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Perrine is bounding through the forest, running for their life.
They both are- them and Kinglsey.
Perrine’s breath tears at their throat as they sprint through the undergrowth, branches clawing at their skin. Kingsley’s small hand is clammy in their grip, and they can feel the tremors rippling through their body. They both know what’s behind them. The thudding of heavy paws and the rustle of wings is unmistakable. It’s close.
It was supposed to be a simple hunting trip. Kingsley wanted to go, so Perrine allowed them to tag along. The two of them traipsed through the woods, heading towards a new hunting ground Perrine had discovered, but little did they know that that was claimed territory.
They hadn’t seen the beast until it was too late.
“Faster,” Perrine whispers, though their legs burn, and their chest is tight. Kingsley doesn’t respond—they’re too busy focusing on their footing, their eyes wide, fixed on the path ahead. The trees grow thicker here, shadows twisting between their trunks, and Perrine prays it’ll slow the manticore down.
A roar splits the air, echoing through the forest, and both of them flinch. Kingsley stumbles, their ankle twisting as they fall forward, dragging Perrine down with them. They hit the ground hard. Kingsley’s cry pierces through the sounds of the chase, and Perrine grits their teeth, scrambling to pull them up.
“No— no, come on!” Perrine hisses, tugging them upright. They can feel the hot, sour scent of fear clinging to their skin, and they shove the feeling away, focusing on Kingsley. “We have to keep moving!”
“I-I can’t— my ankle!” Kingsley’s face twists in pain, tears gathering in their eyes.
Perrine’s heart pounds. “Yes, you can. Lean on me.” They loop their arm over their shoulders and force them back to their feet. It’s slower like this, too slow. They can hear the creature tearing through the brush, the snap of branches, and the low growl that rumbles like thunder.
“Perrine, it’s coming!” Kingsley whispers, voice shrill with terror.
Perrine glances back. The manticore’s eyes gleam in the shadows—bright, predatory green—and its bat-like wings flare as it bounds forward, tail lashing behind it. They shove Kingsley ahead, urging them to keep moving, even as the pain in their legs becomes unbearable.
They can’t stop. They won’t.
Perrine’s eyes dart everywhere before falling upon something- a small hollow in the earth. They shove Kingsley toward it. “GO! In there!”
“Wh-what about you?!” Kingsley bleats.
“I’m gonna lead it away,” Perrine says. “Just— HIDE!” They shove Kingsley again before tearing off in the opposite direction.
They look, they look, and— THERE! A tree with thick, twisted branches.
Perrine’s eyes fix on it as they leap, fingers clutching at the bark. It scrapes their palms, rough and splintered, but they pull themselves up, feet scrambling for purchase. The manticore crashes through the underbrush, its snarls vibrating the leaves. Perrine hauls themselves higher, into the thicker cover of the canopy, and as they do, they feel a flicker of hope, a warmth that spreads through their chest. They’d been quick, and they’d climbed high enough. Kingsley would be safe. They might actually—
Kingsley doesn’t know how long they’ve been in that hollow, curled up into a small ball with their hands clamped over their mouth. Minutes? Hours? It’s too hard to tell. But eventually, they dare to peek their head out.
The forest is silent.
They wriggle out. They don’t see anything.
“Perrine?” they call.
No reply. Not even a growl from the manticore.
“Perrine?” they say louder.
Still nothing.
Kingsley slowly begins to walk around, searching. The manticore seems to be gone. Perrine must have chased it off! They knew they would!
“Perrine?”
They find their way to a tree with thick, twisted branches.
And they scream.
Perrine and Kingsley get home late. Cole and Clémentine immediately leap up from the couch when they hear the front door open, hurrying over to meet their friends halfway.
But…there’s only Kingsley. Perrine isn’t there.
Clémentine’s mouth opens to ask where Perrine is, where they’ve both been for the past few hours, but the words die on their tongue when they see that Kingsley is holding something.
It’s an arm.
Just an arm.
Perrine’s arm.
The manticore trundles back to its den, its hunger sated.
Within the meadow, chaos surges, enraged.
The Croon barrels into their peaceful cottage like a raging storm, warbling a horrible tune, “They’re dead! They’re dead!”
The Storyteller has never heard them shout so loudly. It’s like a great, booming crash of thunder, shattering the peace.
The cry of chaos is a heralding call of death.
The Storyteller, startled out of the relaxation of their afternoon tea with Yarrow, looks toward their front door…then the door itself, which has been blown off its hinges and is now lying flat on the floor.
“Our door,” they say mournfully.
“Dear Croon, what ails you?” the Bellringer asks, setting their teacup aside and standing up.
The Croon, standing in the now-empty doorway, is smoldering with rage—literally. Dark wisps of smog are billowing out of their nasal passage and eye holes, as though they’re burning from the inside. Their feathers stand on end like the fur of an agitated black cat. The wind howls into the house, bringing with it the scent of storm and earth. It reeks of chaos, of wild, unrestrained fury. They grip the doorframe with their talons, tearing furrows in the wood, and their hands seem to be… shaking.
