Prologue

There was no sound. No bright light. No shimmering mirror-like reflection. The beast-man appeared simply from nowhere, stepping from one existence to another.

The hardened snow on his shoulders was already melting from the sudden temperature change. Droplets of water rolled down his hood, falling onto the muzzle of a small bear head poking out from his thick green cloak. Tiny half-moon ears perked up as the cub wrapped tightly to his chest cried out in annoyance as the water splashed on his furry muzzle. Flipping his tongue upward, the cub attempted to lap the water away, but the droplets had fallen just out of reach.

Cradling the young bear, the beast-man tenderly wiped the water away from the cub's muzzle and shook what snow he could off his cloak. What remained would melt as they walked, and from the looks of where they ended up, they had a fair amount of walking ahead of them.

The beast's paws crunched through the dirt, the warm earth a stark juxtaposition to his snowy trek moments ago. He looked off into the distance and saw no end to their journey in sight, but the beast knew he would eventually reach signs of civilization if he kept walking. His senses would guide him in the right direction, as they always had. While this particular area may be new to him, the beast had grown familiar with the settlement patterns of those who call this land home.

Growing restless from the close quarters, the bear cub wiggled under the beast's cloak while he marched onward. Hours ago, in the harsh environment of a blizzard, the snug closeness to the cub bundled to him was a necessity. Now, as the warm night air took hold, it was a luxury. He dared not release his grip on the bear until it was absolutely unavoidable. Not that the cub minded the attention. He snuggled deep into the beast's chest as they walked, seeking the familial comfort that the young require. Occasionally, the beast would stroke the cub's nape, reminding him of his presence—his wiry paw fur clashing with the soft fur of the cub.

The beast's feet ached from the toll of his journey thus far. His muscles were sore, and his body screamed for him to sleep, but rest would come later. He traveled here to fulfill a promise. A promise that, despite the internal conflict raging inside him, he knew he had to keep. In the back of his head, he knew he would have to make the same journey in reverse once he had completed his painful task. Once he was far away from here, then, and only then, would he give in to the reprieve his body and mind so desperately needed.

Before the beast knew it, a paved road lay before him. On the other side was what he understood to be an inn—one in desperate need of repair. However, signs of life showed it was not entirely deserted. Moving from building to building were the furless creatures who inhabited this land. The beast had studied them before, but tonight he gazed upon them with hopeful eyes instead of fearful curiosity. They would do. They had to, for he could think of no other option. His time was running out, and his prolonged absence would soon be noted.

Dropping his muzzle down, the beast-man opened his cloak, letting the prevailing breeze blow through the small bear's fur. The cub stretched, reaching his tiny paws outwards towards the beast's face, his eyes blinking rapidly in response to the soft glow of the inn's neon sign. As the cub looked up towards the beast who had been his only source of warmth and comfort in a harsh land, he raised up a paw, reaching for the beast's face.

Droplets of water fell on the cub's face once again, even though the snow had melted and dried up many hours earlier.

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You see these guys, they dedicate their whole lives to their sport, and they can't break it. It's in them. They let it overwhelm them. It's this characteristic that we crave—that we want. It's a cutthroat, win-at-all-cost, do-or-die mentality. But that doesn't lead you to a place of inner peace. You're at war, and you don't want to be at war your whole life. It's exhausting.

— Race Imboden, Olympic fencer

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Chapter 1: The Human World

The dull hum of fluorescent lights droning in the background is the only thing I can focus on. The buzzing is audible over the murmuring crowd of the sparsely filled community college gym. It's always the under-funded schools that cheap out on nice lighting, leaving you to tune out the unwavering high-pitch sound yourself. Of course, the school reserves the nicer, more modern gymnasium, for popular sports like basketball or volleyball, while low-attended, mid-summer wrestling tournaments, like the one I'm participating in, are relegated to the dingy gym built decades ago.

The loud thud of a body hitting the mat rings out, earning a smattering of claps from the bleachers. The noise of the meet drawing my attention back, I turn my head and find my coach seated next to me in one of the padded fold out chairs lining the gym.

“He's not here yet, if that's what's on your mind, Artbe," Coach says, lifting one of his bushy eyebrows.

He wasn't, but now he is. The talent scout from the Sedona Sun Wolves wrestling team is coming, and I need to impress him if I have any chance of making it on a university-level team. Honestly, the Sun Wolves are my last choice of colleges, but after how poorly I performed this season, only the state college a hundred miles north is still interested. After living in Sunny Valley my whole life, the thought of being trapped at a godforsaken state college in this sweatbox of a state for three more years is demoralizing, but I'll take what I can get at this point.

With all my other bridges burned, this is the only path forward for me, so I need to show the scout what they missed in me over the year. Go on the mat and prove I'm capable of being on a university wrestling team. Show them I'm a force to be reckoned with. A true beast.

Even though I try to stay confident, that nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I'm not good enough, that I'll never be good enough, creeps in. My mind is fuzzy and distant when it should be hardened and focused.

