Loki moved forward slowly, more gliding than walking, each step echoing like a hollow drumbeat on the wooden stage. He savored the moment—the taste of tension in the air, that collective stillness strung tight like a harp string ready to snap. Reaching the edge, he lifted his arm, languid and theatrical, and pointed randomly into the crowd as if selecting a victim by whim. Two figures were marked. An unremarkable couple, melted into the background.
The boy was slight, shoulders hunched, movements inward. Neither ugly nor handsome—just indistinct. The girl had a soft presence, simple figure, unremarkable face, symmetrical and forgettable. Together, they were as unnoticeable as dust on marble. But Loki loved nothing more than transforming the blandest salt into vivid flame.
"You two. Step forward."
The silence deepened. The boy hesitated, the girl clutched his arm tighter, but already their legs were responding to a command beyond will. The stage steps accepted them solemnly, and soon, the spotlights pinned them. Loki watched them like a sculptor observing fresh marble before the chisel strikes.
He handed the girl the black velvet sack, swollen, breathing almost. She reached in without needing instruction. Her fingers brushed several scrolls, then plucked one. She offered it. Loki unfurled it with a sharp snap.
"Leopards. Perfect. Graceful, deadly, magnificent. And for our young male… double the testosterone. Watch. He’s about to bloom."
He snapped his fingers.
The boy groaned. His body faltered, arms flung open as his spine arched suddenly, as though twisted by unseen hands. His shoulder blades stretched wide, ribs lifting beneath his skin like living spines. His hands clenched, fingers cracking, nails blackening, elongating into short, curved claws. His feet rose onto the balls, heels lifting, bones articulating anew, toes widening and retracting into something between paw and hand.
His skin darkened to a warm gold, then black spots bloomed—timid at first, then countless, covering him. His fur began as down, then thickened into a sleek, golden coat with black rosettes that shimmered beneath the lights. It spread from his hips to neck, across arms, back, legs, sparing only his throat, lips, and a patch of chest where the fur remained thin.
His face underwent a slow, radical change. Jawline lengthened slightly, nose flattened and blackened, cheekbones sharpened, teeth became more pointed. His eyes widened, slit vertically, their color turning molten gold, glinting with a hunter’s precision. Two feline ears emerged atop his head, black-tipped, flicking. A sinuous, furred tail uncoiled from his spine, swaying gently, alive.
Then came the hormonal flood. His breathing grew heavy, audible. Muscles surged beneath his skin. His shoulders broadened with a sharp crack, chest lifting, pectorals rounding, abs tightening—six, then eight segments of taut tension. His arms extended, veins visible beneath the fur, sculpted like a primal warrior’s. Thighs thickened, hips flared slightly, waist cinched—an aggressive, predatory V-shape. He grew taller, back straightening, and his scent changed: sharp, hot, musky—an aura of physical dominance.
He growled again, deeper this time—a warning, a surge of raw animal pride.
His clothing was the last to come—shredded, then reborn. A richly woven black loincloth formed around his waist, embroidered with Aztec patterns in gold thread and turquoise, held by a broad belt adorned with beads, claws, and copper discs. A chestpiece of black leather and jade spread over his upper torso, strapping over his shoulders and collarbones with fabric bands woven with dark feathers. Golden bracers locked onto his forearms, inlaid with small red stones. His calves were wrapped in tight fabric bands, and his bare, now half-pawed feet gripped the stage floor with precise tension.
He had become a beast-lord. A jaguar of war, the living totem of a lost empire.
The girl followed.
Her body tilted backward gently, as though lifted by a warm current. Her neck arched, throat pulsing. Her hips rolled, legs crossed in instinctive tension. A ripple moved up her spine, bones rearranging beneath her skin. Her back arched, chest lifted, and a fine layer of golden fur with black rosettes spread up her arms, sides, thighs.
Her feet changed shape—more supple, feline. Her ankles flexed, light. A long, flexible tail burst from her lower back, coiling and swaying. Her ears rose to the top of her head, pointed, furred. Her nose shortened, lips widened, exposing longer canines. Her eyes became deep forest green, rimmed in obsidian. Her hair darkened to pitch black, thickening into wild, heavy locks.
Then her attire formed.
A deep green, plant-fiber woven skirt wrapped around her hips, slit high on one side, embroidered with birds and foliage. Her chest was bound by a supple black leather top adorned with small obsidian plates, crossed at the sternum. A thick jade necklace hung around her neck, tipped with fangs and amber shards. Copper bracelets jangled at her wrists and ankles. A crimson fabric band tied around her neck, supporting her now fuller, lifted breasts. A feathered crown—short red and black quills—adorned the back of her head.
She opened her eyes.
They were already facing each other. Two bodies shaped by instinct, ritual, and flesh. He, imposing, feline, radiant. She, sleek, sharpened, dangerously beautiful. Their breathing shallow, synchronised. Their tails moved slowly, muscles twitching as if at the edge of a pounce.
Loki stood behind, arms crossed, smiling.
"Now those are jungle lords," he murmured. "Their empire begins now."