But the Croon never shakes.
“They’re dead,” the Croon says, repeating it like chant. “They’re dead!”
The Storyteller and the Bellringer exchange a look, and then the Bellringer approaches slowly, hands outstretched. The Storyteller follows, a concerned frown twisting on their lips.
“Calm down,” the Bellringer says. “We cannot understand a single word you are saying. What happened? Who is dead?”
The Croon takes a deep breath, then exhales shakily, blowing out a dark cloud of mist. Then, they say, “Perrine.”
That word, that one single word, is like a lightning bolt striking the Storyteller, and when they glance sideways at the Bellringer, they know their spouse feels the same way.
“Perrine…is dead?” the Bellringer says.
Even though Perrine was neither of their chosen children, that doesn’t mean they didn’t care for the little one. Perrine is— was a good kid, despite how troubled they were. They think of the child’s wild eyes, their sharp tongue, their need for independence that so often left them storming out into the world—into danger. And now…gone. The story of their life ending abruptly with an ink blot staining the page.
“How?” the Storyteller asks, even though they don’t really want the answer.
“A manticore,” the Croon seethes. “It swallowed them whole. They didn’t even have a chance to fight back.”
Again, the Storyteller and the Bellringer exchange a look, and then they both come forward to comfort their fellow Harker.
“Oh, dear friend,” the Bellringer murmurs, setting a hand on the Croon’s feathery arm. “I am so, so sorry.”
The Croon takes another deep breath that sounds like a knife dragging over metal, then says, “Bring them back.”
The Storyteller and the Bellringer are both taken aback.
“What?” the Storyteller says, despite having heard the Croon clearly.
The mist swirling from the Croon’s orifices grows thicker, filling the room with an oppressive weight, the air tasting bitter, metallic. It’s as though all light is swallowed by the haze, leaving only the cold echo of death.
“You, who weaves the past, and you,” they point a sharp, trembling talon at the Bellringer, “who rings the bell of the future. Together, you can fix this. Undo this.”
“Oh, my dear,” the Bellringer murmurs. “I wish we could, truly, but the dead are meant to stay—”
“They are not meant to stay!” the Croon cuts them off, their voice like the rumble of the earth about to crack open. “Perrine belongs to me. They were a part of me—connected. I felt them die. Do you know what that’s like? To feel that cord snap?”
“No,” says the Storyteller. “And we’re so terribly sorry that you had to feel that and that this had to happen, but…there is a cost. If we undo death, chaos will spread far beyond your control.”
That is the wrong thing to say, as the Croon is suddenly in motion. As powerful as a flash flood, it surges forward; a clawed hand grabs the Storyteller by the throat and shoves them backward into the wall.
“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF CHAOS!” the Croon roars, their very skull rattling upon their shoulders.
“Croon—!” the Bellringer gasps, shocked at the Harker’s sudden outburst. Despite representing destruction, the Croon has always been a silent and stoic figure. It is not often that they lose their temper- not this openly, at least.
And yet, this is their true nature- the storm that comes after that calm veneer.
Wild. Savage. Untamed.
Raw.
The Storyteller chokes. Usually, they are unable to be affected by regular pain, and it’s not like they could truly die from strangulation anyway, but when it is a fellow Harker laying hands upon them, harming them, they feel it.
They pull at the Croon’s fingers with both of their hands, but it’s no use. The Croon is much stronger than them.
“Q-quell thy rage, bull,” the Storyteller manages to get out. “I am not your enemy.”
“And yet,” the Croon replies, breathing a black plume in their face.
“Dearest Croon, please listen,” the Bellringer says, trying to reason with the furious beast. “We can’t undo a life lost without consequences. Everything that has happened—Perrine’s death—it’s woven into the tapestry of the world now. Pulling at those threads would unravel so much more.”
The Croon snarls. “Consequences? You think I care about balance when Perrine is gone? I don’t give a damn about your threads or your tapestry!” Its voice rises to a shriek, the sound piercing, raw, like a storm’s howl ripping through the cottage. “I will tear this world apart myself if I have to!”
The Storyteller does not doubt that.
“Would you be this resistant if it were your leveret?”
That makes the Storyteller’s breath catch in their throat. They can’t help but picture Cole crushed in the jaws of a monster, wailing in agony. It’s a terrifying image.
The Croon releases the Storyteller abruptly, and the Storyteller thumps down to the ground. Above them, the Croon takes a step back, talons scraping against the wooden floor, leaving long, jagged marks. The air around them vibrates with the urgency of unrestrained chaos, like the last breath of a dying star.
“Consider this, dear Croon,” the Bellringer says, their tall form surprisingly steady despite the tension in the air. “If you tear apart the world to get back what you’ve lost, what will you have left? A shattered existence, a future devoid of hope.”
