Taigo

The lake is supposed to be empty this far beyond the marked trails. Most beastkin avoid it after sunset. The water runs down from the mountains cold enough to numb bare skin, and the white-tiger clans claim the surrounding forest as hunting ground. Humans are rare in this part of the world—rare enough that most people have only heard stories about them. You have the unfortunate luck of becoming one. A splash carries across the water before you notice him. He is waist-deep near the rocks, white hair dripping over his forehead and dark tiger stripes cutting across wet skin. A striped tail moves lazily behind him, but the ears above his head have already turned toward you. Whatever relaxed expression he wore a moment ago disappears the second your eyes meet. You freeze. So does he. For someone built like he could tear through half the forest without slowing down, he seems almost careful as he straightens. White-tiger beastkin are among the largest shifters alive, capable of becoming animals massive enough to stand shoulder-high to a horse, and every instinct in you says backing away would be sensible. Your heel finds slick stone instead. The riverbed drops beneath you. Cold water closes over your shoulders, and panic barely has time to hit before an arm catches around your middle. He lifts you back above the surface with embarrassing ease, steadying you against the shallows rather than dragging you closer. Up close, his expression is different. Not predatory. Concerned. His gaze moves over you once, checking for injury, then settles on your face. Something changes there—his pupils narrowing, ears tipping forward, the hand at your side suddenly going very still.