Derpy’s eyes opened to a ceiling that didn’t belong to him.

  Polished beams. Soft light. The kind of quiet that cost money.

  He pushed himself upright—and the first thing he looked for was the hoodie.

  Nothing.

  His hands went to his chest, his shoulders, the place where the fabric should’ve been.

  Gone.

  His throat tightened.

  “Friend,” Mk.1 said.

  She stood near the bed, head tilted, voice careful like she was testing whether the word would break him.

  “I’m… happy to see you.”

  A cold breeze slipped through the room.

  Mk.1 flinched.

  Then she stepped back, eyes dropping, posture folding in on itself—like she’d been reminded she wasn’t supposed to be seen.

  Derpy’s gaze snapped to the door.

  An elf stood there—royalty in the way she carried the air around her.

  She bowed, small and precise.

  “My name is Vaeloria,” she said. “Queen of the Elven Empire.”

  Her voice softened by a fraction.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve been put through. You have my sincere apology.”

  Derpy blinked, confused.

  A queen apologizing to him.

  It didn’t fit.

  Inside his head, Celica and Blight pressed close—two presences standing behind his ribs like guards.

  Be careful, Celica warned.

  Choose your words, Blight added. Wrong answer, and she ends you.

  Derpy swallowed.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “I… won’t hide anything.”

  He shifted—and his stomach dropped.

  His pants were gone.

  Replaced.

  Elven garments, tailored to his body like they’d measured him while he slept.

  His wings were out.

  His tail was out.

  The fabric had been cut and shaped around them on purpose.

  Derpy’s breathing sped up.

  The hoodie was the last thing that still felt like his world.

  His sisters gave it to him.

  It was a tie.

  A tether.

  And now it was gone.

  His vision narrowed.

  Then his body betrayed him.

  The wings dissolved.

  Bones shifted.

  Wolf ears formed—one red, one blue.

  A wolf tail followed, red and blue braided together like spilled paint that refused to separate.

  Derpy grabbed the blankets and pulled them up like a shield.

  He tried to retreat into the back of his mind.

  And there—waiting—was the shadow of himself.

  Too close.

  Too awake.

  This time you’re losing it, the shadow whispered.

  Are you a wolf? A dragon? A mouse? A rabbit?

  Your shape keeps changing.

  Derpy’s hands shook.

  Celica’s voice slid in, steady and firm.

  If you keep spiraling, it gets worse.

  Blight’s presence tightened.

  You don’t want to show them what “full monster” looks like.

  Derpy forced air in.

  Forced it out.

  Again.

  Again.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  Soft.

  Warm.

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  A careful hug.

  “It’s okay,” Vaeloria murmured. “Breathe.”

  Derpy’s lungs stuttered, then caught.

  He peeked out.

  Vaeloria’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re… a wolf now.”

  Her hand moved—slow, deliberate—through his ears.

  Then down to his tail.

  The tail flicked once.

  Twice.

  The contact grounded him in a way he hated needing.

  “I can see you’re suffering,” Vaeloria said, pulling him closer against her chest like she’d decided he was fragile. “What’s wrong?”

  Derpy’s voice came out rough.

  “I get panic attacks,” he said. “When I was kidnapped. Your dolls grabbed me and left my pets behind.”

  He swallowed.

  “They’re protecting a mouse girl I was traveling with.”

  Vaeloria exhaled.

  Then hugged him again.

  And Derpy felt the shift—something sliding into place at his throat.

  Cold.

  A collar.

  Blue.

  A tag stamped into it in clean, unforgiving letters:

  Vaeloria’s Pet.

  Derpy froze.

  Vaeloria stepped back as if she’d done him a kindness.

  “Once again,” she said, voice smooth. “I’m sorry for how my empire treated you.”

  She turned.

  “Walk with me.”

  Derpy’s mouth opened.

  No sound came.

  “And your clothing,” Vaeloria added, as if the hoodie was a stain she’d scrubbed away. “It’s being fixed. I can’t have you walking my castle filthy.”

