Ralarulash grinned as he spoke: he was the fox, condemned to be what most humans only dreamed of. Strength! Flight! The power and will to destroy and conquer.

And all it took to take that away was a noble heart.

There was no flash; no puff of smoke, no shimmer or sound. But the moment Cyrus spoke the last word, the head on which his hand rested was no longer that of a lion.

His long coarse hair was the color of the sand, but his naked skin was browner than Cyrus', as if long exposed to the desert sun. He was thin but strong, like the weeds that survived in the dry rocks, but his age was unclear. Years of sleeping on the dunes and feasting on lizards made him appear to be a man -- but when he looked up, his astonished brown eyes were very young.

He shifted backward on all fours, balanced like a cat, and he stared at his skinny limbs as if he'd never seen them before. He lifted his hands and watched his fingers flex and his wrists turn. He pushed against his knees, and slowly, wobbily, he rose to his feet, his arms spread for balance. He tottered there for a moment, dizzy with the vertigo of standing so tall, and he looked at Cyrus with a curious expression. He smirked a little, the expression unfamiliar on his face, and he gestured with his head toward the ground. At Cyrus' feet was a long, tawny feather as long as the prince's arm.