“Hope?” the Croon scoffs, feathers bristling. “Hope is a luxury I can no longer afford. I want Perrine back, and I want them now.”
The Bellringer steps forward, their deep-set eyes shimmering with a blend of compassion and authority. “And we want that for you, too. But we cannot do it without understanding the weight of what we’re asking. What you’re asking. If we rewrite the past to bring Perrine back, we may open a door to horrors yet unseen.”
The Croon’s breathing quickens, a storm gathering in their chest, and for a moment, the room teeters on the brink of destruction. “Let me show you!” they cry suddenly, their voice echoing through the cottage like thunder rolling over mountains. They raise their arms, and the very air around them twists, rippling with the energy of raw chaos, as if reality itself is bending to their will.
The Storyteller and the Bellringer exchange a glance filled with fear and understanding.
“What are you doing?” the Storyteller breathes, the chill of foreboding crawling up their spine.
“Everything that has existed has left a mark,” the Croon snarls, their voice now a haunting melody threaded with despair. “I will tear at those marks until I find what I seek.” The shadows that swirl around them pulse with energy, thrumming like the heartbeat of a wild beast, hungry for release.
Suddenly, the very walls of the cottage pulse with a spectral light, and visions flicker into existence—fragments of moments that have come to pass, each shimmering with the echoes of their significance. Perrine’s laughter, bright and unrestrained, dances in the air; the joyous moments of shared meals, of music, of the little things that had formed the tapestry of their existence.
“Look!” the Croon shouts, forcing the memories to coalesce into a single, vivid scene—the moment before Perrine’s last breath, before the manticore’s monstrous maw swallowed them whole. The agony ripples through the room, an invisible wave that strikes the Storyteller and the Bellringer, forcing them to confront the sheer magnitude of the Croon’s loss.
“Is this what you want?” the Bellringer’s voice trembles, almost breaking. “To relive their death over and over?”
The Croon steps closer, their talons curling with desperation as they meet the Bellringer’s gaze. “I cannot bear it, yet I must.” Their voice softens, a whisper wrapped in anguish. “They are a part of me, a piece I cannot lose.”
For a moment, silence fills the cottage, and all is still, save for the replaying image of Perrine’s gruesome demise.
Then, the Bellringer speaks, “It is not only the past or only the future that you ask us to alter. We are bound to time, Croon. To bend it…would tear it apart.”
The Croon lowers its head, the moose skull casting a long shadow across the floor. Their breath rasps, heavy with grief and pain. “You both have power. You can rewrite what was and remake what will be. I cannot do it alone.” Their voice cracks, something desperate clawing its way out. “Please.”
It is the “please” that breaks the Storyteller.
Chaos never pleads. The Croon is an eternal force, unyielding, relentless. It doesn’t beg. Ever.
But here they are, shattered by loss, a parent bereft of the child they had guarded so fiercely.
The Storyteller steps forward, placing a gentle hand on the Croon’s feathered arm. “You know the cost,” they say gently. “If we bring Perrine back, it will not be them as you remember. Something else will come in their place—something pulled from the gaps between time.”
“I don’t care what form they take,” the Croon rasps. “I only want them back. I only want them alive.”
The Storyteller and the Bellringer look at each other for a long moment.
Then, the Storyteller says, “Alright. Let us free the calf.”
Somehow, the Lark children discover their plan. The Croon believes that either the Storyteller or the Bellringer told them, but whatever the explanation may be, they insist on tagging along. Nobody tells them no.
They bring along with them something wrapped in cloth, which Clémentine holds as if it’s a fragile egg. When asked about what it is, their face grows grim, and they lift the edge of the fabric just enough to reveal a severed arm.
Perrine’s severed arm.
The sight of it just stokes the Croon’s rage further. They must move quickly and find the beast that did this.
The seven of them make their way through the woods. It’s mostly silent. Up above, the sky is growing dark with clouds laden with rain. The children don’t talk much; the oppressive weight of loss and grief hangs upon their small shoulders like a heavy mantle. They are all mourning the gruesome death of their dear friend.
But not for much longer.
They will get Perrine back.
“Do you think we can really bring Perrine back?” Cole finally asks, breaking the silence that had settled between them all like a thick fog, their voice trembling with uncertainty.
The Storyteller turns to them, a reassuring smile lighting up their features despite the sorrow in their heart. “We will do everything we can, but we must remain grounded in what is possible. Hope, dear ones, is not the absence of fear; it is the belief that we can overcome it.”
Clémentine nods, though uncertainty lingers in their gaze. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if… what if we fail?”
The Bellringer kneels down to meet their eyes, their bipedal goat form towering yet comforting. “Then we will honor Perrine’s memory in the way we live our lives,” they say softly. “They will always be a part of us, no matter the outcome.”
This seems to soothe the children, at least somewhat, and they all continue on their way.
When the wind shifts, and the sky rumbles overhead, the Croon knows they’re getting close. The chilled breeze brings the scent of fur and drool.
They’re in the manticore's territory.
