Page 155 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“It’s not tricks. This is art.” The mage kneels beside me, bringing those glowing fingers closer to my face. “Though I don’t know if it would work.”

The air around his hand shimmers with heat or power or both. I can feel the magic radiating from his fingers.

These fucking bastards. Stop…

I try to curse them but the paralysis holds my tongue as firmly as my limbs. Rage builds inside me with nowhere to go. I can’t even manage a growl.

As soon as the light touches my forehead the world detonates into agony.

Everything becomes pain. The paralysis spell keeps me from moving but doesn’t block sensation. I feel everything.

Pressure builds in my skull as the magic floods through me. It feels like I’m being skinned alive from the inside out. Every layer of skin, muscle, tissue is being peeled away by invisible hands. My bones are breaking, reforming, and breaking again. The cycle repeats endlessly, each iteration bringing fresh waves of agony.

I am being torn apart while something else builds itself in the ruins. The pain comes in waves, constantly layering on itself until there’s nothing else. I have no thoughts or awareness beyond the endless breaking. My mind fractures under the assault. I exist only as a scream that can’t escape.

Fur erupts through my flesh like a thousand needles piercing outward. My hands spasm and claws burst through where fingernails used to be. They tear through the nail beds, through flesh, extending far beyond where fingers should end.

“What’s happening?” The archer asks uncertainly.

“Mor’thesian Binding,” the mage answers casually as I writhe. “A curse.”

His voice is calm and utterly detached from the horror he’s inflicting.

The paralysis spell is still active, keeping me locked in place even as my body tears itself apart. I don’t even get the mercy of passing out from the agony.

There’s no escape into unconsciousness as I am being unmade.

All I can do is burn.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The pain crests, peaks, then suddenly stops. My nerves braced for the next wave but it doesn’t come. I lie on the forest floor, eyes clenched shut. The agony is gone but its ghost remains, phantom fire tracing patterns across my skin.

Silence presses down and I slowly open my eyes. My vision fractures into something strange. Colors I knew are gone, replaced by a spectrum that makes no sense. The greens of the forest canopy are too golden. They make my head ache just looking at them. Everything seems washed out, muted to near-gray. It’s disorienting and nauseating.

Smells explode in intensity, overwhelming everything else. Every breath brings a flood of scents so complex and layered.

I can sense the forest breathing around me. The slow exhalation of rot from the deadfall to my left. Every blade of grass has a story. This one was crushed by a boot an hour ago. That one grows in shadow and tastes different from its sun-fed brothers. The earth beneath me smells ancient and has a rhythm.

I try to stand but my body moves wrong. The command goes from my brain to my limbs and gets lost somewhere in translation.

I have four legs now.

Four legs instead of two. I try again, attempting to translate the familiar motion of standing into this new body.

Push with my arms. No, front legs.

Brace with my legs. Nope, they are hind legs now.

I immediately fall.

The hunters laugh as I struggle.

Their laughter is different now too. I can hear individual tones in each voice. The archer’s laugh has a wheeze in his breath from old lung damage. Quinnlan’s is deeper, more measured.

I can hear all of it. My ears swivel toward the sounds.

When I finally manage to stand without collapsing, I realize my body is compact. I can feel muscle coiled under fur, ready to spring or run or fight.