FERAL

Rain-slicked streets glistened under the glow of scattered neon signs and flickering holo-ads. Steam rose from vents along the pavement, coiling around umbrellas as people jostled toward the gala entrance. The low rumble of music reverberated from beyond the heavy iron doors, where guards stood along either side.

“I’m Jane Shelly, coming to you live from the heart of Paradise City’s Fall Festival Gala!” The voice rose above the ambient chatter and the pulse of festival music, clear and practiced. “Tonight, we’re rolling out the red carpet for our most prestigious and elite citizens. Of course, while the gala celebrates the season and city pride, it also serves as a subtle stage for potential matches, as social expectations always linger just beneath the lights.”

The camera swung along the promenade, showcasing a lineup of the crowd beneath a canopy of umbrellas. Most of them were carnivores, and while the species varied greatly, all were dressed in top-dollar finery. Now and then, there were small clusters of herbivores, polished so perfectly that they could have been dolls.

“The Concordium, which is supervising and sponsoring the event, assures citizens that tonight is safe,” Jane continued, voice calm but authoritative. “Recent reports of feral sightings over the last few months have people watching closely. John is standing by inside with Meriel Duskthorn, head of Public Relations for the Concordium. John, let’s hear from you.”

The camera cut to John, standing a few yards from the entrance to the grand ballroom. The music was louder here, but not quite overpowering. The lighting subtly shifted in hue as the base rumbled. Guests moved deliberately along the red carpet, pausing for cameras and polite greetings, each moment snapshot by the throngs of fans and paparazzi.

“Meriel Duskthorn,” John began, gesturing toward the Concordium head beside him. She was a sleek snow leopard with vibrant blue eyes, and the elegant black suit she wore both complemented and contrasted her patterned white fur. Beside her, John- an antelope in a blue blazer- looked almost washed out. He held his microphone to her. “The gala’s in full swing. What can citizens expect from security tonight, given the recent feral sightings?”

Meriel’s gaze swept the room, and the camera followed. The crowd was already busy socializing, but among them was a clear smattering of guards. Each wore the same black suit as Meriel. “The Bureau of Harmony has coordinated closely with our team. Tier two guards patrol discreetly, Tier threes are guided safely, and any incidents will be handled immediately. The gala is intended as a celebration of the city’s finest, not a cause for concern.” She looked directly toward the camera, flashing a warm smile. “We want everyone to enjoy themselves tonight, to feel welcome, respected, and supported by the Concordium.”

—

Litza stared at her phone, absorbed in the live feed. Jane’s voice carried over the speaker, and for a moment, the cameras, the onlookers, the red carpet, and the stream of elegantly dressed guests all seemed distant and unreal.

Her sister nudged her shoulder from across the backseat. “Look,” Talia murmured, pointing toward the window.

Litza lifted her eyes, and the real scene unfolded before her. Even through the rain-streaked glass, the line of people- many rich and famous- stretched toward the entrance. Umbrellas bobbed slowly forward as the line moved. A raving fan screamed their love towards a celebrity, though Litza didn’t recognize the name. Bodyguards and attendants guided guests forward with practiced precision, and soon she’d be joining the flow. She could feel the energy of the evening; the excitement, the expectation, and the quiet tension beneath the surface.

Her mother’s voice broke her reverie. “Make sure your posture and poise are perfect. The moment you’re out the door, you’re always at risk of the cameras. Tabloids don’t forget or forgive. And Talia, remember what I said about appearances.”

Litza exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop just a fraction. There was a steadily growing knot within the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Talia, who was already adjusting her dress and smoothing down stray strands of fur.

“Yes, Mother,” Talia said dutifully, her voice quiet but precise.

Her mother’s gaze swept over them both, sharp but affectionate in its own way. “Tonight is not just a social event. Every move, every glance, every step you take is noticed. Remember that you represent the family, and your conduct reflects on all of us.”

Litza nodded, though her mind wandered back to the line of guests outside. The flowing crowd, the flashes of cameras, the murmurs of anticipation. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. Part of her held great disdain that she might be swallowed by the sea of chivalry that was no doubt behind the entryway. Yet, she was, admittedly, a bit curious and a bit excited to see so much of high society in person.

The car slowed, pulling up beside the gala entrance. Litza’s pulse quickened as the doorman opened the door with precise formality, stepping aside to let them through. In an instant, the controlled world of the vehicle gave way to the swirl of lights, music, and movement beyond.

“Litza,” her mother’s voice reminded her, anchoring her back to the present. She stepped out, taking the offered hand of the doorman. Smoothing her dress and lifting her chin, she moved forward into the tide of guests.

An attendant approached quickly, tablet in hand. “Good evening and welcome to the Fall Festival Gala!” She bowed deeply, a motion so fluid she must have practiced it a thousand times. “ May I have your names and registration details, please?”

Her mother leaned forward, dictating each detail carefully. Litza and Talia took turns confirming their names, though otherwise kept silent. The attendant’s stylus moved efficiently, tapping and swiping. She glanced up once, polite but impartial. “Ah, a Tier three family. Mother Maribel White, daughters Talia and Litza White. Deer, correct? Thank you. Please proceed. I do hope your time at the gala is perfectly splendid!”