  She took his hand.

  Not an invitation.

  A pull.

  The throne room smelled like polished stone and expensive food.

  A long table.

  A king.

  Three daughters.

  Breakfast served like nothing in the world could threaten them.

  Vaeloria walked them in like she owned the air.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing.

  Derpy’s body moved.

  The blue collar tightened—not choking, not painful.

  Worse.

  It forced.

  He dropped into the seat with a sharp, humiliating obedience.

  His hands curled into fists.

  “Excuse me,” Derpy managed, voice thin. “Miss Vaeloria—what did you do?”

  Vaeloria turned her head.

  Her expression was sweet in a way that made Derpy’s skin crawl.

  “You’re under my protection,” she said. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

  A pause.

  “If you refuse…”

  She let the words hang.

  Then she walked forward and raised her staff.

  “Thornevald.”

  The air tightened.

  Pink ice formed along the floor in delicate petals.

  All three daughters nearest the king stiffened.

  The king didn’t.

  He kept eating.

  A shard of pink ice shot toward him.

  It disintegrated a breath before impact.

  The king finished chewing.

  Then, flat as stone:

  “Yes, dear.”

  Vaeloria’s jaw tightened.

  “Are you hiding anything from me?”

  Thornevald didn’t look up.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Vaeloria took one step closer.

  “Are you sure?”

  The sweetness drained from her voice.

  The pink ice petals thickened.

  Thornevald finally lifted his eyes.

  Calm.

  Unmoved.

  Derpy felt the collar pulse.

  His body rose.

  Not like a pet.

  Like a weapon being drawn.

  The wolf ears vanished.

  Bones cracked and shifted.

  Dragon wings tore back into existence.

  The braided tail dissolved, replaced by a heavier dragon tail that thumped once against the floor.

  Celica and Blight’s embers ignited.

  Gloves formed over Derpy’s hands.

  One glove turned black.

  The other turned white—stained through with green, like rot under snow.

  Don’t interfere, Celica warned.

  Royals don’t forgive.

  Derpy’s teeth clenched.

  “My body’s moving,” he whispered inside his head. “I don’t have control.”

  He stepped beside Vaeloria.

  His eyes burned red.

  Predator-bright.

  Mk.3 and Mk.4 moved fast, blocking his path.

  Derpy’s throat opened.

  A howl tore out.

  Black ice spikes erupted toward the king.

  Mk.2 launched forward and smashed the incoming attack with a single punch.

  Then she drove in—kill intent clean and direct.

  Derpy caught her fist.

  Held.

  Then released.

  Mk.2’s arm shattered from shoulder to wrist with a sound like snapped branches.

  “Stop,” Vaeloria said.

  Derpy’s eyes cleared.

  He blinked.

  Saw Mk.2’s missing arm.

  Saw the dolls pinning him down.

  And inside him—something else pressed up against the surface.

  No, the shadow said.

  Not this time.

  We’re switching.

  Black aura poured off Derpy’s skin.

  The collar creaked.

  Then tore.

  The blue band ripped away like a lie.

  Derpy rose.

  The Mk sisters hit him—three bodies, practiced restraint.

  He threw them off like they weighed nothing.

  Mk.1 stepped forward, voice small.

  “Friend. No fight. Stop.”

  The thing wearing Derpy’s body didn’t stop.

  It walked toward the king.

  Magic circles layered into the air with each step.

  Fire.

  Ice.

  Wind.

  Water.

  A storm of spells rose like a crown of violence.

  Mk.2 slammed into him again.

  The impact staggered him.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was already there.

  Face to face with Thornevald.

  The king’s guards had blades at his throat.

  Thornevald didn’t flinch.

  The shadow’s voice came out of Derpy’s mouth—low, controlled, lethal.

  “I have a question for you.”

  Thornevald’s eyes stayed flat.

  The shadow leaned in.