The Enkindled stops suddenly, holding up a spindly hand. “Wait.”
They all halt.
The Bellringer tips their head upward, nose twitching, ears fanning out. The Storyteller shifts a bit closer to the children. The Croon’s claws splay open, primed for blood.
“Is it here?” the Storyteller asks, their voice but a whisper on the wind. The smell of rain is slowly becoming more and more pungent- the storm will soon be upon them.
“Indeed,” the Enkindled answers. “Tread lightly…”
They do so, their footsteps making nary a rustle in the grass and fallen leaves.
But even still, the beast hears them.
Cole is the first to see it- “THERE IT IS!”
And then the others follow suit, their heads swinging around to the left.
The manticore emerges from the underbrush, its rich earth-brown fur glistening in the sparse light, brindled in green along its back. Its creamy underbelly swells and contracts with each breath, the black hackles rising like a crest of malevolence along its spine, leading into a thick black mane that billows in the frigid air. Green horns curl back from its head, sharp and lethal, while its scorpion tail whips through the air, poised to strike. Bat wings unfurl, casting a shadow over the ground as it snarls, revealing a mouth filled with jagged teeth.
The Croon steps forward. “You have something that belongs to me.”
The manticore narrows its slitted green eyes, paws digging into the soft earth beneath it.
“You will regret ever leaving the safety of your mother’s womb.”
With a roar that shatters the stillness, the manticore lunges forward, its powerful legs propelling it through the underbrush. The Croon meets its charge head-on, a whirlwind of feathers and fury.
Horns crash against antlers as the two collide. Like a pair of territorial bull moose, they wrestle against one another, locked together in their blind rage.
But it’s the strength of the Croon that wins out. It snaps its neck to the side, nearly twisting its skull upside down, the motion causing the manticore to lose its balance and collapse down onto its side.
The first blow lands as the manticore is trying to get back onto its feet. Talons glisten as they swipe madly at the manticore’s exposed underbelly. The Croon’s reckless attack finds purchase, ripping through fur and flesh, sending a spray of dark, crimson blood splattering against the earth—a vivid splash of life amidst the muted greens and browns of the forest. The beast roars in pain, thrashing in retaliation, rearing back onto its paws. Huddled behind the other Harkers a distance away, the children watch, a mixture of horror and awe painting their faces, as the Croon moves like liquid night, a shadow in a world of form.
With a quick pivot, the manticore strikes back, its scorpion tail slicing through the air with lethal precision. But the Croon is faster, slipping out of the way, their laughter echoing in the darkness—chaotic and wild, a sound that dances on the precipice of sanity.
“You think you can take me?” they taunt, a glint of mischief flaring in their eyes, like flames flickering in the hollow of their skull. “I AM THE STORM!”The manticore, enraged, beats its wings, lifting from the ground. Dust swirls, catching the last dying rays of sunlight before the clouds swallow it up, painting the air with a golden hue. It dives, this time aiming for the Croon’s head, but the Croon anticipates the move, arching backward with an eerie grace.
The air crackles with energy as the Croon ducks and weaves, feathers rustling violently like the wings of a storm. Claws clash like swords as the two exchange blows, darting all around the clearing, unimpeded by the trees.
The manticore reels back, its wings thrashing in the air in a desperate attempt to gain distance, but the Croon does not relent. They surge forward, their eyes locked onto the beast, every muscle coiled like a drawn bow. Their talons catch the manticore’s shoulder, and they wrench it down again, forcing it to the ground. Then, it grabs a wing and tears it in twain.
The agonized roar of pain that explodes from the manticore is like thunder.
The Croon continues its assault. It swings and claws, ripping through any inch of flesh within reach of its rage. The manticore tries to fend off its attacks, but it is no match for a Harker.
And yet, as blood pours from it, there’s something terrifyingly alive about it—a beast fighting for survival with every fiber of its being.
The Croon is determined to snuff out that spark.
The manticore lashes its head, making the Croon step back just enough for it to stab its tail forward. But it’s not good enough. The Croon is gone, blinking away like a shadow exposed to sunlight, and the manticore’s tail continues to fly in an arc, even after the Croon is out of the way, until it crashes into a tree. The barb gets lodged in the bark, and the manticore makes a startled sound as it tugs, trying to get free.
The Croon is quickly upon it.
Slashing downward, the Croon cleaves straight through the manticore’s tail. Gouts of blood spurt out, and the manticore shrieks, tottering backward. Without its tail, its balance is greatly impacted, and it wobbles unsteadily, barely able to keep itself upright.
Perfect.
Like a storm surge, the Croon launches forward. Their antlers crack into the manticore’s chest first, forcing it to rear upward on its haunches, and then their claws swing, rending a deep gash straight across the beast’s throat.
Blood sprays like rain, painting the Croon’s skull red. The manticore staggers back, jaw hanging open as it begins to drown in its own viscera.
It does not go out peacefully.
