The light was bright as he opened his eyes, despite the part of him that knew it ought to be only a dimly illuminated room. Even opening his eyelids was a strange sensation, something off-putting and indescribably alien about it. He was like a youngster trying on new clothes for the first time, feeling the way that the larger leather slid over his skin. Only , in his case, it was not leather but new flesh that he worked with a cautious curiosity. He did not know what this feeling was, of awkwardness and unsurety in one’s own body, perhaps because he did not know what he imagined that it would feel like. He had merely died, his spirit floating free, and then he had been drawn to this vessel. It had been brief, to him, almost an instant. There had been no time for hesitant predictions, for imaginings of possibilities and anticipation. It simply was.

And perhaps that was the most apt way to describe how he felt, as wel, as he gazed nervously around the room. There was a sharpness to his eyes that he had not felt before, as if the smallest of details that had previously gone unnoticed were not clear before him. He saw the hairs of the moss, where before he had not even bothered to look. He saw the veins of the stone, stained dark by rivulets of water. But not just his sight, the other senses felt heightened as well. His smell was a palette, a myriad of scents and flavors that mingled together, distinct in his mind where before he might have just dismissed them all was wet and damp. Now he could smell a cloying sweetness in the air, perhaps from the moss, even. There was a pervasive odor of musk as well, no doubt from the king and the other demons that wandered these tunnels. It clung to the air like some cloying mist, masking over all other scents that tried to sneak their way on the wind.

Hearing as well, he realized as the dripping of water made his ears twitch towards the source of the sound. Not just his left anymore—it came from behind him, perhaps two strides back and a half to the left. No longer needed he even turn, the notion came to him as surely as blinking. It was a fact, just as sure as he was that when he gazed upon a blue sky, that it was truly blue. It was a trust in this new vessel, in this new body of his—and that sensation of trust and faith suddenly stirred up a rising feeling of jubilation.

His heart began to beat faster as he flexed his hands, gazing down to find long, slender fingers tipped with short claws. They were grey with hide, cracked, leathery skin covering his hands. Veins and muscles worked underneath the surface, bristling with strength and brimming with power that made him marvel. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the euphoria of his newfound senses mingle and churn inside of his head. This feeling of raw joy and excitement continued to build, even as he hunched his legs and slowly began to stand, feeling the muscles work and the tendons tighten with a prideful pleasure. He was standing, he realized. He was standing, and on his own two feet.

Willem gazed down, almost hesitant as if it were some dream that would shimmer away if he looked too closely. Two leathery, long legs were under him, almost deerlike in shape. They were thin but packed with muscle, from thighs to calves, and ending in three short toes resembling hooves. Even as he stood, he could feel the barely restrained power there, that could send him bounding upwards without a moment’s hesitation. If he wished to, he could jump right now and find himself soaring perhaps two arm’s lengths above the ground. The temptation was almost too much to resist, the primal joy of this new body almost driving away all other thought.

He wanted nothing more than to bolt out of these confined tunnels to the surface, to run across the Outlands. He wanted nothing more than to test this new body of his, to take sharp corners on the stones, the dust pluming behind him as he chased after some wild creature. He wanted nothing more than to race with the other demons, to leap and bound as far as he could. He could see himself even now, the wind streaking across his skin as his ran, each strong step sending dust and dirt behind him. All that he had never had, all that he had ever wanted—he could have it now.

“Enjoying yourself?” the king growled with heaving shoulders, breaking him out of his thoughts suddenly. He turned sharply, blinking in surprise before peeling his lips back. His tongue ran over his teeth, the sensation strange and foreign as he felt the wickedly curved fangs in his mouth, almost threatening to cut the muscle. The king made a grimacing smile, the gesture defeated by the exhaustion that made itself apparent on the demon’s face.

“A—are you alright?” Willem asked, only to be shocked by the sound of his own voice in his ears. It was nothing like the boyish tone that he was used to all his life; this new voice of his was like churning stone, grating in his throat. Even his mouth was not used to the words, his tongue uncertain of where to go. He found himself speaking slowly, trying to shape out what he wished to say half a breath before adding air. “You s—seem...tired.”

The king waved a clawed hand, pushing itself upright with a growl and a hiss. “No time. To be a mewling pup.” Breathlessness made its sentences choppy and guttural as it began to turn to leave the room, pausing for a moment before gesturing for Willem to follow. “Work to be done. Skal’va to kill.” As if those words were all that were needed to be said, the demon promptly strode out of the room back into the tunnels, a slight tremor in its legs that did not go unnoticed to Willem’s new eyes.

