The crowd reacts to my movement like I just hurled a fireball into their midst.
Conversations cut off, and heads turn my way instantly.
Beasts of every kind stare openly. Wolves with their sharp yellow eyes. Lions with their golden manes and smug expressions. Serpents with their slit-pupil gaze and lazy half-smiles. Avians whose feathers fluff and settle in restless waves. Even the bears look more awake than usual.
If my life weren't a complete shit-show at the moment, I'd probably be impressed. Right now, I'm just hungry.
I hook my thumbs into my belt, shoulders loose, spine straight, walking the way I always have—like I belong here. Like I'm just another guy at the festival looking for food.
Their nostrils flare as I pass, and the air thickens with the way they breathe me in, like they're trying to memorize the scent.
Ugh.
I can feel Dad's aura stretching around me like a second skin, invisible pressure pushing back at the crowd. It's the only reason they're not directly in my face.
Yet.
"Eyes front," Dad mutters low, at my back.
Naturally, I don't listen, and I immediately glance to the side.
A cluster of wolves stands to the left, all dressed in leather and fur, weapons strapped casually at the backs and on their hips. One of them—tall, grey-haired, with a scar raking across his jaw—locks onto me like I've just moved into his territory and started peeing on trees.
His eyes flash gold when I meet his gaze.
Instinct says look away.
I don't.
His wolf perks up. I can feel it. His posture straightens, nostrils flaring, lips parting just slightly on an inhale.
Great. I've been alive as a girl for less than a day, and I'm already having fucking staring contests with wolves.
I might end up a murderer if this keeps up.
"Keep walking," Dad says, sharper now.
"I am walking," I mutter, averting my eyes and continuing onward.
We make it maybe five more steps before the dam finally breaks. Someone cuts through the crowd in front of us so fast I barely see the movement—just a blur of grey and heat and aggression.
Suddenly, there's a broad chest in my path and the faint scent of smoke and wild grass in my nose.
The scar-jawed wolf shifter stands right in front of me, close enough that I'd bump into him if I don't stop.
So I don't.
I shoulder-check him as I halt, the impact solid. He doesn't move much, but he moves enough. His eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in something sharper.
A ripple goes through the crowd.
"Watch it," I snap, more out of habit than anything.
I'm a dragonkin and six feet tall, bigger than seventy percent of beastmen, and by no means scrawny—people usually steer clear of me. I don't usually get stopped like this, and it pisses me off.
Dad's presence flares like a silent roar behind me, but the wolf doesn't step back. He's tall, broad, muscles wrapped in leather, wolf ears perked high in his hair. His gaze flicks over me once, quick, then returns to my eyes as if glued.
"You're awake," he says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged over stone.
Wow, thank you, captain obvious. Who does this idiot think he is?
"Yeah," I deadpan. "Bad news for anyone keeping a tally against me."
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost smiles, but he crushes it on instinct.
He leans in a fraction, nostrils flaring again. "Your scent—"
I plant my hand flat against his chest and shove. Hard.
"Don't sniff me, dog," I hiss.
He rocks back a step this time.
A hush falls over the immediate area. Wolves stiffen. A few of the lions look delighted. Somewhere to my right, I even hear someone gasp.
What, is this guy supposed to be a big deal? Well, I'm a bigger deal, and I'm hungry!
The wolf stares down at my hand, then back at my face. Shock flickers across his features—for half a heartbeat—before something darker, hungrier, settles in.
Dad moves up behind me, looming over my shoulder with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm.
"Ashen," he rumbles. "Back. Away."
Ashen. So that's his name.
The wolf—Ashen—doesn't bare his teeth or growl, but the tension is there.
"Dragon," he says evenly, inclining his head—respect, but grudging. "Your son is actually a daughter. Her heat might have been eased, but the entire valley already felt it."
"Yes," Dad says coolly. "And my daughter's heat is none of your business."
I cross my arms across my chest. I probably look more like a sulking teenage boy than a scandalous maiden.
"I'm hungry," I point out. "Move or get moved."
