The eastern sky bled pale lavender as Zephyr stepped onto the rooftop terrace, the Binding Glyph still faintly glowing against his palm. The last embers of night retreated beneath the city's hum, and Aurex Bay stirred once more. He blinked against the half-light, tasting the tang of salt on the breeze.
His mother stood beside the rooftop door, a steaming thermos of chai in hand. "You didn't have to get up for this," she murmured, offering the mug.
Zephyr accepted it, wrapping both hands around the warm steel. "I want to be ready."
She nodded, subjecting him to a steady, proud gaze. "Today you undertake your first feeding ritual. It will anchor the rune deeper—only then will your strength truly manifest."
He drew in a bracing sip and felt the spice kindle his blood. "And the scout?"
"Wait at the stairwell," Elara said. "He'll meet you there at dawn."
Ten minutes laterZephyr crouched by the stairwell exit, hood up against the chill, clutching the satchel of herbs and a small vial of distilled water. The fresh parchment glyph lay folded in his pocket. Across the courtyard, the scout emerged—a lithe figure clad in dark leather, eyes glinting with dawn's first glow.
"Good morning, Bloodwolf," the scout greeted, voice soft as gravel. He offered a nod. "Ready?"
Zephyr rose, slinging the satchel over one shoulder. "I think so."
The scout led him down a side alley where overturned trash bins and stray cats prowled in the half-light. "Today's quarry: a feral dog pack. Not far—under the East Bridge." He halted beside a crumbling wall plastered with old posters. "You must take only what you need. Too little, and the rune will not bind. Too much… you risk pulling the beast entirely to the fore."
Zephyr's throat tightened. A dozen questions crowded his mind—about ethics, control, the cost—but he held his silence. Instead, he offered a determined nod: "Understood."
Under the East BridgeThe concrete piers loomed overhead, streaked with graffiti and dripping water. Zephyr's boots echoed as they approached a dim alcove where a cluster of lean, grey canines circled an upturned crate. Their ribs showed beneath scraggly coats; they snapped and snarled at one another over a meager pile of discarded scraps.
Zephyr paused at the scout's side. His pulse thundered. He recalled his mother's words: "Breathe with the glyph. Respect the creature." He eased the vial from the satchel, uncorked it, and whispered the binding phrase: "Hemaleth–Lunis–Aegis." The distilled essence shimmered as he sprinkled droplets into the dirt beside him.
A faint hum rose in the air—tension, anticipation. One dog lifted its head, nostrils flaring. Its eyes fixed on Zephyr with wary fire. The other canines stilled. Zephyr's heartbeat slowed. He raised his free hand, palm open in peace.
"Easy," he murmured, voice low. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The dog dipped its head, inches from Zephyr's palm. He held still, the glyph pulsing at his wrist. With a trembling exhale, he placed a finger against the dog's neck, feeling the rapid thrum of life beneath its fur. A cold thrill rippled through his arm.
He knelt slowly, drawing a small blade from his jacket. Silver edge caught the under-bridge light. The dog's ears flattened, retreat a fraction—but did not flee. Zephyr's breath came steady.
"This will anchor the rune," he whispered. He made a shallow cut on his own palm, letting a single bead of blood drip onto the ground. The dogs' hackles rose in collective awareness.
Zephyr closed his eyes, channeling the binding glyph inward. He let his blood mingle with the earth. The air pulsed: warmth flooded his chest, spreading to limbs with surprising gentleness. He opened his eyes to find the dog still watching—no aggression, just curiosity.
Feed only what you need, his mother's voice echoed. He pressed the blade lightly against the dog's neck, careful and patient. A trickle of blood welled, and the dog flinched, then accepted the flow. Zephyr drew back to cup the blood in his palm. It tasted cold, primal. He raised his hand to his lips and drank.
Each sip resonated through him: bone, muscle, raw life. When the bead finished, he stepped back and closed his palm, drawing the ritual inward. The glyph beneath his wrist glowed, then settled into a steady blue heartbeat.
The pack dogs sniffed the spot, then turned and melted into the shadows. The scout watched silently, nodding in approval.
Zephyr lowered the blade and exhaled, palm pressed against his heart. Strength settled in his bones—not wild, but honed.
Return to the rooftopAs the sun climbed, Zephyr climbed the stairwell with lighter steps. At the top, golden light warmed his face. His mother awaited, scroll in hand, Lyra perched on a crate with sketchbook.
"Well?" Elara asked, voice eager.
Zephyr held out his hand. The rune under his skin pulsed in time with his heartbeat—solid, unwavering.
"I did it." His voice cracked with relief. "It was… different than I feared. It felt like coming home."
Elara smiled, tears glinting. She pressed the parchment against his palm. "Then the rune has taken root. Now, you can channel the blood's flow at will—next, we practice control."
Lyra hopped off the crate and hugged her brother. "I saw the dogs run away. You were like a hero."
Zephyr ruffled her hair. "More like a shepherd."
Late afternoon, family kitchenThe apartment smelled of stew and fresh bread. Zephyr sat across from his mother as she recounted the next steps—herbal poultices to maintain the glyph's bond, nightly meditations under moonlight, and controlled sparring sessions with the scout.
Corin appeared at the door, leaning against the frame. "I've mapped safe passage to Gray Court archives," he said, handing Zephyr the recorder. "You'll need more fragments if you're to master hybrid form."
Zephyr nodded, sliding the device into his backpack. Each step grew clearer now: balance of blood and moon, alliance of family and pack and covenant.
His mother reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "You carry our legacy forward," she said quietly. "I am proud."
He felt the rune's warmth like a promise—and a warning. The road ahead brimmed with danger, but with each sunrise, he grew more certain that he alone could walk it.
Outside, the city glimmered, unaware that a new guardian had awoken beneath its neon sky.