It takes maybe two minutes for the manticore to finally stop gurgling and moving. Now, it lays still in the dirt, blood slowly pooling around it.
The once mighty manticore has been reduced to nothing more than a vessel—one that still holds what remains of Perrine.
For a moment, there’s silence.
Then, Kingsley speaks up, their voice a mere squeak of a mouse, “You… you did it!”
“I-it’s dead!” Cole says.
“Indeed,” the Croon rumbles, raising an arm to wipe the blood off of their face. “But our job is far from over.”
The Croon glances down at the manticore’s belly. They know what must be done, and though the thought twists their insides, they refuse to let hesitation show. “Stand back,” they command, voice low and steady. “This will not be pleasant.”
“Wh-what are you gonna do?” Cole asks, wide-eyed.
“I am going to get Perrine out of their prison,” the Croon replies.
The Storyteller sets a hand on Cole’s shoulder, turning them away. “Stay strong, little one. This is the part where the past must be pulled from the belly of the beast.”
The Bellringer, holding Clémentine and Kingsley’s faces to their stomach to shield the young one’s eyes, murmurs, “And the future rebuilt from what remains.”
The Croon’s talons flash, and they plunge them into the manticore’s flesh. It’s a grisly task, the skin parting with a sickening, wet sound as they pull and tear, making an opening wide enough to reach into the beast’s body. The manticore’s fur, once a majestic blend of earth and green, is now stained a deep, dark crimson, the scent of iron overpowering.
They feel around before finding what they’re looking for. Carefully, they slice away the connective visceral fascia, then they tug out the stomach. It sloshes, the contents shifting inside, and they lay it on the ground. It’s a large, fat pinkish-red sack, bloated with fluids.
The Croon exchanges a look with the Enkindled, who stands by their side, ready to assist.
“This will not be pleasant,” says the Enkindled.
The Croon responds with a hum of agreement, then drags one single claw downward over the side of the stomach, slitting it open with ease. The contents spill onto the ground—a slurry of half-digested meat, a few sharp claws, clumps of fur, and fragments of bone. The stench of blood and bile pours free alongside the mess, and the children all gag, but the Harkers don’t even flinch.
Slowly, methodically, the Croon reaches into the open stomach. Their claws dig through the viscera, pulling aside melted remains. Then, their hand stills.
“What is it?” asks the Storyteller, noticing their pause.
The Croon is still for a moment longer, then they withdraw their hand slowly, grasping a small, delicate bone.
Perrine’s bone.
The first of many.
Their hands dive back into the gore. They pull out more: the delicate curve of a ribcage, the slender bones of legs, each piece marred by the creature’s acidic innards but miraculously unbroken.
The children stand by in silence, their eyes glistening with tears. They’ve never had to face death like this—so raw, so physical. It’s not like the stories they’ve read or even personal experiences they’ve lived through. This is real, and it hurts.
It takes a while, but nobody ever said digging out one hundred and seventy-six bones (subtracting the thirty from the arm they already have) from a manticore’s stomach would be easy. Each new bone retrieved from the gut is carefully set aside in a pile that is slowly growing. By the end of it, the Croon is nearly slimed up to their shoulders in blood, and everyone has grown used to the stench of stomach acid and death.
The skull comes out last, and the Croon’s hands tremble ever so slightly as they cradle it in their palms. Streams of blood trickle like tears from the hollows where Perrine’s multicolored eyes should be. They don’t put this one down.
“There,” says the Croon. “That should be all of them.”
Kingsley dares to glance at the pile of bones, and they look sick. “I-is that really Perrine?” they utter.
“For now,” the Croon says. “But not for much longer.”
The Bellringer looks over the remains. “We have what we need,” they say softly. “But we must work quickly. The longer they are apart, the harder it will be to mend them.”
The Enkindled steps forward, their bark mask shifting slightly as they kneel beside the bones. “Order must be restored,” they say. “This is only the beginning.”
The Croon nods, their bloody talons still holding Perrine’s skull. “Then we will do what we must.”
“H-how do we put them together?” Cole asks. They’re crying, the Croon notices.
The Croon’s hollow eyes fix on the bones. “We piece them together as best we can,” they say, voice rough with emotion. “Then, the Storyteller and the Bellringer can begin their work.”
The Storyteller nods. “There is an order to these things, a careful weave we must follow.”
“I will ring the future into place once the past is properly unbound,” the Bellringer says.
The Storyteller steps forward, their fingers trailing over the earth as they trace a rune in the dirt. The lines twist and coil like serpents, intersecting at jagged angles, forming a shape that seems alive, thrumming with ancient power. It’s an open wound carved into the world, a tear in the fabric of time itself.
The Croon and the Enkindled begin to put together Perrine’s skeleton in the center of this rune, arranging the bones with the reverence one might reserve for precious relics. Every touch is weighted with great care, and not a single piece is out of place.
“The arm,” the Enkindled says.
Clémentine passes over Perrine’s arm, the only thing left of their true flesh. The Enkindled places it on their right side.
