A Velvet TailWind Affair: Velvet Tailwind: A Therian Transformation

  (A Journey of Transformation, Therians, Fashion, & Self-Discovery)

  The Morning Realization

  Marla stared at herself in the mirror, jaw slack. Her eyes, once a boring shade of brown, were now a sharp golden with black slits. Her ears twitched at every sound, shifting atop her head, furry and decidedly feline. Whiskers now protruded from her cheeks and behind her…

  “Oh gods!” Marla whipped around in horror as a long, sleek tail flicked behind her. It was hers. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” She grabbed the tail, yelping when she felt it as much as she felt her own arm. A knock rattled her door.

  “Marla? You’re taking forever. You better not be napping again.”

  “Tully,” Marla’s voice cracked. “Tully, I need you to stay calm.”

  “Why? Did you…” Tully burst in, eyes going wide as she took in Marla’s new features “OH, SWEET MAMMETA!” she exclaimed.

  Marla held up a hand weakly. “I can explain—”

  Tully squealed, “You’re sooo cute!”

  Marla gapped. “Not the reaction I was expecting,” she said.

  “No, but seriously!” Tully bounced on her heels, grinning. “Look at those ears! Look at that adorable little tail! does it move if I…” she poked it. Marla jumped about a foot in the air, letting out an unintentional yowl.

  “Stop that!” she hissed.

  Tully gasped. “You even sound like a cat! Oh, Marla, you have to keep this!”

  “I’m not keeping it! I need to fix it!”

  Tully pouted. “Fine, fine. But just know that if this were me? I’d be leaning in... hey, Can I pet the ears? Just once? Pleeeease?”

  “No.” Tully, giggling like a fiend and reached anyway.

  \

  Part 2: The Only Place That Can Help

  Unfortunately for Marla no one in her hometown had any idea how to fix her. Not the local healer, the town witch, the weird old guy by the river, or even the very expensive traveling potion seller. Which meant one thing. They had to go to Velvet Tailwind. The city of Therians. A place where people didn’t undo transformations, they embraced them. Tully, of course, was thrilled. Velvet Tailwind was one of the most vibrant cities in the kingdom, probably in the entire Cone. Known for two very notable features; it’s high-end expressive couture fashion, and the animal hybrid therians that resided there.

  “This is going to be amazing.” She slung an arm over Marla’s shoulder

  Marla flicked her tail irritably. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  They bought passage there via carriage. The road was well kept, the trip uneventful, which was preferred over some journey’s that involved bandits, forced money exchanges or carriage wheel break downs. At one point Marla saw a button-deer bound away as she stared out the window. She sat quietly, watching the scenery go past. Her tail, still there, still real. flicked in irritation against her boot. Ears twitching, uninvited. She sighed and tried to tuck them under her hood again. It wasn’t the first time her thoughts drifted back to the healer’s cottage.

  “You have my sympathies,” the woman had said, crouching down by the hearth. Her hands had smelled faintly of mint and old poultice. “No one should be stuck in a body they’re uncomfortable with. That’s not a punishment I’d wish on anyone.” Marla had sat there, arms crossed tightly over her new shape, unsure if she was angry or just... afraid. “But,” the healer continued, “since you don’t believe you were cursed by a witch, made a poor wish from a genie or shooting star, or read a spell from an ominous book with magic runes on it… that leaves one likely possibility. Your inner animal spirit. And if your spirit was already this strong. If this change felt natural, not forced, well, then... It might be you. Your true form, surfacing.” She hadn’t wanted to hear that. Still didn’t. “That doesn’t mean you’re stuck. There’s always magic strong enough to change truth... but it takes power, and it takes cost. You’d need someone exceptional. And even then, it might not be about undoing something broken but bending something real.”

  The carriage hit a bump. Marla flinched. Outside, the trees thinned. A glint of silk in the distance, Velvet Tailwind, where fashion walked and fabrics breathed. The healer’s last words whispered like a thread pulled taut.

