She walked through the bustling streets of city, her white cloak billowing softly around her slender frame. The city's noise—vendors hawking wares, children laughing, carts rattling over cobblestones—felt distant, muffled. She was invisible here, just another face in the crowd. No one recognized the former  Archbishop of Greed; no one saw the divine being she once believed herself to be. Her golden eyes scanned the throngs with detached curiosity. How small they all look, she thought, her fingers brushing against the bandages hidden beneath her tunic. The tight binding flattened her chest, a secret rebellion against the curse’s cruel joke.

The marketplace smelled of spices and sweat, of roasting meat and overripe fruit. Regalia paused by a stall selling trinkets, her reflection warped in a polished copper mirror. A stranger stared back—soft features, white hair spilling over her shoulders, lips too full for the scowl she attempted. She touched her cheek, half-expecting the sharp jawline of the man she had been to reappear. It didn’t. A vendor shoved a carved wooden bird into her line of sight. "For your lover, perhaps?" he grinned, missing teeth on display. She recoiled as if struck. Lover. The word curdled in her stomach. She turned away without a word, cloak snapping like a banner in her haste.

At the harbor’s edge, where salt spray stung her eyes, she watched ships vanish into the horizon. Her hands—smooth now, palms unblemished—tugged at the bandages beneath her tunic. The witch’s curse had been precise in its cruelty: not just flesh reshaped, but sensation amplified. Every brush of fabric, every gust of wind, was a violation. She remembered the witch’s laughter, sharp as broken glass. "For your greed—a greed that devoured worlds—you become what men covet. And when you finally understand the weight of that gaze... worse awaits." Worse. The word echoed. What could be worse than this? Than feeling every hungry stare like a brand?

She sighed, a sound lost to the wind. A flat stone lay in her palm. Without thought, she flicked her wrist. It skipped once, twice—then vanished beneath a wave. As she straightened, a strange pressure built at the base of her spine. A tearing sensation, swift and hot. Fabric strained. Behind her, unnoticed by sailors hauling nets, by fishwives gutting their catch, a long, white tail burst out her trousers. Thick as rope, tipped with coarse hair, it lashed once—a horse’s tail—then swayed back and forth, brushing wet stone. She froze. The harbor sounds dimmed. Only the slap of water against stone, the tail’s heavy thump against her calf. She dared not turn. The tail twitched, alive and alien. She clenched her fists. The witch’s promise: worse awaits. This was the next stage. Unseen? For now. But inevitable. Like rot.

Regalia walked. Her cloak hid the tail, but its weight dragged. Each step felt wrong. The tail pulled her off balance. She stumbled on uneven cobbles. Pain shot through her ankle—sharp, hot. She hissed, catching herself against a damp stone wall. The tail coiled around her leg, thick and heavy. She pushed off the wall, forcing herself upright. Ahead, a narrow alley offered refuge. She ducked into its shadowed throat, away from prying eyes. Here, the stench of refuse choked her. Rats scurried. She leaned against cold brick, breathing hard. Her fingers trembled as they crept upward, tracing the line of her jaw. Skin felt taut. Too smooth. Too... stretched. She touched her ears. They felt wrong. Larger. Warmer. Soft fur brushed her fingertips. She snatched her hand away. No mirror. Only the alley’s gloom. She pressed her palms to her temples. Pressure built there, a dull ache spreading upward. Her skull felt... shifting beneath her palms.

She staggered deeper into the alley. Her boots scraped stone. The left sole felt loose. Leather strained. Something inside her boot felt wrong. Too big. Too hard. She kicked off the boot. It clattered away. Her bare foot hit wet stone. Cold. But not skin. Hard keratin. Black. Shiny. Hoof. She stared. A horse’s hoof. Cloven. Perfectly formed. She lifted her other foot. Boot still on. She tore it off. Another hoof. Identical. She flexed her... toes? No toes. Only solid bone and horn. She stumbled backward. Her tail lashed wildly. She hit the wall. Hooves scraped sparks. Painless. She stared at her feet. Impossible. Beautifully grotesque. She took a step. Clack-clack. Hooves on stone. Clear. Loud. She froze. Listened. The city roared on—carts, shouts, laughter. No one heard. No one noticed. Her breath came fast. Panic clawed her throat. But beneath it... fascination. She lifted a hoof. Ran a finger along its smooth curve. Cool. Unyielding. Hers. She took another step. Clack. Clack. The sound echoed in the alley. Still, the world ignored her. She walked out into the street. Clack-clack-clack. Hooves on cobbles. A vendor shouted about apples. A child ran past, chasing a hoop. Regalia stood amidst them, hooves planted on stone.