Litza’s ears flicked back slightly, a mix of self-consciousness and defiant pride. It wasn’t the first time her family’s status had been noted, and she suspected it wouldn’t be the last tonight.

With a sweeping gesture, the attendant stepped aside. Litza adjusted the small handbag she carried, toying with the strap. She let her gaze drift over the line of arriving guests, feeling the weight of expectation now that this was real.

The Whites followed the flow of the crowd through the wide doors, the muffled thrum of music swelling as they crossed into the main ballroom. The red carpet ended here, replaced by polished flooring that reflected the neon dance of the lights above. Guests clustered in small groups, laughing, chatting, and occasionally pausing to pose for photographers weaving through the crowd.

Litza’s mother inclined her head subtly toward a tall, composed figure standing toward the back of the room. He held a champagne glass and lingered beside an ornate pillar. His silhouette marked him unmistakably as a wolf. A young female canine stood nearby, clearly struggling to capture his attention, but he remained focused elsewhere.

“That’s Dorian Lyser,” her mother went on, tone quiet and perfect for gossip. “A Tier two of exquisite wealth and pedigree. He’s said to be a pureblood. That pup beside him is wasting her time; he’s undoubtedly here for a Tier three partner.” Mrs. White clicked her tongue in mild disapproval. “Really, how often is a carnivore ever a Tier three?”

“Or an herbivore as a Tier two,” Litza murmured, looking away. She knew well her mother’s opinions on such rarities, but the elder White wouldn’t dare speak them here, lest anyone overhear.

“Well, I think he’s dashing looking, but he has a bit of a… cold sense about him, doesn’t he?” Talia chipped in to break the immediate tension. “My, I’m parched. Sister, won’t you go with me to the refreshment table?” Litza hadn’t a chance to respond; her arm was swept up, and she was guided away, leaving their mother to undoubtedly mentally tally every single person present.

The sisters drifted toward the refreshment table. It was a display of art, really, with delicately designed pastries, sweets, and all sorts of snacks, none of which they had ever seen at home. Litza plucked a tiny tart from a silver tray, holding it up with care. She wasn’t sure if she should eat it or admire it.

Talia selected a glass of champagne, swirling it gently before taking a cautious sip. “Everything here… It’s incredible,” she murmured. “Look at those pastries. They’re so perfect. So expensive, too.”

Litza smirked, biting into her tart. “Expensive and nigh untouchable. I swear, our savings couldn’t even buy a tray of these at half the price.”

Talia’s eyebrows lifted. “You think about that now?”

Litza shrugged, crumbs falling unnoticed. “Can’t help it. Makes the whole red carpet thing feel… surreal. Like we’re borrowing someone else’s world for the night.”

Talia let out a soft laugh, though it was nervous. “Borrowing, yes… and hoping nobody notices.”

The music ebbed away until all that could be heard was the drone of the crowd. Moments later, a soft chime rang through the ballroom, and a hush spread across the crowd. Miriel Duskthorn stepped onto the small raised platform at the center, her presence immediately commanding attention. The snow leopard’s fur caught the light as she moved, and her elegant black ensemble somehow made her appear both approachable and regal.

“The very face of the Concordium,” Talia murmured. Litza could see why, too. Not only was Miriel beautiful and refined, but her charisma and wit were famous. She felt a swell in her chest to think that here she was, hearing from the Miriel Duskthorn in real life.

“Esteemed guests,” she began, her voice carrying clearly over the soft hum of the room. “Tonight, we celebrate the Fall Festival Gala, a tradition that brings together the finest of our city’s citizens. More importantly, it is an occasion to recognize the responsibilities that come with our gifts; responsibilities that each of you bears in your own way.”

Miriel paused, letting the weight of this simple truth linger. “Tier twos,” she continued, “you possess the rare ability to amplify and channel the energy known as the Vitae. It is a gift that allows you great strength, and with that strength comes the duty to guide, protect, and, when necessary, control those who have lost themselves to its darker edge.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Litza’s ears twitched slightly as she scanned the room, noting the subtle glances of respect and apprehension toward certain Tier two individuals. She found her own gaze drifting briefly toward Dorian, who was watching Miriel with renewed interest. A bit of movement behind him drew her attention next, a figure carefully moving behind the crowd and past the pillars, closer to the far wall. A fox, Litza realized. He had a darker red to his fur, and while he was otherwise fairly normal in appearance- a fine suit as with anyone else here- something about his careful movement was odd to Litza. She couldn’t quite place what it was, but it unnerved her. Struck something deep within her instincts that made her skin prickle. She glanced toward her mother and sister, but they were focused on Miriel. When she looked back toward where the fox had been, he was gone.

“Tier threes,” Miriel said, her blue eyes sweeping over the assembly, “hold the ability to store and lend Vitae, to serve as anchors and partners. Your presence ensures that Tier twos can perform their duties safely, for without your balance, the risk to all increases dramatically.”

Litza tried to focus on Miriel’s speech, absently rubbing her arm to relieve her goosebumps. It was nothing, surely. Just nerves. “All this talk of ferals of late, it’s dreadful…” She whispered. Her sister nodded in quiet agreement.”