  “Even if this form is natural, especially if it is, how you feel in it still matters. Don’t let anyone, even yourself, tell you otherwise.” Marla’s hand brushed the side of her face, following the soft line of her new cheekbones, the twitching ear above them. She wasn’t sure what she felt. But she hoped, desperately, that someone in Velvet Tailwind had an answer.

  The Gate to Velvet Tailwind

  The gates of Velvet Tailwind shimmered like a fashion show halfway through a dream. Instead of iron or stone, the archway rippled, an enormous loop of silver embroidery that hovered above the road, trailing threads like lazy fireworks. Guards stood beneath it in coats that adjusted their cut and color depending on the lighting. One had a feathered collar that winked. The other wore boots that hummed slightly every time he shifted weight.

  As the carriage slowed, Marlowe leaned out the window, ears drooping beneath her hood. Her tail had bunched awkwardly under her coat again, no matter how she folded it. She gave up and let it flick behind her with a frustrated swish. A soft hiss like silk over stone drew her attention.

  A length of what looked like fabric, no wider than a scarf, uncoiled from a nearby post and slithered toward her. At first, she thought it was just a rogue enchanted banner until it reared back, bobbing inquisitively, and made a noise somewhere between a purr and a spool unwinding.

  “Oh no,” Marlowe muttered. “It’s one of those.”

  The Silken Serpent, a snake with features greatly resembling accessories like a scarf or fancy table napkin, was a pale lilac today, embroidered with tiny moons and thread-stars that shimmered as it moved. It coiled around her arm without asking, appraising her posture, tail length, bustline, and probable inseam with the focus of a master tailor and the tact of a falling chandelier.

  “Hey! Watch the tail!” she yelped as it gave an experimental squeeze, flicking its needle-thin tongue in consideration. One of the guards chuckled from the gate.

  “Don’t worry, miss. That one’s friendly. Just likes to get a proper sense of your aesthetic before you enter.”

  “It... what?”

  “Wants to know if you’re more ‘Midnight Menagerie’ or ‘Pastoral Sleek.’ Standard entry scan.”

  The Silken Serpent gave a decisive tug, then slithered back to the post, where it flared briefly into a banner that read:

  "Welcome, newly transformed. Velvet Tailwind Awaits."

  Marla stared at the sign, her cheeks burning. She pulled her coat tighter and stepped from the carriage. The guards waved her through with a lazy flourish, the archway shimmering as she passed beneath it. Inside, the city unfolded like a fashion catalogue set on fire by a glitter elemental. And Marla had no idea where to begin.

  Velvet Tailwind

  The city was alive. Marla and Tully gawked as people strolled by in elaborate, animalistic forms. Some had wings sprouting from their backs, others wolfish snouts, and one woman even had a long, scaled mer-tail, hovering on an enchanted platform.

  “I think I’m having an identity crisis just being here,” Marla muttered.

  “Don’t panic yet. Maybe they’ll know how to fix you!” Tully grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward a towering shop labeled “Lady Purris Velveteen’s Therian Boutique.” The tall, elegant woman inside turned at their entrance, amber cat-eyes flashing. She was graceful, poised, utterly refined and completely panther-like.

  “Well,” Lady Purris purred, “you’re new.”

  Marla swallowed. “Uh. Yeah. I, um, woke up like this. Is there a way to undo it?”

  Lady Purris raised a brow. “And why, dear, would you want to undo such a gift?”

  Marla’s ears flattened. “Gift? This wasn’t a choice.”

  “Perhaps not consciously.” Lady Purris circled her, inspecting her with trained eyes. “But transformations like these do not happen without cause.”

  Marla crossed her arms. “So, what? You’re saying I wanted this?”

  Lady Purris smiled knowingly. “Tell me my child, do you hate it?”

  Marla opened her mouth—then hesitated.

  Because… Did she?

  “You think on it dear, but if you truly wish to be returned to your previous form, go to… HEY! You girl, what do you think you’re doing?!”

  At the end of the shop Tully, had seen a vial of dazzling color shifting liquid and been drawn to it. She couldn’t help pop the cork and down the drink before either Marla or Lady Purris could stop her.

