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The night had come on suddenly, like thick wet wool dropped over a shivering body, and Montay wondered what this cottage and the lands surrounding it would be like in wintertime; Ferah and he had always loved the perennial summer of their homeland, the heady scent of decay and new growth, the feel of dirt and dappled air as they chased each other through field and forest as cats, took to the sky as birds of prey, sinewy scaled tails combing the river’s rush as they cut up against stream, so why would she choose a place like this to retreat?

Jimann had insinuated himself into the Council of Peacekeepers and left Montay high and dry, distanced from his legitimized role since Ferah had disappeared on him; his anger heated as he perched in the tree overlooking the cottage, and he rumbled quietly—because there was still danger in this unfamiliar night—and ended his growl with the tiniest whine.

He was good at playing political games but Jimann was better, so Montay had abandoned his post, putting Jimann officially in charge while he tracked down his traitorous sister to bring her back home, and under his thumb where she belonged.

He harumphed, his stomach now growled, and a Great Horned Owl called and sang a sweet duet with another, and he missed his sister even more, which only reminded him that he had a more mundane task at hand: finding food and safe shelter for the night.

Silently, he dropped out of the tree and to the ground and transformed, slithering through the grass around the cottage until he scented the tool shed—sure to contain a mouse or two, perhaps a squirrel, or a rat if he was lucky—on the ravine side of the cottage.

Or, he noted, maybe he needed to lie low for a week or two, because his vision had become cloudy blue with pre-molt, and he would not be battle ready until his new skin was revealed; he had no control over those most natural of processes of the shapes he assumed.  

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2025)

(To be continued)