“And more reason to find a partner quickly,” their mother whispered. “A well-to-do, talented tier two is all you need.”

Perhaps more likely it’s the last thing I need, let alone want, Litza thought. She had some bitterness toward the truth of her mother’s words. Being an herbivore, let alone a tier three– especially when so many ferals were coming out of the woodwork lately– felt like you were just waiting for the moment you were someone’s prey.

She hated it, but she might have hated the idea of being a personal battery even more.

Miriel’s voice softened slightly as she went on. “It is not a role without honor or consequence. Each bond formed between a Tier two and a Tier three is gravely vital, both to the well-being of the individuals involved and to the safety and prosperity of our society. Tonight, as you mingle and enjoy this celebration, I ask you to remember the importance of your presence here, your choices, and the legacy you uphold.”

What was given so neatly between the lines, anyone could read. “This is why you’re here tonight,” is what that meant. This gala, with all its pleasures and politics, was for the purpose of recruitment. Of partnerships forming and registries growing. Those who could harness Vitae were simply too rare in number. Litza wondered just how great the number of Ferals was if the Concordium was trying so blatantly to increase partnerships.

“Do you think it’s the Concordium or the government driving this event?” Litza asked, looking to her family members. Her mother glanced toward her, expression serious, if not a bit solemn. “They work in tandem. The left hand is not often without the right.”

“But the Concordium does most of the donation drives, education, and care for those of all tiers who are impacted by Ferals… among other things,” Talia added, fiddling with her champagne glass. She’d barely drunk any of it.

“Enough drab talk,” said Mrs. White, and she nodded her head toward the rest of the ballroom. “Have either of you set your eyes on a potential partner? This is our greatest opportunity. Don’t squander it with gossip.”

Talia dutifully turned her attention toward the other guests, leaving Litza to pop the remaining tart she’d been holding all this time into her mouth.

“Mrs. White,” came a smooth, rehearsed voice. A young man bowed stiffly, one hand pressed to his chest. He was tall for a rabbit, his dark gray-blue fur broken by lighter patches that caught the chandelier light. Broad-shouldered, well-tailored; though an herbivore, his presence carried the weight of his status as a Tier two.

The very thing their mother had shown disdain toward.

“Oh, Mister Caspin!” Her tune was quite different now; money and power presented themselves, and whether or not in the form of a rabbit, Mrs. White recognized it. “How are you this fine evening? It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

Litza chewed slowly, watching her mother perform her pleasantries. She licked her finger delicately, her eyes lingering on the man before them. She had met few rabbits in her life, and even fewer herbivores who could stand so squarely in a world dominated by predators. What must it be like, she wondered, to carve space among carnivores when nature itself had fashioned you to run?

The thought gave her a strange, almost reluctant empathy.

When his cool green eyes turned to her, Litza did not look away. He carried no predator’s threat, no primal edge that set her instincts thrumming, and yet there was something about him. Something imposing. Something cold.

Mister Caspin smiled, the curve of his mouth precise, practiced. “Miss Litza White,” he said with a courtly inclination of his head. “Your reputation precedes you. I must admit, I have anticipated this introduction with some eagerness. A young woman of your refinement, blessed with such Tier three potential… it is no small thing.”

Her mother all but preened at the words. Litza felt the weight of expectation pressing against her ribs. The sweet aftertaste of tarts was replaced with the bitterness of transactional politics.

“You flatter her,” The elder Mrs. White said with a pleased laugh. “Litza is still quite young, of course, but I’ve always said she carries herself with more sense than most.”

She most certainly didn’t ever say such a thing, but Litza let it be.

Mister Caspin listened attentively, though his eyes never left Litza. “Sense, indeed, is one of the rarest qualities. Beauty may be found anywhere, and talent sometimes in the most unlikely places. But a sound, practical mind? Ah, that is something a Tier two values above all else in a partner.”

While his brand of flattery was admittedly unexpected– he had complimented her mind more than something dull like beauty– Litza was still wary. Her mouth tightened into a trained smile, and she bowed her head politely. She said nothing.

Talia, however, cleared her throat gently. “I had always thought Tier twos valued strength of spirit most of all. Isn’t that what the Concordium preaches?” She tilted her head as though it were asked in innocence, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.

Mister Caspin turned his cool gaze upon Talia, his smile sharpening just a fraction. “Strength of spirit is admirable, of course. But spirit without prudence leads to recklessness. Partnerships demand more than fire; they require… stability.” He lifted his chin, as though pronouncing a great truth. His shoulders squared just a tad bit more, and Litza had to bite her tongue to keep from grinning. What a charade this all was.

Mrs. White nodded vigorously. “Just so! Stability, reliability, that is the very foundation of a lasting bond.”

“Pardon me,” Litza finally said, drawing the attention of all three. She lifted a hand to her temple in the most delicate, lady-like way she could. “I think the sweets have given me a bit of a headache. I’ll just get some air. Do go on without me.” She smiled charmingly at Mister Caspin, who gave her a concerned look as she swept past him. She could hear her mother stammering behind her, but Talia would handle it just fine.