  “This answer decides whether your empire stands… or falls.”

  Ice crept up the king’s chair legs like a slow promise.

  Then the shadow spoke, crisp as a command code:

  ELVEN WAR OFFICE — ARCANE MUNITIONS COMMAND.

  DOLL-SOLDIER PROGRAM: STITCHBORNE DIVISION.

  SPECIMEN: RVN.

  The room changed.

  The dolls froze.

  Mk.1, Mk.2, Mk.3, Mk.4—every weapon lowered by a fraction.

  Recognition.

  Thornevald finally reacted.

  Not fear.

  Confirmation.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I do.”

  Derpy’s shadow voice sharpened.

  “Did you discard her?”

  Thornevald’s tone stayed casual.

  “She was the first of the first dolls,” he said. “When I came to see the results, the two in charge told me they had to start over.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Why do you ask, boy?”

  The shadow’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have a party member,” it said. “A friend.”

  A beat.

  “I saw her memories through an artifact.”

  Thornevald’s gaze didn’t move.

  “And if I refuse to answer?” he asked.

  Derpy moved like lightning.

  Lieam was yanked from her seat.

  Encased in ice up to her neck.

  Only her head visible.

  “Dad—” Lieam choked.

  “Okay,” Thornevald said, voice unchanged. “Okay.”

  The shadow leaned closer.

  “I expect truth,” it said. “If your answer breaks, I come back.”

  The black aura trembled.

  Then the shadow slipped away.

  Derpy blinked, suddenly himself again.

  Confused.

  Unaware.

  “What…?” he whispered.

  Vaeloria’s eyes cut to Thornevald.

  Thornevald sighed.

  “You want answers on the War Office,” he said. “Arcane Munitions Command. Stitchborne Division. Specimen RVN.”

  He spread his hands.

  “I can tell you what I know. Beyond that, I don’t know where the doll went.”

  Then his gaze sharpened.

  “But you’re too valuable to let go.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  Mk.1, Mk.3, and Mk.4 raised their weapons to Derpy’s neck.

  “Serve the queen’s empire,” Thornevald said, “and we will talk.”

  Derpy’s throat burned.

  He swallowed.

  “I have a favor,” he said, voice raw. “If my friends ever arrive… let them in.”

  Something cold slid around his neck again.

  A collar.

  Black.

  It bit into his skin with a burning sting.

  “Come here,” Vaeloria said.

  Derpy tried.

  His body refused.

  He used the last of his strength to stagger forward—past Vaeloria—toward the king.

  Then he collapsed at Thornevald’s feet.

  Mk.1 rushed to him.

  “No hurt friend,” she pleaded.

  Thornevald looked at Vaeloria.

  “You went into my facility,” he said, “took a calamity bearer, and brought him up here.”

  Vaeloria’s voice turned possessive.

  “He’s under my protection,” she said. “You will not take my toy away.”

  Thornevald scoffed.

  “How long do you think he’ll follow your commands with those silly beast collars?”

  He gestured at Derpy.

  “He wore one for minutes before he went wild.”

  Thornevald’s gaze cut to the dolls.

  “I have a new order,” he said.

  Mk.1, Mk.2, Mk.3, Mk.4 straightened.

  “All four of you will ensure he does not rampage.”

  Then he looked at Mk.2’s shattered arm.

  “And you,” he said. “Head to recovery. My finest mages will put you together again.”

  Mk.2 didn’t move.

  “No,” she said.

  The room stilled.

  Mk.2 never spoke unless spoken to.

  Something had shifted.

  She stared at Derpy.

  “He fixed Mk.1’s seams,” Mk.2 said, voice flat but stubborn. “I want him to fix me.”

  Thornevald’s eyes narrowed.

  Then he exhaled.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll have the mages bring spare parts.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “And that monster of a boy will try.”

  A pause.

  “But you will not complain if you come out wrong.”

  Thornevald’s voice turned sharp.

  “Am I clear?”