Chapter 1: The Regression
Ava Tanner didn’t scream when the light swallowed her.
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t—not in front of the Council, not in front of the mages in their silver masks, not in front of the creature who had delivered her fate with a voice like cracking ice. Humans were expected to be grateful for “reassignments.” They were expected to bow their heads and pretend this world still belonged to them.
Ava never pretended well.
But today, she had no choice.
The pod closed around her with a hiss, sealing her into a cradle of crystal and humming power. Runes crawled along the walls like living veins. Someone murmured outside the glass, “Initiating cognitive regression. Subject Tanner, Ava. Age: twenty-three.”
Subject.
They didn’t even call her human anymore.
Ava steadied her breathing. “This won’t work,” she whispered, though only she could hear it. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The runes flared white-hot.
Pain hit like a tidal wave—bones grinding, muscles collapsing, skin tightening over shrinking limbs. Her spine curled without permission. Fingers shortened into small, trembling stubs. Her feet barely brushed the base of the pod now. Her clothes dissolved; the treatment conjured new ones, soft and childish, around her.
But her mind—her mind held on.
Her memories didn’t blur. Her thoughts didn’t simplify. The part of her that feared and questioned and fought stayed sharp, slicing through the haze the machine tried to force over her consciousness.
It’s failing.
They don’t know it’s failing.
Her vision flickered. Through the glass, she saw masked faces leaning closer.
“Transformation successful,” one announced. “Age regression appears stable.”
A chorus of approving chitters and murmurs answered him—voices that belonged to beings with too many teeth or too many eyes, the new ruling class. The creatures that had taken the world centuries before Ava was born.
She forced her newly tiny hands to relax. She had to look harmless. Confused. Empty.
The pod doors hissed open.
A towering figure stepped forward—a Council mage with curling horns and a cloak made of shadows. He lifted her carefully, as one might lift a kitten.
“Welcome, little one,” he crooned.
Ava bit back her urge to elbow him in the throat. A six-year-old shouldn’t know where the throat is most vulnerable.
She blinked up at him, widening her new too-big eyes.
He smiled, revealing rows of smooth black teeth. “You will meet your family soon. They have waited many cycles for a child.”
Family.
They meant the alien couple—no, quartet—approved to adopt her. Three fathers and one mother from a species the Council adored for their loyalty. She remembered the briefing: large, soft-bodied, emotionally expressive—the ideal caretakers for a magically regressed child.
Except I’m not regressed, she thought. And I’m not staying.
They carried her down a hall lined with shifting murals—scenes of humans kneeling before the magical races, of treaties signed in gold blood and blue ink. Ava turned her head away. Even as a full-grown woman, she had always felt small in this place.
Now she actually was.
The doors to the adoption chamber slid open.
Four aliens stood waiting, tall and willowy with glassy skin that shimmered like opals. They gasped in unison at the sight of her—hands clasping their chests, eyes glowing bright with joy. One of the fathers wiped away tears. The mother stepped forward trembling, as if afraid she’d vanish.
“Oh stars,” she whispered. “She’s perfect.”
Perfect.
A child.
A blank slate.
A life they could mold.
Ava tucked her chin, letting her tiny shoulders curl inward. The picture of innocence. She whimpered softly—a test sound—and the mother hurried to take her into gentle, warm arms.
Ava let her.
The Council mage spoke from behind them. “She is yours now. Raise her well.”
The parents thanked him with deep bows. Someone touched Ava’s cheek. Someone else cooed at her. A soft blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.
She didn’t fight it. Not yet.
But as they carried her away, Ava opened her eyes again—quiet, calculating.
She counted exits.
Measured the weight of the arms that held her.
Noted the location of cameras.
Traced the path back toward the Council hall.
Plotted what she could do with a child’s body and an adult’s mind.
The world believed they had turned her into something small.
She wasn’t small.
She was just waiting.
And she would escape.
No matter how long she had to pretend.
