There’s a feeling that comes before a fall, at the precipice where a stumble transforms into a complete loss of control. A sudden wrenching of the gut, a sensation of emptiness rippling out from a point, the shock potent enough to draw all attention towards the inevitable. Balance has been stolen, and past that point nothing can be done to stop the indefatigable movement downwards. The only action left to take is to flail fearfully and try to minimise the damage.

As the monstrous Bab withdrew his claws from the hole in my abdomen, that moment extended for an eternity. The world was cast in crystal; I could see, feel, and hear everything. The brown of the dirt below. The outlines of objects in the storehouse. The hint of Bab’s blue eyes in the bottomless stare of the beast.

Thoughts flashed like lightning through my mind. I had been arrogant, stupid, idiotic – how could my wit match divine power? Would my family be alright? Was I about to die? The musings turned more concrete: the best way to block Bab’s next attack, how to fall in the safest way, what I should say to inform Ma that Bab had escaped.

Then the agony hit and I screamed. I hit the floor and somehow it increased. I screamed, and then the monster was falling onto me, and I screamed as I raised my arms, the motion twisting my mangled organs. I screamed as Bab closed his savage muzzle over my arm, shredding them like a chef shreds cabbage. I kicked and punched and screamed and screamed and screamed.

Bab halted, cocking a vulpine ear. I shoved him away and began hauling myself across the dirt, but all the strength had fled my body. My fingers weren’t moving properly, and my legs had no energy. I looked downward, seeing the bones of my forearm and the sprawl of my organs and my blood running from my body in terrible, terrible clarity. The horror of it hit me and I wailed.

The creature that was once human rose on his haunches and stared at something down the road. My vision swum. Exhaustion hit, harder than it ever had before. I strained myself, grasping for something to focus on, to keep me awake. Some fell thing had taken hold of me, and was trying to drag me somewhere I’d never return from. I refused, panting and groaning, blind obstinance keeping me conscious.

Then Ma was crashing into Bab, smashing him against the storehouse’s wall. There was a flash of onyx as a sword blurred towards him, and he ducked, springing off the wall to flank her far faster than she could move. Yet somehow, she had anticipated the movement, and her weapon was already there. With a fluidity belying her seven-foot frame, the blade snaked through the monster’s arm, severing it at the elbow.

A howl emanated from Bab, and he sidled backwards, stumbling and off balance, however the Oxblood was already there. Any avenue of retreat had been sliced away; a wall was behind him, Ma was in front of him, and her sword seemed to know whenever he was trying to move left or right.

He leapt at her, only to be met by a large fist mid-air, sending him crashing to the ground. Bab bounced back upright and blurred across the ground towards my mother’s leg. She moved her foot slightly and then all his momentum was returned in a kick that flattened him against the wall. He avoided a swinging fist, then lunged backwards, avoiding a decapitation yet still a hair too slow to avoid a detached jaw. The lower half of his face hung loosely, and a serpentine tongue dangled from his mouth.

I gurgled, blinking away the desire to give in. I would not turn away.

Bab jumped towards her once again and Ma intercepted, only for him to slip aside, the movement sending blood spurting around. It splashed on my face. I felt the hum of power within it, and desperately tried to wipe it away, but I was too weak. Meanwhile, Bab had managed to take advantage of his timely dodge and was scurrying away.

My head lolled backwards, darkness creeping in. The street flipped upside down. I watched the monster gallop across the skyward earth. Spots danced before my eyes, obscuring two figures in the distance. I squinted. They revealed themselves as Sash and Dash, staring at Bab in mute terror as he approached them.

Desperation filled me. I clawed at the ground behind me, kicked at the dirt, trying to heave myself towards them. Then, Bab’s hollowed chest exploded in a geyser of blood, and he collapsed to the ground. Ma had thrown the sword like a javelin. I could feel my friend dying, up ahead.

My blood sung in response. Panting, I heaved my hand upright and attempted to clear the splatter of Bab’s blood on my forehead. I failed. Clenching my eyes shut, I concentrated on the sensation of his draining life, the sudden link between him and I. I tried to squash it. I failed.

You live in a large house, filled with the gentle yellow of an ending day. There are many, many people in it. They take care of you. Sometimes you leave, and run with sheep and cattle with your brothers, herded by various manservants. It takes some time to realise you are the second last of the eleven children borne to the family of Barberfellow.

There were shouts coming from above me. Images fluttered into view. Orvi’s mother – no, the monster – no, my mother – held a bottle of something. It was the potions I had replaced, assisted by… myself. I screamed, clutching at myself, trying to remember who I was.

You grow, but are still always small. The house has turned darker, and now things are slightly different. You are loved, and you love in turn, however expectations are being placed upon. People expect you to speak, yet there are always too many different words to say. The opportunity to respond passes, and you are humiliated for your failure. It burns at you, and you hate it.

