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When I awoke, I had been transformed.
Draven was bellowing for me to rise and shine.
Blearily, I sat up in my bedroll, rubbing my eyes. As I lowered my hands, I froze.
Markings covered both of my arms. Patterns twisting and curling, weaving together in a complex tapestry of lines and shapes. I traced the markings with my fingers. They glowed softly in the darkness of my tent, gleaming like silver paint.
I pushed the flap of my tent open and crawled out, feeling panicked and confused. Perhaps I was imagining things and in the light of day they'd be gone, simply a figment of my khorva-addled brain.
But as I emerged in the morning light and saw Draven glance over, then freeze where he stood, I knew they were no figment.
“What are they?” I demanded, rubbing at my arms, as if I could brush the markings off.
In the daylight, the silver was slightly less vivid but the patterns continued to shimmer and swirl.
Draven was still staring at me. Truly staring. Not just at my arms, I realized. At all of me.
I ran my fingers through my hair. It was full of knots and tangles. I pulled a handful over my shoulder and looked down at the messy tresses. My breath hitched in my throat. The color was even more distinctive than it had been the day before. A true silver, a liquid metal that glistened and glowed like the marks on my arms.
I looked down at my arms, my wrists, my hands, holding them outstretched in front of me, and realized the markings were not the only difference. My very skin had changed. It had taken on a paler, almost translucent quality. There was an ethereal golden tinge to it that had not been there before. I moved my arms this way and that, watching as the light made my skin gleam and shine.
"What is this? What's happening to me?" My voice was hoarse, my words a demand.
As if Draven would somehow have an answer for everything. As if he could possibly explain this.
Still, I looked up at him expectantly, my heart pounding.
He looked back at me, green eyes smoldering, then took a deep breath, and ran both hands through his thick black hair.
“I don’t see any claws or horns,” was all he said before turning away and beginning to saddle the horses.
I was so taken with my new self, so absorbed in looking at my skin, at the markings that covered my arms, that it took me until evening to realize all was not well.
Draven had pressedus hard. We had traveled the whole day with hardly a break.
As the sun set, we found a clearing and stopped to make camp.
I slid off Haya, eager to stretch my legs. But when I turned, Draven was still astride the piebald, his expression strange.
I stepped closer. He was looking ahead, into the trees, his eyes dull and glassy.
“Draven!” I reached a hand out to touch his leg, and he jumped. As he turned his head to meet my gaze, I saw the deep lines of pain etched on his face.
I cursed under my breath. Despite his attempts to dismiss his wound as a mere scratch, something was seriously wrong.
He slid off his horse, with none of his usual grace, and stumbled over to lean against a tree.
“Did you find an apothecary yesterday? Or a healer?” I felt a stab of guilt. I had been so wrapped up in my own problems that I had not even asked.
He shook his head, then cleared his throat. “They were at the festival. Shops were closed.” His voice was a gravelly rasp.
I licked my lips. “I see. The wound is troubling you more today. That's obvious.”
“I'm fine,” he insisted, exactly as I had expected him to. “I just need rest and food.”
“Very well.” I hesitated, then stepped up to try to take his arm. Glaring, he pushed me away–not roughly but with enough force that I knew not to make the attempt a second time.
Still, I was relieved. If he could glare at me with such ferocity, he was probably not about to die overnight.