Even as he swiftly followed, he could not help but continue to marvel at this body of his. He could feel the tremors in the ground as they walked, could hear the echoes of the water and their scraping steps on the stone. Where before these tunnels had seemed an untraversable labyrinth, now he found them to be unmistakably distinct. Every fork in the road was its own, just from the way that the stone sloped. If he was lost, he could tell which way he had came from just by the echoes of his steps. This was not something that he sought out, not something that he was focused on. Instead, he merely found himself recalling the path to the surface while walking, noting the smells and sounds at each corner with an instinctive, habitual action.

And when they finally did reach the surface, Willem found the king stopping for a brief moment, as if to catch its breath. “The girl.” it hissed after a moment, turning to flash a short glance at him. “Your girl. I cannot smell her.”

Willem started in surprise, the words confusing him. “What do you mean? She ought to still be resting underground.” They had placed her there to heal, for there were no furnishings above the ground safe enough to be used for someone still healing. He had even been hopeful after intervening mentally with his magic, hopeful that she might recover. Yet the look that the king was flashing him now made a sudden hook of danger latch onto his stomach. Those were not the eyes of someone with good news to bear; he knew it too well.

“I smelled your sister nearby. During the magic.” the king growled, still shaking its head from side to side as if hoping to catch a scent on the flowing wind. “When we finished I did not smell her.” the demon bared its fangs in irritation, or perhaps in a threatening gesture. “She has left.”

“Left?” Willem replied incredulously, the sound harsh and keening to his sharp ears. “Why...would she? The magic worked, no?”

The demon threw him a blank stare, its expression unreadable even as it locked gazes with him. “I do not know. But she is gone.”

Willem shook his head, still not daring to believe. “She...can’t be. She can’t just leave the Outlands. Surely...she is still here somewhere?”

A low hiss escaped the king’s throat, almost snakelike to his ears. “That is what vexes me. She ought not. She ought to be in the wind. But she is not.” The king turned to face him, throwing its arms out wide. “You cannot smell her either, no? She is gone. Gone by whatever black madness the skal use. I smell them not, and I smell her not.”

Willem’s eyes widened. “The skal? But surely...she would not join them.” He had to have faith in Kat, if nothing else. Faith in her, why? That small voice rose up in him, unbidden and undesired. She saw Faith too; who is she to resist. You failed to save her—now she is gone. But he refused to believe it, refused to accept it.

“I smelled not Sin.” the king continued, those mismatched eyes becoming half-lidded almost in memory. “I smelled not the skal’ai. I smelled not Faith on her. And now her scent vanishes.” The demon shook its head, its prominent horns almost seeming to carve through the air. “No, she is gone. There is no catching a shadow, and that is what she is now.”

“Then, what?” he demanded, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. He could not just accept that he lost one of his friends, not so soon after a success. This new body of his, this new future of his, why did it never come without a price? Norus recovering, Kat gone, and skal’va on the horizon. Would he never be rid of this? “What now, that she is gone? Shall we flee from the shadows? Shall we run from the skal’va, before the devour the land.” He became almost hysterical, fangs drawing blood where they slashed his tongue in his haste, but he did not care.

The demon king wheeled about to face him, those claws swiftly grabbing his arms as that snapping muzzle thrust in close. Slaver dripped from those jaws, madness flickering in those eyes. The demon’s curved horns pressed into his temples, threatening to draw blood even through his new hide. The fright was enough to shock sense back into Willem, his mouth slamming shut almost comically as he held his breath. For a moment, there was only the hot air on his face as the demon exhaled slowly, every muscle of its body taut with tension.

“We... do not...run.” it growled lowly, and Willem noticed behind it that more demons were beginning to gather, attracted by the spectacle and their king. Soon enough, there was a quiet crowd, not a sound being made as they listened to what their king had to say. “We...do not flee.”

“The skal’va can die. This Faith can die. I’ve killed their ilk before. The second hunt will be easier. And behind me,” it rumbled, gesturing to the assembled crowd, “is my pack. We will not run. We will hunt.” The demons murmured in assent, striking their claws against the ground in rattling cadence.

“We will not cower behind these stones.” the king continued, growing louder now. “We will not hide like prey! We will not run like prey! We have claws. We have fangs. If they come for us, they will find flame waiting.” There was more madness in those eyes, a fervent hatred for the skal’va and all that they were.

The king turned suddenly, wheeling about to face the crowd. “MY PACK IS STRONG!” it howled, throwing its head to the sky. A resounding chorus answered him, a cacophony of hisses and grunts and howls and wails in a show of indomitable solidarity. The king turned to Willem then, its voice growing quiet.

“Will you hunt?” it asked, and Willem drew in a sharp breath, feeling the weight of their gazes upon him. It was a moment before he gave a terse nod, answering, “I will hunt.” The demon struck a clawed fist against his chest, their air crackling with magic that emanated around it like an aura.

“Then we hunt the shadows.” came the king’s command.