The consequences

Arn awoke ****.

Gasping for breath and from pain.

From the sensation of something pressing outward beneath his skin.

He bolted upright in his narrow bed, breath ragged, sweat clinging cold against him. For a moment, he did not know where he was. The ceiling above him seemed too low. The air too thin.

Then the smell of straw and livestock reached him.

Home.

His hands flew to his chest.

Whole.

Still beating.

Wrong.

A pressure throbbed at his temples. No, not his temples. Higher. He lifted shaking fingers to his hairline and felt it: two hard ridges beneath the skin, symmetrical, tender, like bone forcing its way upward.

He recoiled from his own touch.

“No,” he whispered, but the sound was different somehow.

Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs from the bed.

His back screamed in protest. Not from bruises—though those remained—but from something deeper. Between his shoulder blades, the flesh felt swollen and tight, as though it were stretched over something trying to unfold.

The lingering pain in his loins warned him that he had not seen the last of the changes made to him.

Lowering his pants, Arn found his manhood had changed irreversibly, becoming significantly larger, thicker, and horse-like in shape, albeit smaller than would be seen on an animal, and unnaturally white, like the rest of his skin.

He staggered toward the small polished plate of tin his mother used as a mirror.

What stared back at him was Arn.

And not.

His skin had lost its warmth. It was drained, as if winter had settled beneath it. His eyes looked larger in his face. Sharper.

His teeth had assumed a pointier nature, his canines lengthened somewhat.

He pushed back his sleeve.

The sigils were no longer hidden.

They had surfaced into a single sprawling mark along his forearm—purplish-black, like ink bruised into flesh. It twisted in impossible geometry, lines curving into themselves, barbs and spirals and jagged hooks that seemed to shift if stared at too long.

At its center lay a darker knot.

Arn stumbled back from the mirror.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered. “This isn’t—”

A knock at the door.

“Arn?” his sister’s voice. “You will miss the bells. Come eat, and then to work with you, we need to set up the stalls at the fair.”

He swallowed.

“Coming.”

He wrapped a cloth tightly around his arm. Then another strip across his brow, under the excuse of a “headache.” His hair hid the slight, unnatural ridges well enough.

His back…

He **** himself to stand straight.

The pressure there gave rise to a dull ache.

Arn went to the kitchen, praying that his parents had already left; he could not bear their worry right now.

It seemed the Goddess had not wholly forsaken him; he was alone in the kitchen, even if his sister was still occupied somewhere in the house.

Quickly grabbing a plate of steaming meat and hard cheese that his mother had left for him on the coals, her words echoed in his head: a young boy needs meat to grow strong. A pang of sadness ran through him. Would he have to flee town? to leave them behind? Where could he even go?

He could flee with some caravan leaving the fair, serving as a mercenary, perhaps even abandoning the kingdom and living as some hermit on the fringes of civilization; he could handle himself well enough.

No, he would not deceive himself; if he was truly turning into a sort of demon or some other monster, nowhere would be safe for him. He needed to find a way to get strong, so he could go back to the Maw and get his humanity back from that creature.

And he could learn magic, whatever this meant. And he was supposed to be good at it, right?

Planning his next steps as he ate quickly, Arn had not realized that his sister had just entered the kitchen.

"Arn! you look awfull" She said while putting a hand on his forehead, a familiar look on her face.

"Lilly!" Arn jumped. "It is nothing, please don't tell them."

A little older than him, his sister was as beautiful as a woman could be, with bright blond hair, a full body, and kind eyes. She would be the dream of every man in this town, guilty, sometimes even his own.

And now, as she leaned in so close, with her smell reaching him, his situation made itself known, and he could not help but gaze at her bosom, as his manhood hardened in its new shape and size.

Her eyes searched his face longer than he liked.

"Hey, Arn, you are clearly ill, I must take you to Father, we need the apothecary." She said while waving her hand in front of him.

"No! please Lilly, I will tell you everything tonight, but please, let me deal with this on my own today." He lied.

"It has to do with the tower, does it not?" She said drily, and Arn could see she was holding back an angry remark.

He could feel somekind of liquid leaving his manhood, wetting his pants, and his sister's eyes adopted a dreamy look.

"Do you smell differently? It is so good." She said dreamily, sniffing his forehead.

"I need to go, see you tonight," Arn almost fled the kitchen. "Please, don't tell anyone."

Back in his room, Arn tried waiting for his loins to abate before leaving, but it seemed impossible; his sexual appetite seemed to grow exponentially with the changes to his sex, and it remained as it were on the presence of his relative. Quickly getting rid of it in the best manner he could think of, Arn dressed himself hastily with even more clothes to mask his new skin tone and fled through the window, sparing a final guilty glance towards the corner of his room, where an ungodly amount of semen now lay among the wood. It worried him.

Festival morning smelled of roasted nuts, spilled ale, and early spring.

Colorful ribbons hung between houses. Children ran laughing with wooden swords. Musicians played too quickly, as if racing something unseen. Woman paraded their new dresses, looking for a husband. And men talked loudly over full tankards.

Arn stepped into the sunlight and felt it differently.

Brighter.

Sharper.

He could see dust in the air. Hear individual conversations in the crowd if he focused. Smell sweat beneath perfume.

It was overwhelming.

He clenched his jaw and walked forward.

His father was already in town, arguing loudly about barrel placement, no doubt. His mother would be busy setting up their stall. And his sister would soon join them, as he should.

But not now, first, he needed a plan. He would go to his friend. Peter's family traded in clothes and good shoes, and surely the boy could help him set up traveling gear. Not to flee entirely, but to find some place to train with his buried sword and try to figure out magic, if it was even possible. And then, he would return to the Maw and fix everything.

Before he could think further, the tower bells rang.

Arn flinched.

Across the square, he noticed something he would never have seen before.

Too few knights.

There were always more during Soulstice. The festival drew travelers, drunks, and trouble. The tower traditionally doubled its visible guard.

Today—

Only a handful stood posted.

And they were not relaxed.

They stood rigid. Visors lowered. Watching the road to the Veil more often than the crowd.

Arn followed their gaze.

The Veil's surface shimmered as always.

Calm.

Too calm.

Even the music seemed strained.

Arn’s arm began to itch beneath the cloth.

Then burn.

He staggered toward the edge of the square, slipping behind a supply cart.

He tore the cloth loose.

The mark glowed faintly and seemed to grow some almost imperceptible amount.

A dog barked nearby.

Arn’s head snapped toward it involuntarily.

The sound grated against him. No, not the sound. The life inside it. Warm.

His vision sharpened again—

And for a flicker of a moment—

He saw threads.

Faint, silvery strands extending from people. From animals. From everything living. They shimmered against the air like spider silk caught in dawn light.

He gasped.

His vision returned to normal.

It frightened him.

Goddess knew how long he had until he became totally unrecognizable. He needed guidance, the kind he could only find on the tower. Forget training alone, he could never hope to understand what he was going through. But how could he return? Would Sir Osburg vouch for him? The mage seemed favourable to Arn before.

Before he could ponder any more, Peter found him lying down on the side of the cart, and by him was a very tense knight.