Her hands were next. She felt it creeping. Fingers stiffening. Knuckles locked. Skin hardening. She hid them in her cloak. Too late. A woman bumped her shoulder. "Watch it!" The woman scowled. Didn't glance down. Regalia clutched her cloak. Beneath, her fingers fused. Lengthened. Darkened. Hooves. Hands gone. Hooves. She curled them. Heavy. Useless. She couldn't grasp. Couldn't feel. Only blunt pressure. She walked on. Clack-clack-clack. Hooves on stone. Hooves for hands. Still, no stares. A beggar held out a bowl. Regalia tried to drop a coin. Her hoof-hand fumbled. Coin clattered away. The beggar cursed. Didn't look up. Didn't see. She moved faster now. Clack-clack-clack-clack. Hooves striking stone. Faster. Almost running. Her tail whipped behind her. People parted. Unseeing. Unhearing. The transformation was speeding. Unnoticed. Unremarked. A monster walking in daylight.

The fur began at her neck. Soft. Insidious. Like spilled milk soaking into cloth. It crept upward along her jawline, tickling, thickening. White strands sprouted from her temples, mingling with her damp pink-and-black hair. She scratched her cheekbone. Her fingernail—no, hoof—caught on coarse hair. Thickening. Spreading downward. Across her shoulders. Down her spine. A warm, prickling blanket enveloping her torso. She felt it beneath her cloak. A dense pelt pushing against the fabric. Her breath hitched. She stopped walking. Stood frozen amidst the river of oblivious people. The fur reached her hips. Covered her thighs. A relentless tide of white. Soft. Insulating. Utterly alien. She touched her face. Furred cheeks. Furred brow. Only her eyes, nose, mouth remained bare skin islands in a sea of white. She was becoming something else. Something covered. Something hidden. Something... less human.

Then the mane erupted. Not from her scalp, but from her neck. A thick, bristling ridge of pure white hair burst forth, pushing against her cloak’s collar. It cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of frost, dense and wild. It framed her face, brushing her furred cheeks. Heavy. Alive. She felt its weight. Its heat. Its undeniable presence. She lifted a hoof-hand, touched the coarse strands. Real. Solid. A crest. A declaration. She was no longer Regulus. Not truly Regalia. She was becoming... other. The transformation wasn't pain. It was pressure. A relentless reshaping from within. The city blurred. Sounds muffled. She existed in a cocoon of sensation—the scrape of hooves, the drag of the tail, the suffocating warmth of the fur, the impossible weight of the mane. She was a statue carved from living fur and bone, adrift in a sea of the blind.

Her cloak strained. Seams groaned. The dense fur beneath thickened, pushing outward. The fabric across her shoulders tore first—a sharp rip echoing unheard in the street. Then the sleeves shredded as her forelegs thickened, bulging with muscle beneath the fur. The hem ripped higher as her equine haunches swelled, powerful and undeniable. Tatters of white cloth clung to her shifting form like shed skin. Her face felt molten. Bones ground beneath furred skin. Her jaw lengthened, pushing forward. Her nose flattened, nostrils flaring wide, black and wet. Her lips thinned, pulling back over teeth that felt suddenly too large, too blunt. Her ears stretched upward, pointed, furred on the inside, twitching at sounds she couldn't consciously hear. Only her eyes remained—wide, gold, human, trapped in a face becoming distinctly equine. Panic surged, cold and sharp. She needed shelter. Now. Before the change consumed her utterly. Before someone saw.

The tavern door loomed ahead—"The Salty Anchor," its sign creaking. She lunged for it, hooves clattering frantically on the worn threshold. The heavy oak door swung inward under her weight. She stumbled into the dim, smoky interior, the sudden quiet a shock. The smell hit her—ale, sweat, pipe smoke, and roasting meat. Low chatter filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clank of tankards. Heads turned. Dozens of eyes—curious, bleary, indifferent—fixed on the figure staggering in. A woman? Cloaked in rags, fur gleaming white where fabric tore away, a thick tail thrashing behind her, hooves scraping the sawdust floor. Silence fell like a dropped stone. Every eye tracked her. She froze, pinned beneath the collective gaze. The witch’s curse pulsed: Feel the weight of that gaze. It burned. It judged. Her breath came in ragged gasps through her lengthening muzzle.