Ashen's gaze drags over me again, slower this time. There's no heat in it—no blatant perversion—just this intense assessment, like he's re-categorizing me in his head.
"I'll escort you," he says.
"No, you won't," Dad and I say at the same time.
He raises a brow. "The other tribes are circling like vultures. I'm just making sure she gets—"
A roar rolls across the square, low at first, then building like an oncoming storm.
Everyone turns.
A path opens in the crowd without a word being spoken.
Gold hair catches the sunlight first—then the rest of him follows. Tall, broad, smug, his hair braided with bits of metal and bone, eyes that are light like the sun already fixed on me like I'm an amusing puzzle.
A lion, too?
Of course.
"Wolves getting greedy again?" he calls as he approaches, voice rich and lazy. "You smell a little dragonblood, and suddenly you think you can keep her?"
My shoulders tense at the word. Not in rejection—just in unfamiliarity. It kinda feels like the shirt I'm wearing... It fits, but not quite right yet.
Ashen growls under his breath.
"Fuck off, Riven," he snaps. "You lions already took half the hunting grounds this year. You're not taking this too."
"This?" The lion—Riven—repeats, arching a brow as he steps into the clearing. He takes me in with a slow, assessing sweep, starting at my boots and ending at my face. "She looks like a person, not a territory. Try again."
My hand itches to slap them both.
"Right now, I'm just fucking hungry! Anyone planning to talk to me like I'm here," I ask sweetly, "or is this just going to be a pissing contest until I starve to death?"
Riven focuses on me fully now, his eyes gleaming with interest. "You're bold," he says.
"You're loud," I shoot back.
One corner of his mouth curves. "You faint dramatically in public, disappear with a dragon, and come back smelling like a storm. I'd say we're evenly matched when it comes to grabbing attention."
I feel my face heat. "I didn't faint dramatically. I just… died a little."
"It was very dramatic," Riven insists.
"And you're very annoying," I counter.
Ashen looks between us, jaw tight, hackles up. The air between all of us is crackling with tension thick enough it could be cut with a knife.
I can feel Dad's patience bleeding out behind me.
"Enough," he growls, voice cutting through their posturing like a blade. "My child needs food and rest, not posturing males howling over her like she's a carcass."
"Not a carcass," someone says, voice soft and edged with amusement. "More like… a live coal tossed into dry grass."
The sound coils around my spine like silk.
I turn my head, and my eyes land on a man leaning casually against one of the tent-posts, half in shadow, watching us like we're a play staged for his entertainment.
Tall. Sleek. Long dark hair falling like water over one shoulder. Iridescent scales glimmer faintly at his throat and temple when he tilts his head.
Serpent.
Of course.
His gaze meets mine and holds, unbothered by the tension, the growls, the lion and the wolf bristling on either side.
"Apologies," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "I shouldn't speak of them like that." His lips curl at the corner. "Coals don't do them justice."
I raise a brow, slightly curious. He isn't using female or male pronouns for me. It's probably nothing, but it almost seems like he's being considerate of my crisis.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Snake," I say flatly.
His smile widens. "Correct."
Dad sighs like a man begging the gods for patience, but he seems the least irritated by the snake.
"Zoryn," he says firmly, leaning down to murmur near my ear. "Last chance. We can go back to the tent, and I'll bring you some food. We do not have to do this right now."
Every eye is on me.
Every instinct in my body screams that this is dangerous, that I am outnumbered, that I should hide until I know who—and what—I even am now.
But another instinct, older and louder, says: You are a dragon's child, and you are stronger than all of these sycophants. You do not cower.
I pull in a breath.
"Nah," I say. "I'm starving."
I shift my weight, shoving my hands casually into my pockets, and raise my voice just enough to carry.
"Any of you planning to actually point me to the food stalls," I call, "or are you just going to stand here smelling me?"
Silence.
Then, somewhere to my left, someone snorts—a deep, familiar, rumbling laugh rolls over the space like warm thunder.
I don't have to look to know it's a bear… my bear.