  “Tully, what where you thinking?!” Marla yelled out.

  “I, I don’t know, I… just felt something, like, I had to drink it. I can’t explain it and, ah, oh gods!” Tully’s scream shook the entire shop. Marla whipped around, tail fluffing up in alarm. “What?! What happened?!”

  Tully clutched her stomach, looking horrified.

  “Marla,” she whimpered. “I… I think I…” She lifted her shirt. Marla’s brain shut down. Because there, right under Tully’s ribs, were… Udders. Four of them. Marla lost it. She cackled, doubling over.

  “It’s not funny!” Tully wailed. “Oh gods, they feel real. What if someone tries to milk me?!”

  Marla gasped for breath. “I, I’m sorry, just, pfft, don’t go near Moorstead!”

  Tully gripped her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t let me get taken to a farm.”

  Marla, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, nodded solemnly. “I swear. No farm for you.”

  Tully groaned. “I hate this city.”

  Lady Purris, unbothered as ever, simply purred, “Ah, you were drawn to the transformation magic, and now an unexpected Therian bloom. Delightful.”

  “Not delightful,” Tully hissed, hugging her chest. “Fix it.”

  “Well, you did consume an unmarked Therian potion in the Potion Hall,” Lady Purris said, examining her nails. “Really, you’re fortunate you didn’t sprout hooves.”

  Tully blanched. “Oh gods. I could’ve gotten hooves?”

  “Indeed. Perhaps a tail. Maybe even…”

  “I get it,” Tully groaned. “How do I undo it?”

  Lady Purris smirked. “The Grand Therian Patent is tonight. A most wondrous festival. You see, each year, Cleavendale’s finest Therian tailors and casters showcase their work, proving the art of transformation is more than simple accident or whimsy.”

  Marla crossed her arms. “And this helps us how?”

  “One of our head judges is a master of Therian restoration. She may be able to undo your changes, if he finds you worthy.”

  Tully paled. “I have to earn my way back to normal?”

  “Oh, child,” Lady Purris chuckled, draping a lazy arm over a chaise. “In Velvet Tailwind, identity is an art form. If you wish to shed this new self, you must prove that you truly want to.”

  Marla and Tully exchanged a look. Then Tully sighed. “This is going to be such a pain in the udder.” Marla wheezed.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Part 4: Getting to The Festival

  The entire city was abuzz with the festival energy, even there in the outskirts of the city. After leaving Madame Selva’s Panthera Boutique, Marla adjusting her new enchanted tunic that somehow purred when she walked just right. they took a shortcut down Tailspin Alley. Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

  “This is definitely not the way she told us to go,” Marla muttered.

  “Semantics,” Tully chirped. “She said to take the main path. This is a path. It just happens to be… slightly… cursed?”

  Ahead, a group of Therian acrobats with glowing whiskers juggled live thread-foxes, shape shifting animals that could resemble other small quadrupeds or more interesting, different types of clothing. The creatures yipped midair and occasionally rewove themselves into scarves mid-rotation. One landed at Tully’s feet and squeaked.

  Tully bent down. “Oh my gods. It’s a ferret scarf.”

  It wrapped itself around her neck and vibrated.

  “...Is it purring?” she whispered.

  “Put it back.” Marla side-eyed a loom with legs that had just trotted by, carrying a tray of drinks.

  They turned a corner and almost collided with a living signpost, a burly dog-man in suspenders whose job, apparently, was to bark directions while wagging his tail like a metronome.

  “You girls lost?” he rumbled. “You look like you’ve been through Tailspin’s south quadrant. That whole area’s been temporarily hexed into interpretive dance.”

  “Is that why the crosswalk kept spinning?” Marla asked.

  “I just thought it was playful,” Tully shrugged.

  He pointed them toward the proper gate into The Stitching Wilds, where the Grand Patent was being held. But between them and the gate was a thread-bridge made entirely of glowing embroidery floss.

  “Do we… walk on it?” Marla asked.