Gravity pulled. Not the gentle tug of earth, but a deep, visceral command. Her spine arched downward, vertebrae groaning like strained timber. Her forelegs—no longer arms—buckled first. Knees hit the splintered floorboards with a hollow thud. Sawdust puffed around her. The pull intensified, relentless. Her powerful hindquarters lowered next, haunches settling heavily. Muscles trembled, adapting to a posture both alien and terrifyingly natural. Her neck stretched long, head hanging low between her shoulders. The mane, thick and white, brushed the filthy floor. She was down. On all fours. Solid. Grounded. Utterly exposed. The tavern remained silent, stunned. Someone dropped a mug. It shattered, sharp and loud.

She lifted her head slowly. The movement felt fluid, instinctive. Her long neck curved gracefully. Her eyes, wide gold pools reflecting the smoky lantern light, swept the room. Faces stared back—confusion, fear, a flicker of drunken lust. She saw herself reflected in their eyes: a creature of impossible beauty. Pure white fur rippled over powerful muscles. Her mane cascaded like frozen silk down her arched neck. Her tail, thick and long, swept the sawdust behind her. Every line was elegance, every curve strength. Perfection sculpted from bone and sinew. The witch’s curse hadn’t just reshaped her; it had refined her. Stripped away the clumsy human form and revealed this—a flawless equine grace. A tremor ran through her flanks, not of fear, but of… recognition. This, the posture whispered, is what you were meant to be.

A harsh bark of laughter shattered the silence. "Oi!" A burly man near the hearth slammed his tankard down, ale sloshing onto the scarred table. His face was flushed, eyes bleary. "Who the fuck let their horse into the tavern?!" He jabbed a thick finger towards her. "Get that nag outta here! It'll ruinthe floor!" His companions chuckled uneasily, their gazes darting between the man and the impossible creature standing amidst them. The insult landed like a dull thud. Horse. Nag. Words meant for beasts of burden. Tools. Property. Beneath contempt. Beneath notice. Beneath her. A familiar, icy fury ignited deep within Regalia’s chest, hotter and purer than any human anger. Her ears flattened against her skull. A low, guttural rumble vibrated in her throat—a sound utterly alien to her old voice, yet resonating with primal warning.

The burly man’s grin faltered as the sound reached him. He pushed back his stool, its legs scraping loudly. "Think you're funny, do ya?" He took a step forward, fists clenched. "I said OUT!" He lunged, aiming a clumsy grab for her mane. Instinct flared—wild, untamed, coursing through her powerful limbs. Before conscious thought could intervene, her body reacted. Her head snapped sideways, neck muscles coiling like steel springs. Her skull connected with the man’s chest with a sickening crack. He flew backward, crashing into his own table, sending tankards and curses flying. Silence descended again, thick and heavy. The man groaned, clutching his ribs. Regalia stood motionless, nostrils flaring, her breath puffing visible clouds in the tavern's chill. The fury felt… clean. Direct. A simple equation: threat met with overwhelming force. No convoluted justifications. No divine pronouncements. Just power answering insult.

"Monster!" a woman shrieked near the bar. The word ignited the room. Fear curdled into rage. Tankards were raised like weapons. A stool flew through the air, narrowly missing her flank. A man swung a cudgel. She pivoted, hooves skidding on spilled ale. The blow grazed her shoulder—stinging, insignificant. Another man charged, knife drawn. Her hind leg lashed out in a blur of white muscle. The kick caught him square in the stomach. He folded, retching. Chaos erupted. Screams, curses, the clash of wood and metal. They swarmed her, a tide of terrified humanity. She moved like quicksilver—dodging, striking, kicking. Hooves connected with flesh, bone yielding beneath hardened horn. Her tail whipped, clearing space. She was a storm of hooves and fury, driving them back step by step towards the door. They weren't fighting her; they were fighting the unknown, the nightmare made flesh. And she was winning. Easily. As she raced outside and stopped, people stared, pointed, and looked right at her, she got what she wanted, she was seen now, not as power, danger, but as what she was, a scared mare, in a city.