Something cool streamed down my throat. A mangled screech left me, driven out by fierce pain radiating from my arms and stomach. Strong hands were lifting me. “…he will be fine, Dash, but you need to help…” a deep voice grumbled. Spitting blood, I felt someone’s life slipping away.

You find solace in the written word; linear, straightforward, predetermined. A story only ever has one answer. There are no fumbling attempts to find the perfect response. There is no need for you to open your mouth. You ravenously consume every book and story in the house, then go through them, again and again. Here, in this two-dimensional world, you are reduced to a bystander. A spectator to tales of gods and hunts and heroes and clans, where there is an unspoken promise that everything will be alright. That knowledge swaddles you, reassuring and truer than life itself.

Words were being spoken. I was being rocked. The person carrying me was running. The dying boy drifted further away, yet it was too late to stop.

You submerge yourself in a world of ink and tablets, your understanding of the medium burgeoning. Your tutors notice, and suddenly you are praised for your ability to remember things, your exceptional penmanship, the speed at which you can process information. The house is light again, and you have found your place. You are not proud; the ability is the natural consequence of countless hours in the library. But you are being supplied with books and quills, and suddenly you are doing everything right.

The knowledge of metaphor, rote memorisation, and how to best wield a quill flowed into me. I tried to spit it back, return it to its rightful owner. My eyes rolled opened and the world became a cacophony of colour and agony. I closed them again.

You are met by your father and mother. They tell you what they believe is good news: you are to become an apprentice scribe, in the service of the house your family is vassal to. You do not know what to think. In a whirlwind, you leave home and are thrust into a world of files and documents, where men and women can make ink appear on paper with a wave of their hand.

Someone was whining. I tried to tell my younger brother that everything would be alright, but before I could formulate a method of speech, a much deeper voice drifted into focus. “…he’s tough. He won’t die…” Flashes struck, and her next words echoed before she spoke. More than anything, I wanted her to stop. “…he’s got Lizardblood, we just need…” Then reason spun away again.

You work hard. Things are different here; no one looks after you, and your inability to voice the right words is tolerated less. Your fumbles and stutters earn you no friends. But your family loves you, and even if you cannot speak correctly, you know how to write. No matter what task you are given, the words are always the same – one comes after another, and everything is right.

Another person’s experience was shunted into me – or was I being shunted into another person? Distantly, I understand my body is failing, yet it feels like nothing compared to the phantom pain of a boy fading away, his dying light funnelled into the hungry mouth inside me. I didn’t want this, because if I did, I was a monster.

You are given a posting somewhere even farther away. Your family is proud, and you do not want to disappoint them. Yet letters begin appearing on your nightstand as you sleep, promising a slaughter if you do not obey. You are fearful, but ignore them. They return, with a lock of hair from every member of your family. You obey.

Sympathy, empathy, understanding; all are far too agonising to bear. My good will revolted against me. In the distance I heard screaming.

You are now in a hot, stinking place. Punishment is swift and unforgiving, no matter where you are. Every scrap of free time is spent running mysterious errands. You are eventually judged obedient enough to meet your captor – he is every bit as cruel as you imagined. You live and breathe fear.

The dissonance between the two lives disappeared temporarily. For a moment, in that memory of tyranny, I found a piece of myself to cling to.

You meet someone during your errands. There is a family you have been tasked with spying on. The two sons are wildly different, the elder filled with an exuberant energy while the younger reminds you of you. The daughter is your age, confident and elegant and she moves like a dancer.

A door opens, and I open my eyes to a familiar ceiling. It’s Maja’s – Ma’s – restaurant. My home. The environment twisted and shook around me, the terrified faces of my family wavering in and out of reality. An apology was on my lips. I attempted to inform them I hadn’t meant to become this thing, that I was sorry, but I couldn’t.

You are given the order to sabotage your workplace, while also implicating the family’s eldest son. You hate it. You do not want to do it. And the boy is nice and funny and he looks after you, and you feel safe for the first time in a long time when you are with him. You ensure your co-workers' ends, but when the opportunity arises you can’t bring yourself to betray your new friend’s trust.

My teeth creaked as I clenched them. My conscience fought against my nature, trying to return what I was taking, but it was too little, too late. I wanted to believe that the holy instinct flowing through my veins was someone else’s, but the truth was writ deep in my flesh – I was Avri, and Avri was me.

You are given a chance. You take it. A sea of instinct and savage cruelty smothers you. You are simultaneously obsessed with tormenting your friend and desperately trying to save him. You succeed, and you fail. Then death comes, and even as you struggle you are relieved. The nightmare is finally at an end. Only, something is happening. An anchor has wrapped around your soul. It grips you. You are being sucked away, swirling and roiling outward-

-and finally, he was drawn into my blood, and I knew that Tasmaronian Barberfellow had breathed his last.