  “Nope!” chirped a button sprite who zipped by on a flying spool. “You bounce!”

  Tully grinned. “Well, I can do that.”

  So they bounced.

  The bridge twanged like a harp with every step. Marla, despite herself, let out a laugh when Tully’s bounce sent her up just high enough for her ears to catch wind like sails. The city was full of surprises.

  They next found themselves halfway up a winding market stair when Tully tripped over a trailing length of someone’s sentient scarf. She pitched forward with a yelp and would’ve face-planted, if Marla hadn’t snatched her by the back of the tunic with inhuman speed.

  “Whoa!” Tully blinked, then grinned. “Nice catch, Whiskers.”

  Marla groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

  “But seriously, you moved like... like a blur. That’s kinda cool, right?”

  Marla mumbled something noncommittal, brushing invisible dust from her hands. But her tail gave a single, smug flick. It seemed they had gone down alley after alley after alley. This one was a narrow silk-draped alley and unfortunately they exit was blocked by a parade of Therians cutting them off on the other end.

  Tully groaned. “Now what? Backtrack through Stiltstrut Street and the, ugh, feather merchants?” Marla didn’t answer. She backed up a few paces, then ran straight up a stack of fabric crates and launched herself across to the other side, tail swaying for balance. She landed light as a whisper.

  She turned, arms crossed. “You coming or what?”

  Tully blinked up at her. “You jumped that.”

  Marla tried not to smirk. “Apparently, I’m spring-loaded now.”

  As they stepped further into the festival, catastrophe struck. A passing Therian vendor, a well-dressed goat-man, suddenly sniffed the air and turned sharply. Tully, already on edge, immediately noticed. “Why is he… oh no.”

  “Excuse me, dear girl,” the goat-man said, stroking his long beard. “But you seem to be… leaking.” Tully froze. Marla glanced down and immediately shoved Tully’s arms over her chest.

  “TULLY.”

  Tully squeaked. “Oh, Mammeta save me.”

  She was leaking. A small, pale trickle of milk had seeped through her shirt.

  The goat-man hummed. “A rare and excellent vintage, I’d wager…”

  “No.” Tully backed away. “Absolutely not.”

  “But dear, you must understand, in Therian culture, it’s…”

  “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR CULTURE, I AM NOT A DAIRY STALL.”

  Marla grabbed Tully’s wrist and yanked her away, speed-walking past three more interested bystanders who had begun to sniff the air.

  “Oh gods, this is a nightmare,” Tully muttered.

  Marla wheezed. “Don’t panic, just—just cross your arms and don’t make eye contact!”

  “Why do I feel like I’m being hunted?!”

  “Because you are.”

  Tully whimpered.

  They ducked down a side passage, squeezing between a velvet-draped tailor’s stall and a statue of a duck wearing suspenders (that seemed to wink at them). Marla pulled her friend through a torn tapestry flapping across a stairwell, and together they clambered up a creaking wooden staircase, emerging, panting, onto the balcony of a two-story tailor’s guild hall. And there it was. The Grand Therian Patent unfurled below them like a festival of madness and grace. Runways stitched from glowing thread hovered in midair. Magical spotlights drifted through the sky, casting prisms over contestants of every imaginable mix; fox-lords in capes of shifting smoke, bunny-girls balancing cheese wheels on their heads, and a lioness with a corset so tight it might’ve been armor.

  Marla leaned forward, wide-eyed despite herself. Tully sagged beside her. As Marla leaned against the balcony railing, tail flicking nervously in the air (she was still getting used to the constant movement and the weight of it), a voice came from behind them.

  “Nice posture,” came a low, smooth voice beside her. “Balanced tail flick. Confident stance. You trained?” She turned—and nearly jumped. The speaker was a tall, fox-eared Therian, golden-red hair pulled back, wearing a half-cloak of glowing thread. Their eyes glinted like embers.

  “Trained?” she echoed.

  “For combat, modeling, dancing? Pick your poison.” They smirked. “You’ve got good form. Natural elegance. And that tail? Dramatic without being try-hard.”

