Tristan stood barefoot in the clearing, dew clinging to the grass. His breaths came short and uneven. Shannon circled him like a patient sentinel, frost-blue eyes sharp.
"You rush," Shannon said. "Slow down. Control is not speed. It is precision."
Tristan exhaled hard and nodded. His heart raced. He focused on the rhythm Shannon had drilled into him: inhale through the nose, exhale slowly, hold the scent, hold the sound.
Tara and Therese watched from the fence. Kim and Mira patrolled the edge but kept within sight. Everyone had gathered to see his progress today.
"Begin," Shannon ordered.
Tristan closed his eyes. Heat flickered in his chest, spreading outward like a tide. His skin prickled. His nails lengthened into claws. His eyes burned with gold light.
"Stop there," Shannon commanded.
Tristan gasped, straining, but forced the change to hold. His fingers trembled, claws half-formed. The urge to let go pulsed stronger than before.
"Hold," Shannon said, steady but firm.