Finally, the skull. The Croon’s claws gently caress the crown as they put it down.
“Alright,” says the Storyteller, approaching the edge of the rune. Their guitalele is in hand, ready. “Stand back.”
Everyone except the Bellringer moves away, allowing the two to do their job. The Storyteller looks across the rune at their spouse, standing on the other side, and they exchange a nod and a firm glance.
The Storyteller strums once, twice, three times, and then, their voice rises, a low and mournful sound that hums through the air like the whisper of the wind through hollow reeds. It’s a dirge, a lament, and a spell all at once. The notes carry an echo of grief and longing, the sorrow of what has been lost and the desperate hope of what can be found. Their voice deepens, resonating from somewhere ancient and aching, pulling at the seams of the past, unraveling them stitch by stitch.
As the song swells with power, the rune begins to glow, an eerie green light seeping from the dirt, crawling up like ghostly fingers. The edges of the rune tremble, the ground shivering beneath its power. The children watch, eyes wide, as the light spills over Perrine’s bones, drenching them in the glow. It’s beautiful and terrible—a river of life and death mingling as one.
Above, the storm seems to hear the ritual going on down below, and it responds. Clouds churn, swirling into a dark vortex that spins, restless, as if caught in the Storyteller’s pull. The sky bleeds from gray to a deep green, streaks of black and purple twisting in the tumult.
The dirge grows louder, more insistent, and the Storyteller’s body shudders, their fingers twitching as they pull on the past, thread by thread, pulling memories from the dark. The air thickens, electric and sharp, tasting of iron and rain. But the Storyteller never flinches, and the song does not falter.
The Bellringer begins to circle the rune, each step a beat that adds to the rhythm of the dirge, their movements a slow, twisting dance. Their bells clatter, a symphony that rings out across the clearing, cutting through the veil between past and future.
The sky is awash in green. The vortex churns above the rune like a whirlpool. Thunder rumbles like a monster waiting to pounce.
The Storyteller’s voice crescendos, and in that moment, the past breaks open. The wound they’ve carved spills out memories, images of Perrine, fleeting glimpses of their laughter, their light. The air fills with echoes—the sound of Perrine’s voice, the rustle of leaves under their feet, the scent of pine and earth that had clung to their clothes. All the fragments of a life once lived, now unraveling, hanging in the air like smoke.
The Bellringer then joins in on the song, their voice rising over the Storyteller’s as they sew each torn seam back together. They gather the memories, pulling threads of the past and stitching them into new shapes. The bells ring louder, their tolls rippling through time, and the wound begins to mend. The glow intensifies, a fierce blaze that bathes the clearing in light, as Yarrow remakes the story, one thread at a time.
Perrine’s skeleton trembles at the center of the rune. Blood from the manticore races across the ground to gather around it. The bones shift, joints reconnecting, ribs folding into place. The glow sinks into each piece, and where bone once lay, new flesh begins to form—thin and translucent at first, like the petal of a newborn leaf.
The light wraps around the skull, softening its sharp edges as it molds into the shape of a face—Perrine’s face. Hair, fine and dark, sprouts from the scalp, growing as if carried by the wind, until it falls in loose waves over their brow. Veins, red and blue, map themselves beneath the skin, pulsing with a rhythm like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
The Storyteller’s song becomes a whisper, a lullaby cradling Perrine’s form, coaxing life from the skeleton. Yarrow’s bells slow, their tolls like a heartbeat, steady and sure. Perrine’s body reshapes, muscle knitting over bone, skin sealing itself into place. Their chest rises, a shuddering gasp as air rushes into newly formed lungs, the first breath drawn from the remnants of their own past.
But they’re not done. Not even close.
This is just a mold.
And it needs to be filled.
The storm roars, and the sky splits open, pouring down rain. The drops sizzle against the earth, steaming as they hit the growing figure. Lightning dances above, casting brief, violent light over the scene as the flesh covers every inch of bone, blood and muscle surging back into place. The air smells sharp, like ozone and iron.
Then, Perrine’s body jolts. They’re dragged into the air, suspended like a marionette on strings. The Storyteller’s song dips into a deeper, more mournful tone as the transformation shifts, something darker, more primal unfolding.
The Bellringer raises their hands high, their voice swelling in command. The manticore’s corpse—ripped and torn—shudders where it lies. Pieces of its flesh peel off from its body like the pages of a notebook caught in a harsh wind, fluttering toward Perrine. They wrap around their arms and chest like living threads. The manticore’s mane—thick and wild—winds itself into Perrine’s hair, fusing with the dark waves that ripple from their scalp. Their face, once fragile, begins to harden, the soft features reshaping as the power of the beast sinks into them.
Green horns curl slowly from Perrine’s temples, gleaming wet in the rain, growing longer with every pulse of the Bellringer’s song. Their legs lengthen, then split, and the sinewy muscle of the manticore threads itself into their skin, knitting the bones and tendons with brutal efficiency. A low, guttural growl escapes Perrine’s mouth, though their eyes remain shut, trapped in this strange limbo between life and death.