  Marla blinked. “I, uh… just… walk.”

  “Well, keep doing it,” they said, stepping closer. “Velvet Tailwind needs more confident cats.”

  Her ears twitched. She prayed they weren't blushing. But her tail betrayed her, curling up and around her side like a bashful ribbon. From across the courtyard, Tully waved with a mouth full of cheese. “Are you FLIRTING?” Marla hissed under her breath, ears flattening. The fox-eared stranger just chuckled and offered her a ribbon-wrapped drink.

  “Hey foxy,” Tully called to the charming new comer. We need to get in front of that judge. Any ideas?

  “Oh that’s easy,” the fox responded, “just sign up for the show. It’s pretty open as to your performance and there’s a few spots left. I’d hurry if I were you tough, they’ll probably due last call soon.”

  Marla blinked. “Wait, what?”

  Tully had just finished stuffing her face with cheese and perked up mid-bite. “Last call? As in, final entry last call?”

  The fox flicked his tail. “Main Thread Stage. You’ll want to go through Tailspin Alley, cut across Stitching Wilds, dodge the scarf duelists, and if you survive the spooling carousel, the judges are right ahead.”

  Marla grabbed Tully’s sleeve. “Come on!”

  They shoved through the crowd, dodging a stilted giraffe-girl twirling parasols and nearly getting sideswiped by a living gown having a tantrum.

  “I think that dress just called me ‘off the rack!’” Tully wheezed.

  “We don’t have time to get insulted by fashion!” Five minutes in, they were halfway across a glittering thread bridge when a voice boomed from above, amplified, crisp, and unmistakably regal.

  “All entries for final consideration must present themselves before Grand Weaver Torvella at the Main Thread Stage. You have ten minutes remaining.” The crowd below erupted in cheers.

  Tully froze. “Ten minutes?!”

  “We’re not even signed up!” Marla snapped, tail lashing behind her.

  “We’re not even contestants!” Tully whimpered. “We’re just… rondos with flair!”

  “We’re getting on that stage!”

  They scrambled down a side ramp, nearly trampled by a minotaur in heels—and emerged beside a series of floating platforms drifting just above the square. Enchanted fabric bolts hovered like stepping stones, part of an aerial fashion demonstration showcasing "Structural Integrity in Magical Silks."

  Marla pointed. “We hop those. Cut across the rooftops. Drop down in front of the judges.”

  Tully blinked. “You want us to parkour through a fabric ballet to interrupt a high-stakes magical couture contest?”

  “Yes.”

  “…Of course you do.” A rogue banner whipped past Tully’s face. “Do we at least have a plan if we fall?”

  “Land dramatically and hope it looks intentional.”

  “I’m starting to hate it here!” Tully yelled.

  Marla smirked, her ears twitching with determination. “You love it.” She took Tully’s hand, braced herself, and leapt. They landed with a thud and a bounce, skidding across the velvet-carpeted edge of the festival square. Tully flopped onto her back, wheezing. Marla yanked her upright by the collar. “Get up! We’re still not signed up!” They raced past two confused lamé-clad stilt walkers and darted beneath a glowing archway labeled:

  “GRAND THERIAN PATENT – PARTICIPANT INTAKE”

  A table stood at the end, manned by a sharp-featured woman with a quill that scribbled faster than most birds could fly. Her brows rose the moment she saw them.

  “You’re late.”

  “Still within the ten-minute window,” Marla gasped, panting.

  The woman sniffed. “Barely. Names?”

  “Marla and Tully. No surnames.”

  The quill paused, then continued scribbling.

  “Therian classification?” she asked.

  Tully blurted, “Unintended udder adaptation, formerly reversible?”

  The woman blinked. “...Cow-based incident. Noted. And you?”

  “Cat-girl,” Marla muttered. “Unintentional but… seemingly permanent.”

  “Hmph. And your act?”

  Marla hesitated. Tully blinked.

  “Our what?”