Coach reads the uncertainty on my face. “Look, Art. I know this has been a rough year for you. You haven't done as well this season as you expected, but that's okay. It was a demanding year, and you've had your challenges. You've had your stumbles." He gives me a firm look, his eyebrows furrowing. “But are you going to let those control the rest of your life?"

“No, Coach," I say without hesitation.

“You're damn right you're not. Tonight, you're going to bring everything you got. Show them what I saw in you when every other school passed you up. We both know you're university team material, you just have to prove it in the only place that matters. Out on that mat."

While it's nice to hear Coach's pep talk, being good means nothing if I'm constantly getting disqualified from matches. I don't deliberately try to get penalties, I just get caught up in the moment, let my anger take hold of me, then do something stupid. I've let it get the best of me in the past, but not tonight.

Looking out into the crowd, I notice the scout taking his seat at the edge of the gymnasium. He's here. He's here and he's about to judge my every move. Before I can linger on that thought, my focus is drawn to a strangely dressed figure standing behind him. Is that a cloak they are wearing? It's a long, green gown clasped together in the front, and it looks like it's made of a thick, warm fabric. Why would someone be wearing a cloak at a wrestling meet during the middle of the summer in the Southwest?

Coach notices me looking away, once again losing focus on my upcoming match. “Don't worry about him."

I know he's talking about the scout, but I hardly remember that's who I was initially looking for. Instead, all I can think about is who the hell is that guy in the cloak? Standing there, hood up, watching the match, not moving a muscle, his face shrouded in darkness.

“Look at me, not him," Coach says.

I drift my gaze back over to Coach, but I'm unable to shake an uncomfortable feeling after looking at the medieval, ren-faire freak.

“I want you to think about just this match. Nothing else matters. Just focus on one move at a time. Don't worry about what the score is. I don't even want you to go for the pin until I say so. Show them how well you can control and dominate your opponent, then go in for the kill. So, one move at a time. Got that?"

Nothing else matters? Like hell it doesn't. My entire future rests on me not only winning this match but performing remarkably. But if I have learned one thing over the last year, it's that there's no point in arguing with Coach. “Yes, sir. One move at a time. Nothing else matters."

A voice blares through the speakers, announcing that the next match will be the heavyweight class. They say my name and the guy who I'll be wrestling against, someone named Cole from Star River Community College.

“Alright, now's the time. Go kick some ass," Coach says, but I don't get up right away. Instead, my eyes drift back to the bleachers, and I have to force myself not to look at the scout. I drift my gaze to the trying oh so hard to be intimidating coyote logo painted on the wall above the half-empty bleachers. Below it, fans idly chat with each other while waiting for our match to start. Does anyone out there have a clue how important the next match is? The impact it will have on my life? Of course, they don't. How could they? Despite wearing a singlet my whole life, tonight in it I feel exposed.

My eyes settle on a familiar seat, dead center of the gym, just high enough to have an unobstructed view while still being close to the action. It's a seat I'm used to looking at before and after every match. The seat isn't empty. It being empty while the surrounding others are filled would imply it was being saved, that its owner was merely late, or they'd stepped off at the concession stand for some soda and popcorn.

But the seat isn't empty.

Instead, it's occupied with someone who it shouldn't be. Because the person who should be sitting there, the one who had sat in that same spot for the last year and in similar spots at other gyms years before, that person would never sit there again.

A hand lightly falls on my shoulder. I turn to find Coach looking at me with a weak smile. We say nothing because nothing needs to be said.

Okay, no more messing around. I steel myself, give a firm, confident nod to Coach, take a deep breath, and get out of my chair. Looking over at Cole, he has to be pushing the upper end of the 285lb limit of the heavyweight class. While we're both some of the biggest guys in the room, the extra work I spend in the gym is evident. If Cole is relying on an extra thirty pounds or so to win him the match, he's in for a big surprise.

As I walk over to the mat, I keep my head down, looking at the floor, trying to avert my gaze from the crowd. My mind tugs at me to look in the scout's direction–but what I really want is to get another look at the cloaked figure. I don't know why, but I need to see who is under the hood. Shaking my head, I push all of that away and force myself to focus on the match. Head in the game. One move at a time. Nothing else matters.

Cole and I get into position.

I know the ref is talking to me, preparing us for the match and telling us to be good sports. I'm not paying attention in the slightest. With a deadpan expression I shake Cole's hand, but he examines me with a sneer plastered on his face.

We walk to our marks and the referee blows the whistle to start the match.

I don't rush forward, and neither does Cole. Instead, we move in a slow circle, matching each other's pace, never disengaging our stares. Then, in an instant, we both spring forward and swing our arms around each other's shoulders. Our heads collide. My left temple presses tightly against his.

We grapple like this for a moment. Each of us getting a feeling for the strength of the other. Once I have a good read on him, I ease a bit of the tension I have on Cole's shoulders to let him think he's overpowered me. He takes the bait.

I drop my shoulder and wrap my arms around Cole's waist. Pulling him tightly to my chest, I swing my body around to his backside. Before he has time to react, I slam him to the mat, and he hits the ground with a hard thud. The ref raises his arm with the green wristband into the air while holding two fingers, singling to the scorekeeper I have received two points for a successful takedown.

