On the eighth day, Andrev woke when a rock landed near his head. He’d dodged in his sleep, inhuman reactions lightning-fast, and then he saw a little girl standing at the edge of his camp. Her mother handed her another rock.
Andrev rose up, uncurling carefully. He twitched his hands, and then he had claws, ready for slashing.
“I thought we had an understanding,” he said.
A woman said, “You don’t understand anything. Not your power, not who you are. You waste your gifts - a petulant child.”
She was tall, lovely - but for the three horns marring her brow.
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