Loki spun on his heel like a dancer concluding a number, arms spread wide, palms lifted to the heavens in false ecstasy. His laughter still echoed through the hall, a wave of joy and frost that froze the spectators more effectively than any spell. Then, suddenly, as if the movement bored him, he stopped.
He extended one lazy arm, pointed.
There. A couple as ordinary as they come. Neither ugly nor striking. The boy wore a shapeless suit, shoulders slightly hunched, jaw soft, eyes uncertain. His skin was fair, his haircut plain, his face gentle—something that never truly caught attention. The girl beside him, barely more assertive, seemed just as unremarkable: pleasing features, a slim figure without striking curves, brown hair cut straight, falling to her shoulders.
Loki grinned with all his teeth. He loved contrast.
"You two. Yes, you. Come up."
Whispers stirred in the crowd, but quickly drowned in compact silence. The boy turned pale. The girl gripped his arm tightly. But already their legs were moving, independent of their will. The stage steps welcomed them as if they'd been waiting their whole lives.
Loki watched them ascend like a child examining new figurines. Then, with a grand sweep of his arm, he conjured the sack and gave it a soft shake. The rustling of rolled papers inside had something lascivious about it.
He offered it to the girl, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
"Go on, sweetling. The fate of your flesh lies in a single scroll."
She swallowed. Her hand trembled slightly as it reached into the sack. She touched several papers, hesitated, then pulled one out, pinched delicately between two fingers. Loki unrolled it with a magician’s flourish and read aloud, his voice full of pleasure:
"Cranes. Both of you. A graceful couple, faithful, ethereal... yet formidable. And for our dear young man here—double his natural testosterone. We shall all witness what that becomes."
He snapped his fingers.
The change began instantly.
The boy wavered, his mouth parting in a breath of panic. Then his back arched sharply, a spasm racing through him from nape to calves. His arms lifted without command, fingers lengthening, bones refining, joints stretching outward, nails reshaping into ivory-hued talons. His elbows and knees redrew themselves into sharper, more elegant, utterly inhuman angles.
His skin changed hue, shifting from pale pink to a complex blend of pure white and pearlescent grey, then covered itself in a fine, silky down over his arms, shoulders, hips. Where bare skin remained, it now looked taut and luminous, as if every pore breathed some alien grace. His neck elongated, collarbones sharpening like a delicate bony necklace. His face followed suit: nose slimming, brow smoothing, his jawbone stretching subtly into an elongated elegance. His eyes widened, catching dark reflections like the surface of a midnight lake.
Then the hormonal flood hit.
It was visible, brutal. His breath quickened, nostrils flaring, and his muscles swelled suddenly beneath the soft coat of down. His chest pushed forward, torso widening, abs emerging sharply beneath the fabric. The aerial finesse of a bird fused with a newfound, raw masculinity—wild, almost disconcerting. His arms grew longer, sculpted without bulk, like cords of a dancer. His thighs thickened, sleek and powerful, calves stretching with spring-loaded grace.
Sweat beaded on his skin, not human but something deeper, muskier. His Adam’s apple surged, pushing against the open collar of his shirt. A soft white ruff of down formed along his throat and the back of his neck, like a natural collar of feathers blooming straight from his body.
Then, his clothes transformed.
The pieces of his pitiful suit sloughed off like useless husks. Black silk wove itself across his skin, forming a tight inner robe, clinging like a second skin. Then came the hakama—wide-legged, flowing trousers of smoky grey, slit at the sides for ease of motion, extending to his ankles but open at the rear to accommodate his newly anthropomorphic legs. The silk shimmered under the stage lights with a ghostly gleam.
Over his shoulders, a short haori appeared, off-white and embroidered with black ink motifs of falling crane feathers. The fabric was light but stiff, shaped like a wind-forged armor. A broad sash of midnight blue silk cinched his waist, highlighting the transformation of his body. His bare feet turned dark, curved, toes fused into avian pads, and lacquered wooden sandals materialized beneath him, molded perfectly to his new stride.
He stood tall, noble in posture, his gaze calm but smoldering. A creature of grace and latent power. A prince of air, with wildfire in his veins.
Beside him, the girl shifted too, but with gentler momentum—like a dancer gliding from one step into the next.
Her shoulders rolled back as a shiver coursed through her. Her arms extended, thinned. Her hands lost their human softness, fingers stretching longer, nails hardening into sculpted ivory tips. A single gray feather emerged at the nape of her neck, followed by more, gliding down her spine, drawing a delicate trail across her skin.
Her throat lengthened slightly, imbuing her with an otherworldly poise. Cheekbones lifted, eyes drew into almond shapes, catching the stage light with a glisten like molten obsidian. Her skin turned nearly translucent—silky, tinged pink at the joints, porcelain white everywhere else.
Her legs followed. Knees readjusted, ankles grew more supple, her feet lengthening into elegant, crane-like extremities that held no clumsiness—only poise. From the base of her back, a fan of fine white-and-gray feathers unfurled, soft and light, like a sigh given form.
Her dress didn’t rip. It melted, the fibers liquefying, sliding across her form to reshape themselves. A furisode robe emerged—long, sweeping silk in hues of black and grey, patterned with stylized cranes in flight. The sleeves hung down to her knees, the fabric shimmering as if alive. The collar lifted gently to stroke her neck, revealing just enough of her throat to suggest desire, not scandal.
A deep red obi cinched at her waist, tied in a complex knot that resembled a folded pair of wings. Delicate sandals formed beneath her transformed feet, their silk straps sliding into place. In her hair, now messier, freer, a silver hairpin in the shape of a stylized feather anchored itself without effort.
She looked up. He turned his head toward her. They met each other’s eyes, unmoving—perfect in their transformation. None of what had defined them remained. They had become something else. Together.
And behind them, Loki laced his fingers beneath his chin, his smile sharp and delighted like a puppeteer watching the birth of opera.
"And you thought cranes were peaceful," he murmured. "Just wait until they dance."