Cole doesn't let me stay in control for long. He rolls onto his side, pushing himself onto all fours and bucks me to regain some ground. To counter him, I pull his arm out from under him in an attempt to flip him on his back.

I get so focused on trying to get into a better power position that I'm not paying attention to where we are on the mat and pull us out of the ring.

The ref's whistle screeches.

“Point for Cole. Reset," he says, raising his red wristband into the air, giving Cole one point for me pulling us off the mat.

Cole says he will take the top starting position for the reset. As we walk to the center of the mat, he bumps my shoulder as he passes.

“Lucky take-down fag, going to be the only one you get all night."

“The fuck you call me?"

“Don't worry, I've heard all about you."

Not processing the consequences of my actions, I move towards Cole. Before I can do anything stupid, the ref steps in and puts himself between us.

“Hey! Break it up. Break it up." he says.

I stop and stare Cole in the eyes.

“Sure thing, ref," Cole laughs through a malicious grin.

I back up to the line, never letting my eyes leave Cole's.

“Artbe, keep your head. Don't let him get to you," Coach yells at me from the sideline.

I nod, acknowledging I heard him. While getting into position, the cloaked figure in the bleachers again catches my eye. He's just standing there, exuding such strange energy compared to everyone else in the gym. But I can't look away. How is no one else bothered by his peculiar presence? I still can't see his face, the hood is blocking all light, but somehow, I know he's staring at me.

The ref blows his whistle, and I snap back to the match. This time, Cole doesn't hesitate. He takes advantage of his position and pulls me to the floor.

The ref lifts the red wristband, awarding two more points to Cole. We continue to writhe on the mat, and I end up on my hands and knees with Cole on top of me, one arm around my neck. Cole grabs my leg and pulls me up close to him, forcing me into a half fetal position. Putting his head right next to mine, he whispers into my ear. “I bet you like this, don't you? Better not get hard in front of everyone."

Fuck this.

I swing my elbow back, smacking Cole hard on the side of his neck. The whistle's screech pierces my ears again.

“Stop! Stop!" The ref is practically yelling at us now.

Cole pushes me to the ground as he stands up.

“Unnecessary roughness. Point to red. Pick your starting position—and don't think I didn't see that push when you got up." The ref pulls us to him and lowers his voice, “Look, boys. Let's keep this clean, okay?"

Cole picks the neutral position, but I don't go to my starting line immediately. Instead, I take a short walk around the mat in an attempt to calm myself. It doesn't work. I know Coach is pissed. I'm pissed. I feel my emotions rising, and I can only imagine how this match appears to the scout.

And that guy, who the fuck is that guy standing behind him? Why can't I shake this strange feeling? Why can't I get him out of my head?

I walk over to the line, not even bothering to look at Coach. I can feel my anger rising and myself losing control, the weight of the match not helping relieve any pressure.

Cole wants to go hard and dirty. Fuck it, I'll go hard, too. This time, I don't even hear the ref blow the whistle, I just see Cole move toward me. We grapple and end up on the mat again. I don't care what Coach says, no more messing around—time to go for the pin.

I shift my body and get Cole's back pressed to the ground, my own back in the direction of his face. But I don't have his shoulders fully on the mat. No pin is called.

Maybe if I roll him backward, I can use my back to press him down. Trying to get an anchor point, I wrap my arms around one of his legs and grip it hard to my chest. Cole paws at my back, trying to get a hold of me anywhere he can, but I'm not letting him get an inch. That fiery anger is still in the back of my throat. With everything going on, my mind feels clouded and heavy. I'm not focusing on my actions. My body is on autopilot.

In one quick move, I throw all my weight backward, catapulting myself towards Cole's chest, pulling his leg along with me.

As soon as I start the move, my vision dulls, and the gym is plunged into darkness, as if all the light has been sucked out of the room. I look around, but all I see is blackness.

No, that's not right. Far off in the distance, he's standing there, the man in the strange cloak, but he doesn't look real. He's not flesh and blood, more like a ghost made of white, wisping light, pulsating with a dim glow. Suddenly, a white tendril of light shoots out of him, racing across the blackness until I feel it punch into every fiber of my being. An immense surge of energy flows into me.

I don't even have time to question what's happening before light returns to the gymnasium. Still falling backward with my arms wrapped around Cole's leg, a loud snap fills the air. The surge of power I was feeling not even seconds ago evaporates in an instant.

Was that the sound of us slamming the mat? No—dear god—no—it wasn't.

Below me, Cole thrashes around, screaming. Outside of his cries of pain, the gym is dead silent. I push away from him and scoot backward, horrified by what I've just done.

Did I break his femur? The move I did should have hurt. I wanted it to hurt, but no way should it have broken his thigh bone.

Cole's coaches are now at his side, phones pressed to their ears, no doubt calling for paramedics. I look at where the scout is seated only to see a look of revulsion on his face.

That's it. I'm done. No more college for me.

Behind him, the cloaked figure is gone, nowhere to be seen. The strange vision I had surges back to me. What the hell just happened? Why did I see that? And who the fuck was that guy? I flop my sweaty head to the ground and close my eyes.

Tonight was not a good night.