  “Your act. This is the Grand Therian Patent. You’re not just standing there like taxidermy. You’ll be judged on your embodiment of Therian identity—grace, instinct, flair, transformation artistry. You need a performance.”

  They exchanged a look. Tully whispered, “Do we have an act?”

  Marla’s eyes darted. Across the way, performers danced in wings of silk. A cheetah-woman sprinted in elegant circles. A lizard-boy posed dramatically while scales shimmered like mirrors.

  Marla took a breath. “We improvise.”

  Tully paled. “You hate improvising.”

  “I’m a cat-girl now. I’ll land on my feet.”

  She turned back to the official. “Our act,” she said, suddenly confident, “is called ‘Instinct in Motion: The Moment You Realize You’re Not Turning Back.’”

  The woman raised a single brow. “Avant-garde.”

  Marla’s tail flicked. “Obviously.”

  Tully whispered, “That’s not a real title.”

  “It is now,” Marla replied. “And we’re going to nail it.”

  The official snapped her fingers, and the magical sash on their wrists glowed. “Booth 7. You’re on in five.”

  The glowing thread-lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the arena. A shimmering runway extended beneath their feet—stitched from magic, alive with subtle pulse. The crowd leaned in. At the far end, seated on a floating dais draped in gold-dusted lace, Grand Weaver Torvella raised a single brow, her silver hair cascading like starlight over her shoulders. Her voice floated across the hush:

  “Contestant Seven. Present your form.” Tully froze. Marla didn’t. She stepped forward, graceful, shoulders back, tail curling like a dancer’s ribbon. Her voice rang out.

  “This is the story of a girl who woke up wrong... or right, depending on where you stand.” The crowd murmured. She turned to Tully, extended a hand. Tully blinked, then took it. “She did not ask for paws or tail. She did not ask to feel eyes that glowed. She only asked to go back.”

  Tully whispered, “Am I narrating too?”

  Marla stage-whispered, “Just milk it.” Tully straightened and lifted her arms. Her tunic fluttered dramatically.

  “But change is a spotlight, and spotlights don’t ask permission.”

  Marla dropped to all fours, prowled in a slow, graceful arc, her movements part feline, part theatrical exaggeration. Her tail flicked. Her ears twitched. Tully stepped to center stage, squared her stance, and with all the dignity she could summon, declared:

  “And sometimes, you sprout udders.” Laughter rippled through the audience. Marla rose, spun on her heel, eyes flashing.

  “But maybe… just maybe… the thing you thought you’d shed… is the thing you were always growing into.” Tully spun to match her, bumping hips. Her cow ears twitched.

  “Milk and muscle! Grace and claw! Confusion and chaos and corset support!”

  They struck a final pose, Tully arms wide, Marla crouched beside her like a cat on the hunt, both facing the judges with ridiculous confidence. A pause. A breath. And then… Grand Weaver Torvella stood. She leaned forward. Her voice, soft as velvet, cut through the stunned silence:

  “What... was that?”

  The hush held. A long beat of stunned silence stretched across the stage. Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed. A button sprite exploded out of sheer emotional confusion. Torvella rose to her full, statuesque height. The lights shifted slightly to silver. Her cloak of loom-thread shimmered with floating glyphs.

  “What... was that?” she repeated.

  Marla’s knees wobbled. Her tail flopped behind her like an exhausted punctuation mark.

  She dropped the pose. “Okay! Okay!” she blurted, hands raised in surrender. “We’re not real performers!” The crowd gasped. Tully visibly deflated beside her. “We don’t have a routine! We don’t have a theme! I mean, we came up with ‘Instinct in Motion’ on the way here! We’re just…” she gestured vaguely at herself, then Tully, then the mess of thread that was their stage, “...weird, panicked girls who don’t belong here!”

  Tully nodded solemnly. “I sprouted udders.” Another ripple of confused murmurs.