Perrine’s body contorts, their skin rupturing momentarily as the magic fuses with flesh, blood seeping out in rivulets before closing again, sealing the transformation. The lightning cracks above, a jagged flash of light that reflects off their reshaped body, no longer fully childlike, but something in between—something otherworldly.
The Storyteller’s dirge falls into a hushed, trembling note as the Bellringer reaches the final chord. The storm above ripples, and for a moment, time seems to freeze. Perrine’s body hovers still, rain dripping from their claws like blood, suspended in a cocoon of raw, unleashed power. The storm gathers into a furious crescendo, clouds spinning tighter and tighter until, with a thunderous eruption of green light, Perrine is lowered to the ground.
The air stills. The storm recedes.
And Perrine is made anew.
Something twisting, turning, changing.
It feels like they’re being yanked back and forth, their flesh wrenching and contorting. Melting. Reshaping. Being remade into something new—something horrible, something that deserves to die.
And then, they gasp. Cough. Almost scream. Bright light stabs their retinas and forces them to squint.
“Woah, woah, woah!” A voice, speaking to them, coaxing. Is that…Yarrow the Bellringer?
They breathe in deeply, shakily, and they can smell goat. They can smell so many things. Trees, feathers, pine, hay, blood. Their stomach growls.
When they get their eyes open, they do, in fact, see Yarrow the Bellringer. The Storyteller is right at their side. The Bellringer’s furry hands are held up in a placating gesture, as though trying to calm a wild animal. “Easy, easy… Take it slow, little one.”
They’re…out.
They’re out.
Perrine’s mouth opens and closes like a trout reeled out of water, and they sputter incoherently. Their heart thumps against their chest - a panicked, drumming beat. A mixture of emotions floods their body, their mind racing and reeling and struggling to figure out how to process everything.
“Wh-what?” they rasp, the word a ghost of a noise leaving their lips. Their voice sounds…weird. And their mouth…also feels weird. Their tongue darts out, running over two sharp teeth sticking out of their lower lips, almost like pig tucks.
What the…?
“You just had…an experience,” the Bellringer explains, which is one word to describe being eaten alive. “Just take it easy for a moment.”
Down below, Perrine sees the other two Harkers, the Croon and the Enkindled, along with all of their friends- Kingsley and Cole and Clémentine.
They all look…worried. And a little scared. And…why are they looking up at them? They know they’re the tallest of the Lark, but even the Harkers are looking up at them a little.
Everything feels…a bit off. Like something had been twisted in places that it shouldn’t have.
They look down at themself…
“No, Perrine—” the Storyteller tries to say.
…and they see something horrific.
Their torso…is attached to the lower body of the manticore. Like some kind of fucked up centaur.
Perrine shrieks. They totter backward, and their four legs scramble beneath them, unsteady and heavy. Completely involuntarily, they rear up like a startled horse, foreclaws tearing at the empty air, and they feel something stretch wide from their back— lower back— the beast’s back - are those wings?
And then, they fall right over, keeling onto their back with a tremendous crash. They see and feel a long tail waving wildly behind them, uncomfortably yanking on their spine from side to side.
“Woah, woah, woah, calm down! Calm down!” the Storyteller tries to say, rushing over, but how dare they say that? How can they possibly calm down?!
Perrine’s heart beats frantically, and their breathing is rapid and shallow, like they’re on the verge of a mental breakdown.
“Calm down?!” they exclaim, and their voice is wrong now. “I can’t CALM DOWN!”
They struggle to right themself, somehow managing to flop from their back onto their stomach. Their forefeet— forepaws— they don’t know what these are, but they extend outward, claws ripping furrows through the floor. Their tail thrashes without their consent, and they hear a yelp from someone that they must have almost stabbed with the venomous stinger. Their human hands, now tipped by claws, reach up to clutch their head; their hair has the texture of a lion’s mane, and they have horns. They begin to hyperventilate.
Perrine’s mind races with panicked thoughts, a thousand mewling concerns colliding and crashing and smashing together like wood beneath an axe. Their body feels wrong, wrong, wrong— like it no longer belongs to them and that someone has made them into a grotesque mockery of themself. Their lungs burn and heave, and they can hardly breathe. Hot tears burn at their eyes, and they close them tight, tight, tight, desperately trying to block out the horrible sensations from their body and mind.
A cascade of dizzying nausea sweeps over Perrine. All four of their legs are bucking and scrabbling at the ground like a drowning animal trying to swim, and their wings won’t stop spasming, and their tail whips back and forth uncontrollably. There’s too much movement in their body. They’re used to having four limbs—two arms, two legs. Now there’s nine limbs—two arms, four legs, two wings, one tail. Their muscles are being wrenched all over the place– bunch and pull, wrest and tug. It’s beginning to border on full sensory overload.
