Everyone sat around the circle, the fire crackling low, throwing long shadows across weary faces. Jonah's words still lingered in the night air like smoke. Torvee, I want to be like you. The boy had curled against her side again, oblivious to the storm he had just unleashed.
The silence stretched until it was broken by the shifter elder. His voice was low, but each word carried like a bell tolling in the dark.
"The boy might have an option, you know."
The camp erupted. Humans muttered, confused. Fae gasped. Wolves stiffened, golden eyes snapping to the elder in disbelief. Even Garrett leaned forward, teeth bared in a growl.
"What are you saying, old one?" Amber demanded, her voice sharp. "What option?"
The elder didn't flinch. He looked past them all, eyes on Jonah, as though speaking to him alone. "None of us are born shifters. Not one. Each of us was joined with our spirit animal through ritual, when we were but six months old."
The words struck like a hammer on stone. Gasps, curses, disbelief. Even Torvee's breath caught.
"That's impossible," Reid spat, half rising from his place in the circle. "You expect us to believe you weren't born twisted like the wolves?"
The elder's gaze slid to him, patient and unyielding. "Believe what you will. It is truth. Our kind bound themselves in secrecy, even from wolves, even from fae. Better that the world think us rare, born and fated, than risk others trying to take the rite for themselves."
Garrett surged to his feet, snarling. "You mean to tell us you've hidden this for centuries? That you kept it even from the packs? From Riven?"
Riven himself sat very still, but his eyes burned gold in the dark. His voice, when it came, was a low growl. "Explain. Now."
The elder folded his hands. "Because wolves would have abused it. You prize loyalty, bloodlines, codes — but war breeds temptation. What happens when an alpha grows hungry for more numbers? Would he not force humans through the ritual to swell his army? To make weapons instead of kin? We chose secrecy. Survival."
The humans looked at one another, faces pale in the firelight. Heath, arms folded across his chest, found his voice first. "Hold on — what does this mean for us? Are you saying… we could be turned into one of you?"
A ripple of whispers ran through the other humans gathered beyond the circle. The word turned rolled through them like a disease.
The elder's eyes narrowed. "Not turned. Chosen. There is a difference."
"Semantics," Heath snapped. "Beast is beast."
The elder ignored him. "The ritual works only for humans. Fae blood rejects it. Wolves' blood tears itself apart if it tries. But for humans… yes. There is a chance. A chance to awaken a spirit animal and bond with it. To become shifter."
Owen, his face grey, leaned forward. "And if the spirit does not come?"
"Then the human wakes as they were," the elder said simply. "Unchanged, though weaker for a time. The spirit animal accepts, or it does not. But it does not kill."
Murmurs broke into arguments. Elise pressed her fists against her knees. "So we're not helpless. We don't have to wait to be bitten or slaughtered — we could choose."
"Choose slavery," muttered Heath.
"Choose survival," Elise shot back, trembling.
Caleb rose half a step, placing himself between Elara and the tightening circle. "You're asking them to give up what they are. For what? To chase power they don't understand? A ritual no one here has seen in generations?"
The elder's expression did not change. "It is not power. It is truth." His eyes swept the circle. "Do not think the spirit gives what you desire. Children dream of panthers, bears, wolves. They awaken as crow, or rat, or snail. The spirit reflects who you are, not what you wish to be. And the truth is rarely kind."
The words quieted even the loudest voices.
Torvee's face was pale. "You mean… all of us were given this choice? As babies?"
The elder nodded once. "Our parents, our elders, chose for us. At six months the ritual is safest. The spirit finds the unshaped soul most easily. But," his eyes slid back to Jonah, "it is not impossible later. Only harder. More dangerous. But still possible."
Amber's hand curled into a fist. "Why now? Why tell this now?"
"Because the boy asked," the elder said. "And because secrets burn. Better it come from me, than from whispers twisted into poison."
The elegant fae elder leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And what happens when every frightened human here demands the rite? When they all decide they'd rather be beasts than remain powerless?"
The elder's voice hardened. "Then they risk it. That is their right. But remember this — a shifter is not wolf. Not fae. Not feral. They walk a different path. Some paths are glorious. Some are humbler. All are binding."
Garrett snarled, "And dangerous. You would fill the camp with half-trained beasts while ferals still hunt us?"
The elder's gaze met his, steady as stone. "Better half-trained beasts than helpless prey."
The words hung heavy.
Elara's silver sight stirred, unbidden. She saw auras flare like storm-lanterns. Green flaring from the fae, restless. Gold burning sharp and angry from the wolves. Blue smudged from Torvee, deepened with confusion. The humans — bare of colour — flickered with fear, hope, anger, longing. The camp itself seemed to glow with tension.
And then she realised every eye had turned to her.
The fae elder's look was expectant. The wolves waited, teeth bared. The humans stared, some pleading, some hostile. Even Caleb's hand tightened, protective but questioning.
She swallowed, her voice catching before it steadied. "I'm not here to hand out destiny. I'm not here to bless or curse you. I'm just trying to keep us alive."
"Alive as what?" Heath demanded.
"Alive as anything," Elara shot back, surprising herself with the sharpness in her tone. "Do you think it matters to the ferals whether you're human, fae, wolf, or shifter? They'll tear you apart the same. So argue if you want. Hate each other if it makes you feel strong. But we survive first. We choose tomorrow."
The fire cracked loud, like punctuation. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Riven's voice rumbled, low and absolute. "The Luna is right. Enough. The night is over, the argument is done. We march at dawn."
The words closed the circle tighter than any chain.
Beyond the firelight, the rest of the survivors shifted uneasily, whispering. Jonah, still pressed to Torvee's side, blinked up at her and whispered again, soft but clear enough for Elara's silver sight to catch the ripple of hope it carried.
"I meant it."
Torvee's hand trembled where it stroked his hair. She couldn't answer. None of them could. The boy's words had already done their work.