  Marla pressed on. “I woke up like this—ears, eyes, tail, all of it—and I don’t know why. And the city’s amazing, and the outfits are enchanted, and someone flirted with me with actual cheekbone confidence, and I just—”

  She choked. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.” The crowd was dead silent now. Marla turned to the dais. “I heard you can help people. I heard you could maybe… fix this. Please, Torvella, if you can do anything, anything at all, just help us get back to normal, or ar least to understand what we’re supposed to be.”

  Her voice cracked on the last word. Her tail gave one sad, slow curl around her ankle. Even Tully, wide-eyed and udder-tingly, reached over and took her hand and then, silence. Torvella descended from her platform. She stepped lightly onto the runway, her gown flowing like fog and moonlight. The crowd parted like thread in a perfect hem. She approached them, gaze unreadable. Her steps were slow but deliberate, as if the runway rearranged itself just to accommodate her. Her robes didn’t trail—they hovered, rippling with thousands of woven sigils that changed with each shift of light.

  She stopped in front of Marla. Close. Too close. The crowd faded. The sound faded. Even Tully seemed distant. Torvella peered at her. Not at her; into her. Marla's breath caught. Her knees weakened. It wasn’t just the intensity—it was the weight of being seen. Like Torvella was reading through her skin, her nerves, and into her thread of being. Her past. Her fears. Her dreams that she hadn’t even confessed to herself yet. Finally, Torvella spoke. Her voice was quiet, but it echoed all the same.

  “Yes… I believe I can restore you to your human form. If that is truly your wish.” Marla blinked. “However,” the Weaver continued, “your transformation is pure. It did not come from spell or accident or meddled potion. It came from within. Your inner being asserting itself. A rare thing.” She stepped to the side, gesturing toward the swirling festival behind her. “Most Therians work for years, through potions, procedures, trials, to find the form that best reflects their truth. And even then, it may not stick. You were simply… gifted this.” She turned back, locking eyes with Marla again. “Are you sure you want to give that up?”

  Marla opened her mouth. Closed it. She stared at her hands. At her claws, clean, elegant. At her legs, poised, balanced. Her tail curled behind her in perfect silence. The crowd had faded into a hush, waiting.

  She thought about:

  The gracefulness, how she’d caught Tully mid-fall with feline reflexes.

  The way she moved, how she had leapt rooftops and thread-bridges.

  How the tail swayed with confidence even when her voice wavered.

  How it felt when the fox-Therian had called her elegant and meant it.

  She looked up at Torvella.

  “I… I don’t know,” she said honestly.

  And then:

  “I don’t think I want to give it up.” Her voice firmed. “I think I might want to stay this way.” There was a pause. A perfect, delicate pause. And then… The crowd erupted.

  Applause, whistles, cheers, transcending language, Therian type, or fashion affiliation. They didn’t just cheer for a routine. They cheered for a moment of truth. Marla flushed deep crimson. Her ears twitched. Her tail gave a bashful swoop behind her.Then she stepped forward and gave a full, proud bow. Tully clapped too, though hers ca me with a small cough and a mutter:

  “Yeah, great. Love that for you. Can someone please get rid of my udders now?” Torvella chuckled.

  “Ah yes,” she said, turning to Tully. “Yours is… far easier.”

  With a wave of her hand, a shimmer of silver thread circled Tully’s torso, flickered, and vanished. Tully blinked. She patted herself, paused, then whispered, “Oh thank Mammeta. I’m flat again.” Marla laughed. So did the crowd. Torvella turned to leave, her voice floating behind her.

  “Sometimes, the greatest transformation is simply accepting the shape you were always meant to wear.”

  Epilogue: The Morning After

  The next morning, Marla stretched, her tail curling over the blankets. Tully groaned from across the room.

  “You’re still a cat,” she muttered.

  Marla grinned. “Yup.”

  Tully sighed. “I hope you know this means I’m never getting rid of you.”

  Marla flicked her tail smugly. “Like I’d ever leave.”

  Tully rolled onto her side, studying her. Then, very seriously, she said:

  “You’re still so cute, though.”

  Marla flushed. Tully smirked.

  “Shut up,” Marla muttered, shoving a pillow at her. But her tail betrayed her, flicking happily.