The sickening feeling of it all makes them gag, their stomach clenching, and their throat heaving like they’re trying to throw up, only nothing comes out of their mouth except thick red blood that burns like fire.
It’s a whirlwind of sensations and stimuli that threaten to drown them in a whirlpool of madness. Discomfort is all they can feel. Their new limbs don’t move how they want them to, flailing and lashing and thrashing wildly. Their tail writhes frantically, and the tendons in their wings visibly throb. The muscles of their body ache painfully as they strain and struggle to function in a way that is totally unnatural for them.
Perrine lets out a horrible, desperate wail of anguish. Too much. Too much! Their brain can’t keep up with everything happening to them at once. They feel like their senses are being assaulted with a never-ending torrent of chaos and confusion. Their body is twisting and straining and moving all on its own, outside of their control, and they can’t stop it. They can’t stop it, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
Everything is wrong. Everything is wrong and wrong and wrong. This is not their body- this thing that they’re stuck inside of, it is wrong, so, so wrong!
“Why?!” they scream. “ WHY? WHY? WHY?!”
They claw at their body frantically, at the space where their waist melts with the shoulders of the beast, digging long, deep furrows into their own flesh. But no, no, that thing isn’t their own flesh, the body that they’re stuck in…they’re not the one who’s bleeding…are they?
“Perrine!” It’s the Croon, their voice booming and grabbing Perrine’s attention. It steps forward. “We had no other choice.”
Perrine’s legs skitter, scramble, slide unsteadily on the floor, and then, some kind of deep, bestial instinct takes over. They rears up on their haunches, looming over the Croon and the others. Their wings stretch outward, and they roar, “I WOULD RATHER BE DEAD!”
The Croon stares, bewildered, and they genuinely seem remorseful. “Perrine…”
It’s too much. The weight of everything that’s happening to their body- too much.
Perrine swats a massive forefoot at the Croon, tearing trenches across the face of its skull. Then, they take off, bounding through the woods and smashing through anything that stands in their way. Their wings flap, flap, flap, and then they’re propelled into the air.
They don’t know where they’re going. They don’t know what they’re running from.
After all, they can’t run from their own body.
It’s hard to fly. Trying to control their wings is foreign and difficult. They barely want to listen to them.
They begin to plummet, and it’s the lake that breaks their fall. There’s a huge SPLASH, and water gurgles around them, blurring their vision.
They let themself sink.
Perrine lays at the edge of the lake. Their body feels so heavy, wet fur weighing them down.
So much for drowning. Seems like the length that they’re able to hold their breath has been greatly extended with two sets of lungs.
They can see their reflection on the surface of the water, and they slam a paw down on it. They don’t want to see it.
Once, they had been just Perrine—an ordinary child with a fierce spirit and a strong love for their friends. Now, they felt like a monster, a broken thing stitched together from the remains of a creature that had taken their life.
What a cruel joke.
A branch cracks behind them, and one of Perrine’s fuzzy lion ears twitches back. They’re able to tell who it is before they even speak- their nose is much more powerful now, so they’re able to easily discern Kingsley from their scent.
“P-Perrine?” the child squeaks.
“What?” Perrine says.
“A-are you okay?” Kingsley asks timidly.
Perrine scoffs. “What do you think, Kingsley?”
Kingsley is quiet. Perrine can hear them shuffling around nervously.
“I… I’m sorry…”
That takes Perrine by surprise. They look over their shoulder.
Kingsley has their head bowed, shoulders shaking as they wipe at their face. “I’m sorry, Perrine,” they whimper. “I-I should have said something, told them to stop doing all that m-magic stuff… I-I just wanted you back! I d-d-didn’t know it would be like this! I’m sorry!”
Perrine hates seeing them cry. They want to reach out and brush their tears away, but their clawed hands stop them. What if they accidentally hurt them?
“It’s… it’s not your fault,” Perrine says. “This isn’t on you or Cole or Clemmie. But still…”
“I d-didn’t want you to be g-g-gone forever!” Kingsley says.
“I’m hardly myself anymore, anyway,” Perrine says back. “I’m a monster.”
Kingsley’s eyes widened, a flicker of hurt crossing their features. “You’re not a monster,” they protested, stepping closer, their small hands balled into fists at their sides. “You’re still you. You’re still my friend.”
Perrine felt a lump forming in their throat. They couldn’t fathom how Kingsley could say such things with the truth so stark before them. “Kingsley—”
Kingsley rushes forward, throwing their arms around Perrine’s bestial chest- the only place they can reach. Perrine flinches, and their tail thrashes, but they fight the instinct to sting.
“You’re still Perrine!” Kingsley insists. “You’re still my big sibling and best friend!”
Those words strike a chord in Perrine. They set a shaking, clawed hand on Kingsley’s head. “I… I’ll try to be…”
Deep within the earth, far beyond the veil of real life, the entirety of reality shifts ever so slightly. A crack opens up - seething. Small.
For now.