? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The Guild of Shadows' dungeon operated like a finely tuned machine. Torches cast flickering shapes upon damp walls where water droplets glinted like the eyes of hidden vermin. The air reeked of iron, wax, and mold, but the silence was as keen as a razor. Violetta stood in the center of the hall, clad in nondescript grey. Her ears and tail were concealed beneath a heavy mantle.

  The training was merciless. A labyrinth of stone corridors threw traps at her: falling nets, floor spikes, and arrows whistling through the pitch-black. Violetta ran, dodged, and occasionally fell. Once, an arrow grazed her shoulder, shredding her clothes, but her skin—as always—remained unmarred. Dirt simply slid off her hair and tail as if from a polished surface.

  "Did you see that?" a gaunt boy with a face wrap whispered. "What kind of creature is she?"

  Her Visor tracked the trajectories of the bolts. With every session, her movements became more fluid, her reactions lightning-fast. The teacher’s eyes, hidden behind a mask, never left her. "Faster!" he would bark when she stumbled. "More precise!" when her strike failed to penetrate the training dummy. The other initiates—shadows in cloaks—kept their distance. One, with a serpent tattoo, tried to shove her into a pit of mire, but she slipped past him. Her mana flared instinctively, hurling him against the wall.

  "Cursed beast-kin!" he hissed, clutching his bruised shoulder. Violetta heard him, but she did not react.

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  Her first assignment was to steal a scroll. No explanations, only a whisper in the dark: "Eastern wing. Seventh hall. Last cabinet. Touch nothing else."

  Violetta moved like a drop of ink. The sewers led her to the palace—water thick with filth and smelling of rot splashed beneath her feet. Rats scurried along the tunnel edges. One stopped to look at her, its eyes glinting.

  “Disease vectors,” Violetta thought, remembering Zlata chasing them from the hut with a broom, laughing: "Out, you little demons!"

  The Visor highlighted the guards' heat signatures: one on the tower with a crossbow, another at the door, a third in the hall. She moved without a sound, a phantom in the night. Her hand reached the leather case; the Visor highlighted a structural flaw in the wood, making the theft effortless. No creak, no rustle. The scroll vanished as if it had never existed.

  In her small, mold-scented room the next morning, there was no praise. Instead, she found a pouch of coins, a cut of fresh meat, and new boots—heavy and durable. In this subterranean world, care was shown through unblemished steel and shoes without holes.

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  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The missions multiplied. Infiltrating merchant houses, stripping magical seals from window grates, locating hidden symbols in lightless vaults. Every coin earned was a step toward Maryna’s freedom. But every mission left a mark—not on her body, but on her soul.

  Once, a guard’s blade grazed her arm. He froze, eyes wide with terror as he looked at her unyielding skin, before falling with a needle through his knee. Blood splattered her mantle.

  "Forgive me," she whispered before vanishing.

  Rumors spread through the taverns of a small figure that scaled walls like a ghost. Guards found dead or incapacitated without a sound. "A demon," some whispered. "A curse," said others. Violetta heard these stories as she passed, her eyes indifferent to the legend she was becoming.

  By the city square, a voice rang out from the stone platform before the old church.

  "You think it is just a shadow? A legend?" a preacher cried, his voice echoing under the rain. "This is punishment! Fourteen winters ago, the heavens fell to the earth!"

  Violetta slowed. Her ears twitched beneath her hood.

  "Last year, the floods. Before that, the black fever among infants. And now, the plague from the East! This is a sign of divine wrath because you have embraced the unclean! You let these beast-kin walk among you! You forgot that the heavens fell because men embraced demons!"

  The crowd murmured, absorbing the fear like dry clay.

  "I have seen it!" the preacher continued, eyes burning with fanaticism. "In dreams, in fire! When the stars burned and fell, I saw the creature—eyes glowing, a shadow drifting over the rooftops. Fourteen winters ago, the Gods struck the first blow, sending the Crystalline Scourge that spares neither man nor land!"

  Violetta stood in the dark alley, her Visor flashing red, pulsing with unknown symbols. Fourteen winters ago? Heavens falling? Crystalline Scourge? A fleeting memory surfaced—laughter, a warm palm, a sense of home—but she shook it off. The priority was the Temple. The priority was Maryna.

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  One evening, after stealing a ring from a merchant's estate, the masked teacher led her to a private hall. Before an ancient, cracked mirror, he handed her a scroll inscribed with wax-scented runes.

  "Try it," he said, his voice laced with curiosity. "Transmutation. Transformation is the core of survival."

  Violetta closed her eyes. She visualized herself differently: ears smoothed over, tail hidden, features made human. Her mana surged—a warm impulse through her veins—but her body remained defiant. No change. No shift. The Visor flashed an Error message.

  The teacher leaned in, his mask glinting. "You are... interesting. I have never seen a body refuse to change," he whispered, his tone shifting from curiosity to suspicion. "Your power is not magic. It is something else."

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  Rain poured without end. Violetta walked toward the Temple, clutching the pouch of blood money. Each coin was a dark task; each task, a step toward her sister.

  Near the Temple entrance—the same place where she had been shoved into the mud—a soft voice emerged from the gloom.

  "You... beast-kin?"

  Violetta’s hand went to her dagger, her eyes flaring violet. A girl in black stood before her—a nun, her shawl draped over her shoulders. Her eyes held no scorn.

  "I know what you are," the nun said calmly. "And I know you are not a monster."

  Violetta froze. Not because she believed her, but because for the first time in years, someone had said it aloud. The void in her chest shivered. She reached out and handed the nun the pouch.

  "This is the payment for the week."