for a long moment, measuring something that had nothing to do with pulse or temperature. Reynolds met the gaze without flinching.
At last he inclined his head slightly. “As expected,” he murmured. “He appears to share your reluctance to be intimidated, Lieutenant Carter.”
Mac held the Steward’s gaze. “He’s doing what soldiers do,” he said. “Holding the line.”
With that, the younger Steward withdrew a thin strip of dark cloth, patterned with faint metallic thread that caught the fluorescents in a way that looked wrong. He laid it on the floor. The air changed instantly. Pressure in Melvin’s ears. The monitor’s beep stuttered once, then resumed.
The Stewards moved into place with calm patience. The High Steward’s voice lowered into something that wasn’t a chant and wasn’t a command, but carried the cadence of both.
Melvin’s breath caught.
This was the Circle of the Veil.
