The first sign is small.
So small I almost miss it.
It happens in the courtyard, late afternoon, while I’m helping Asher practice controlled shifting drills with Kieran watching nearby.
We’ve made it a routine since the Eclipse.
No more spontaneous transformations.
No more uncontrolled bursts of energy.
“Focus on your breathing,” I tell Asher, crouching to his level. “In through your nose. Slow. Hold. Out through your mouth.”
He copies me with exaggerated seriousness.
“I’m breathing like a warrior,” he announces.
Kieran smirks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I am not!”
He concentrates harder.
The shift begins—subtle, controlled.
His eyes flicker silver-green.
Claws press faintly against the surface of his fingers.
Good.
Normal.
Then—
The air changes.
It’s not
