Loki cast a predatory glance over the frozen crowd, each person stiff and silent like a herd penned in for ritual slaughter, the fear thick and unspoken. His smile curled wider—something slow, oily, theatrical.
“As announced earlier,” he intoned, voice rolling with lazy cruelty, “I shall turn you into anthropomorphs—one animal per couple, just to keep things... interesting. And to make the show truly stimulating, I’ll be doubling the natural testosterone output in these young men throughout the transformation. More fun to watch, wouldn’t you agree?” He gestured airily. “And since your clothing will no doubt be shredded in the process, don’t worry—the magic will dress you anew for the occasion. Formalwear, of course... themed to your new bestial selves.”
The speech, ripe with villainous flair, hung in the air like incense. Then his gaze scanned the room. Paused.
He found them: an unremarkable pair. The boy, thin and plain-featured—not unpleasant, merely forgettable. The girl beside him had mid-length, straight hair and a gentle, oval face—pretty in a way that vanished when she looked away. Anonymous, average. Perfect.
He raised his hand, flicking his fingers as though brushing dust from a shelf.
“You two. Yes, you. Step forward.”
The boy paled. The girl clutched his arm like she could anchor herself, but their legs betrayed them. They moved—first a step, then another, their limbs jerking into motion without conscious will. The stairs seemed to rise to meet them, and soon they stood at the foot of the stage, directly in front of the god himself. Lights converged. Silence thickened. Their breath was suddenly, terribly loud.
Loki produced a black velvet sack, heavy and bulging with tightly rolled parchments. The scent that spilled from its mouth was primal—musk, ink, and something older still, something with claws. He handed it to the girl with a grin that bared his teeth too much.
“Go ahead. Draw your new nature.”
Her hands trembled as they disappeared into the mouth of the bag. She fumbled. Then withdrew a small scroll and passed it to Loki. He unfurled it, read, and barked out a laugh that rolled like thunder through hidden speakers.
“Perfect! Wolves. A pair bound by instinct, by pack... and much, much more.”
He turned to the rest of the hall, voice slick with delight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, open your eyes wide. This is the beginning of your true lives.”
He snapped his fingers.
The boy was first. His breathing turned ragged—shorter, sharper, like something was waking inside him and didn’t like what it found. He staggered, a violent shiver wracking his body.
Then came the sounds—wet, muffled cracks as his arms elongated, bones twisting, joints cracking and reknitting themselves like clay breaking apart and reforging. His fingers thickened grotesquely, nails blackening, curling into claws that gleamed with a deadly sheen. A grey fuzz dusted his arms, spread, thickened, darkened. Fur bloomed like wildfire across his torso and down his back, rippling as muscles surged underneath, reshaping him from within.
His jaw cracked audibly, the bone jutting forward, teeth lengthening into fangs. His nose split, flattened, nostrils flaring as a snarling muzzle erupted from his face. His eyes—once plain—now shone with a molten amber hue, slitted and feral. His spine arched, popping as it adapted, while his thighs thickened, straining his jeans, which tore in places as the seams failed to contain the bulk. A tail burst through the fabric, wagging slowly, heavy and coarse.
Then the surge hit.
Testosterone pumped through him like a flood. His chest inflated—pectoral muscles swelling to obscene proportions, skin stretching taut over them. His waist carved inward, his torso forming a dramatic V, and his shoulders snapped outward with a noise like a felled tree. His arms became veiny ropes of sinew, his thighs meaty and monstrous beneath the half-shredded pants. His Adam’s apple jutted prominently. Sweat, thick and primal, beaded and ran down his chest, sticky and pungent.
His clothing, as promised, followed suit.
The tattered remains of his shirt slithered away, morphing into a midnight-black brocade coat, silver buttons glinting like fangs. A white linen shirt clung to the bulk of his chest beneath, with a lavish jabot bursting from the collar, contrasting wildly with the wild fur of his throat. Velvet pants, deep anthracite, encased his new musculature, melting into glossy black boots that rose to his knees, polished to a mirror sheen. A long cape swept around his shoulders, its hem just brushing the stage floor, its collar high, its lining furred—he looked like some wolfish noble out of an old Eastern legend, beautiful and dangerous in the same breath.
The crowd didn’t breathe. They simply stared.
Then it was the girl’s turn.
She gasped—a high, sudden whine—arching backward as though struck by a bolt. Her spine curved, her whole body lifting onto tiptoe before buckling. Her cry, shrill and guttural, echoed, and her limbs trembled as the shift took her.
Her legs restructured first—knees bending backward slightly, her feet lifting into narrow, digitigrade paws. Her toes cracked and reshaped, claws pushing through the dainty tips of her shoes. Light grey fur, soft and gleaming like pearl, fanned across her calves, over her thighs, licking up her sides and blooming across her shoulders. Her spine bulged visibly for a moment, then split her dress as a slender, twitching tail forced its way out with a visible rip and a flutter of torn fabric.
Her ears rose next—sliding upward, reforming to tall, expressive triangles that twitched at every whisper in the crowd. Her hair lifted, as if caught in a breeze only she could feel, then fell, messier, wilder.
The scraps of her dress shimmered and reassembled. A corset of crimson velvet locked around her midsection, cinched with golden laces that gleamed against her newly furred torso. A dramatic skirt billowed below, slit to show the black thigh-high stockings held up by garters webbed in gold-threaded filigree. Her neck now bore a blood-red collar, fitted with a black stone the color of a stormcloud. A cape, smaller than the boy’s but no less regal, clung to her shoulders, its edge fur-fringed, fluttering in some unseen wind.
They turned toward each other, bodies no longer trembling, but alive with new power—and heat.
Their eyes locked. A flicker of understanding, of desire, passed between them like a spark over dry grass. They took a step closer, almost unconsciously, drawn by scent, sound, the low hum of instinct made flesh.
Loki, standing above, beamed like a proud father at a bloodsport.
“Exquisite, aren’t they?” he murmured. “And this is only the beginning.”