The training pitch was a ghost town of emerald grass and stark white lines, illuminated only by the humming floodlights. Under their artificial glow, Alaric and Shed moved in a blur of synchronized motion. They weren't just teammates; they were brothers by sweat and ambition, the two rising stars of the academy's teenage squad.
"One more, Al! Give it everything!" Shed shouted, his chest heaving as he wiped his brow. He flashed a grin, the kind of look that said he'd be right there beside Alaric when they finally stepped onto a professional stadium.
Alaric gritted his teeth, his eyes locking onto the ball. He funneled all the pressure of the scouts, the early mornings, and the weight of his own dreams into his right foot. The contact was violent. The ball didn't just travel; it soared, catching a pocket of wind and arching so high it seemed to vanish into the obsidian sky of the surrounding streets.
"Man, that's in orbit!" Shed laughed, shaking his head. "Go get it, man. I'm heading out to catch the bus. See you at the dorms?"
"Yeah, go ahead," Alaric called back, already vaulting the low gate. "I'll find it. See ya, Shed!"
A few blocks away, Lara was a vision of expensive frustration. She marched down the sidewalk, her arms laden with high-end shopping bags that rustled with every step.
"Unbelievable," she muttered to the empty air, her eyes flashing with a suppressed gold. "I can't believe they're still trying to boss me around at my age. Deities... laws of heaven... they wouldn't know a good time if it hit them in the face."
The irony was instantaneous.
THWACK.
The soccer ball dropped from the sky like a lead weight, slamming directly into the side of Lara's head. The force was enough to send her staggering, her heels skidding as her designer bags flew from her arms, scattering silk and leather across the dirty pavement.
"What!?" she shrieked, clutching her head as her vision swam. "Who was that!?"
She glared at the ground, watching the culprit—a scuffed soccer ball—roll lazily into the gutter.
Alaric came rounded the corner a moment later, scanning the shadows. He stopped short when he saw a woman standing over his ball, surrounded by what looked like a small fortune in scattered luxury goods.
"Was it you?" Lara's voice was like a whip. She reached down, snatching the ball up in one hand. She held it out, her gaze burning. "Are you the owner of this ball?"
Alaric stammered, his bravado failing him in the face of her icy intensity. "Yes... thank... thank you."
Lara didn't hand it back. Instead, she tightened her grip. With a sickening pop that sounded more like a gunshot than air escaping, the ball imploded in her hand, the thick leather shredding as if it were tissue paper. She dropped the mangled remains at his feet.
"No need to thank me," she said, turning to gather her bags.
"Wait!" Alaric shouted, horror-struck. "You shouldn't go around popping other people's balls! That's an expensive match ball!"
Lara paused, twisting her face in a look of pure mockery. "Well, that's because I couldn't pop your head, could I? Since I am a self-cultivated beast, I have to show some restraint."
Alaric stared at the ruined ball in awe. "Wow... but these don't pop easily. It's not some kind of balloon. You'd need a knife to do that."
"That is because human beings are weak," Lara countered, stepping over a discarded shoebox.
"Who are you calling weak?" Alaric's pride flared. He puffed out his chest, pointing to the academy crest on his shirt. "Don't you see? I'm an athlete. I will be famous one day. I'm going to be on the national team!"
Lara stopped and began to laugh—a sharp, cruel sound that cut through the night air. "In your dreams. I have already seen it, boy. I don't sense any form of greatness or any possibility of you getting popular. Don't put in so much effort; you'll only get heartbroken in the end. I know human life can be cruel, but don't let it get to you too much when you fail."
Alaric's face fell, his shoulders slumping. "You shouldn't judge like that..."
He was about to defend his future again when a sound tore through the neighborhood. It was the high-pitched, agonizing screech of tires, followed by a heavy, hollow thud that vibrated through the soles of their shoes.
"Do you hear that sound?" Alaric whispered, his heart suddenly dropping into his stomach.
"Yes," Lara said, her voice returning to a terrifyingly nonchalant tone. "There is an accident. But it's not my business."
Alaric didn't hear her. His mind flashed to Shed—Shed, who had walked home in that exact direction. Without a word, he bolted, his sneakers pounding the pavement as he raced toward the intersection.
He skidded around the final corner and felt the world tilt.
There, sprawled unconsciously on the asphalt under the amber glow of a streetlamp, was Shed. His practice bag was thrown yards away, and a dark pool was already beginning to spread beneath his head. A few feet away, a luxury sedan sat idling, its front bumper crumpled.
A man in a rumpled suit—Ethan—was pacing beside the car, his face a mask of sweating, drunken terror. He looked at the boy on the ground, then at Alaric. Fear won. Ethan dove back into his car, slammed it into gear, and roared away, the tires screaming.
"Hey! Stop! Get back here!" Alaric screamed, his voice breaking as he began to sprint after the vanishing red taillights.
As Alaric disappeared into the dark, chasing a car he could never catch, Lara stepped slowly into the light of the intersection. She looked down at the unconscious Shed, then up at the moon. The "tipping scale" Lord Pagun had mentioned flashed in her mind.
Slowly, Lara reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, glowing fox bead. She looked at the dying boy, then at the retreating car, and a shadow of something that wasn't quite human—and wasn't quite beast—flickered in her eyes.
"The festival," she whispered, "is about to get very, very complicated."