Loki walked with deliberate slowness, his heels striking the stage with studied rhythm, like the beat of a distant drum. Reaching the edge, he stopped abruptly. His cloak settled in a single breath of stillness, and his gaze swept across the crowd like an invisible tongue tasting the tension in the air. He raised his hand lazily, then pointed toward two young figures lost among the frozen rows.
The boy was slim, with a pleasant yet indistinct face, shoulders that seemed to shrink inward, hands crossed before him as if trying to vanish. The girl was delicate, almost translucent with restraint, her features balanced, soft, but lacking a dominant tone. Two nobodies, unnoticed—even by silence. But Loki saw them.
“You two. With me.”
They flinched, but had no time to retreat. Their legs moved on their own, swept up by a magical current they didn’t understand. The steps unfurled before them and received them. The spotlights pivoted gently to isolate them in a glowing circle. Loki was already smiling.
He conjured the black velvet sack, dense, thrumming, almost alive inside. He offered it to the girl without a word. She, throat tight, reached into it. Her fingers brushed across the scrolls, selected one. She handed it over, head bowed.
Loki unrolled the parchment and read aloud like delivering a divine decree:
“Caracals. Mountain cats—sleek, swift, proud. And for the young man… double testosterone. You’ll feel it through the walls.”
He snapped his fingers.
The boy was struck first. He let out a low breath, his body curling inward, then snapping back. His arms twisted slightly, hands splaying at his sides, fingers stiff. His pale skin contracted, then gave way to a wave of short, fine, golden-red fur spreading over his forearms. It surged upward, covering his shoulders, chest, and flanks. The coat thickened into a silky layer of deep reddish-brown, streaked with creamy tones across his abdomen.
His jaw reshaped. The chin refined, mouth widened. His cheekbones lifted, brows stretched, and from his hair sprouted two tall black ears—tapered, tufted at the tips, standing high. They twitched, alert. His nose flattened slightly, his eyes shifted to a burnished gold, pupils stretching into slits. He looked up, gaze lit with feline fire.
And his tail burst forth—a sharp movement, short, dense, alive, its tip quivering with tension.
Then the hormonal wave hit.
His breath grew ragged, chest heaving with the surge. His pecs swelled—rounded, firm, carved beneath the fur. His stomach tightened into sculpted muscle plates. His arms expanded, biceps bulging, veins rising. Shoulders spread wide. His waist stayed narrow, but his hips thickened, thighs hardened. His calves transformed into coiled feline muscle, poised to spring. A hot, spiced sweat poured from his pores. He threw his head back and growled—a deep, dense sound, rich with virility.
Then his clothing transformed.
His shirt unraveled in a cyclone of threads that reformed into a loose white linen tunic, open-chested, embroidered with indigo diamond patterns along the sleeves and collar. Beneath, loose ochre trousers—sarouel—took shape, made of raw linen, falling over his newly reshaped legs. A heavy burnous cloak, hooded, dropped onto his shoulders, woven from dark wool streaked with pale gold thread, split at the back to allow his tail free movement.
A white turban wrapped around his brow, leaving his pierced, gold-ringed ears fully visible. Silver-engraved bracelets formed at his wrists. At his feet, tall, tanned leather boots slid up to his calves, molded to his altered shape.
He looked like a desert prince, born of sand and instinct. He radiated heat, silent strength, and restrained, magnetic danger.
The girl was touched next. She bent forward, hands clenching the air, then slowly opened, chest forward, hips arched. Her spine curved, pelvis rolling in a visible shiver. Her skin darkened slightly, deepening in tone, then a very fine coat of lighter fur settled on her arms, thighs, and back. Faint rosettes surfaced, then faded back into the silky layer.
Her stance shifted, heels lifting, arch heightening. Fingers lengthened, nails turning into smooth, curved claws. Her ears emerged—long, black, upright, soft. Her eyes stretched, golden and slitted. Her lips grew fuller, cheekbones shaped like a Berber statue carved in love.
A tail emerged with a breathy sigh—short, twitchy, swaying slowly.
Her clothing followed suit.
Her dress unraveled, replaced by a skirt of layered ruffles—carmine red and ochre—embroidered with black beads and small shells. A short black linen top wrapped tightly around her breasts, holding them firm against her now feline chest. A shawl of ivory silk coiled around her shoulders, sliding down her arms, held in place by silver fibulae. Around her waist, a fringed sash danced with every movement. Tiny bells adorned her ankles, copper and braided leather bracelets her wrists.
A finely worked silver headdress rested on her brow, glinting between her ears. Her hair had turned black and thick, laced with golden threads woven into delicate braids.
She looked up. He was already waiting.
There they stood—blazing incarnations from another age. He, caracal heavy with power. She, a dancing feline adorned in symbols and desire. Their tails pulsed. Their shared breath echoed.
From the shadow of the stage, Loki inclined his head and murmured:
“Two jewels of the desert. Go on... let the dunes tremble.”