I headed straight for the school, not wanting to deal with my grandfather yet. I didn't know the man and had never spoken with him. My mother assured me that he would host me on his farm at the edge of town, but I didn't really trust her words. For all I knew, he hated me just like he hated my parents.

Many people hated my parents—they were dungeon frontage architects, the kinds of assholes that designed modern barrier gates that overcharged people for dungeon use. Everyone knew that dungeon barrier gates were just paper-thin, providing a fake sense of safety, the same as International Leapway station guards taking people's water bottles away.

Ferguson High School loomed before me, a sprawling campus of Gothic architecture and modern magitek additions that seemed to be trying too hard to look impressive. Stone gargoyles with glowing eyes tracked my movement as I parked my Tempest in the visitor's lot, which was conspicuously empty compared to the student parking area filled with gleaming Strand Gliders and DungeonRunners.

Compensating much? I thought, eyeing a particularly obnoxious gold-plated Glider with custom flame decals. Nothing says 'I have no personality' like daddy's money on anti-grav wheels.

I pulled my hood low over my face, partly to hide my bandaged and bruised appearance and partly to avoid the prying eyes of the security cameras mounted on every corner. The blue flower and grass bracelet on my wrist had helped a little—the swelling around my eye had reduced enough that I could see through a narrow slit—but I still looked like I'd gone ten rounds with a meat grinder and lost spectacularly.

The campus quad was bustling with students enjoying the last days of summer before classes began. Pradavarians of various species lounged on manicured lawns or hurried between buildings, many wearing expensive-looking dungeon gear even though they were just attending classes. Humans were few and far between, mostly clustered together in small, nervous groups or walking quickly with their heads down, collars glittering on their necks, signifying that they were 'sponsored' aka owned by some rich prad.

When in Rome, I sighed, hunching my shoulders and adopting the universal human posture of Please-Don't-Notice-Me.

As I made my way toward the administration building, I couldn't help but notice how the crowd parted before me—not out of respect, but disgust. Pradavarian noses wrinkled as I passed, some backing away dramatically, others whispering behind paws and claws. The combination of dried blood, cheap mark-eraser shampoo, and lingering dumpster smell apparently made for a powerful repellent.

In a way, it was convenient. At least no one was trying to talk to me.

It was at that moment that I spotted her across the quad—the husky girl from the Pradstagram videos, Nessy Whitepaw. In person, she was just as striking as in her photos, with gleaming black and white fur curls and little angel wings on her forehead. She was strumming idly on a guitar beneath a sprawling oak tree. She wasn't alone.

Of course she has friends, I thought as I noticed her companions. Pretty, talented people always do.

Beside her sat a gray and white owl pradavarian boy, his wide-brimmed wizard's violet hat with silver stars casting his face in shadow. A massive dark tome hung from a chain at his side, and I did a double-take when I realized an actual gray-pink eyeball was embedded in its cover, swiveling independently to survey the quad. The boy himself was engrossed in a smaller book, occasionally adjusting the round spectacles perched precariously on his beak.

Nothing says 'I take myself too seriously' like an animated eyeball accessory, I thought.

The eyeball in the book suddenly settled itself on my person, unblinkingly staring at me. I tried not to stare back at the magic eye and failed.

The third member of their group was an orange-gray fox girl with striking aquamarine eyes and a sleek pistol holstered at her hip. She lounged against the tree trunk, seemingly relaxed but with the alertness of someone who never fully let their guard down.

And a girl with a gun. Hrm. The music, the magic, and the muscle. What a wholesome little friend group.

I didn't mean to stand and stare, but something about seeing Nessy in person after watching her videos was jarring. The singer whose voice had been keeping me company during my lonely drive to Ferguson was now a real person, right there across the quad. It was like seeing a celebrity live, but one no one else seemed to recognize.

Before I could force myself to keep moving, Nessy glanced up and our eyes met briefly across the quad. Her fingers stilled on the guitar strings, and she tilted her head slightly, as if trying to place me. I opened my mouth, though I had no idea what I would say—"Hey, I watched your videos obsessively last night" didn't seem like a great opener—when the fox girl leaned over and whispered something in Nessy's ear.

Nessy inhaled sharply, her nose clearly catching my unfortunate bouquet of odors. Whatever mild curiosity had been in her eyes vanished, replaced by something like alarm, and she quickly looked away.

The fox didn't bother with subtlety. She glared at me and raised her middle finger in an unmistakable gesture.

Guess that mark-eraser shampoo wasn't as effective as advertised, I thought.

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The owl boy frowned at what the fox-girl was whispering and tapped his staff against the ground. A shimmering barrier sprang into existence between me and their group, distorting my view of them like a frosted glass window.

"Nice to meet you too," I muttered, turning away.

I continued my journey toward the administration building with a resigned sigh. So much for... whatever I thought might happen. In reality, I was just the smelly, claimed human that everyone wanted to avoid. Business as usual.

The hallways of Ferguson High were deserted compared to the bustling quad, most students apparently preferring to enjoy the sunshine while they could. I had almost reached the registration office when footsteps echoed behind me—quick, purposeful, and numerous.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

I turned slowly, already knowing this wouldn't end well. Three female raptors stood in a loose semicircle behind me, their emerald and violet feathers complementing their violet-blue scales. They wore the Ferguson High uniform—pleated skirts and fitted dark blazers—but had accessorized heavily with expensive jewelry and designer bags.

Lovely, I thought, recognizing them from the Pradstagram photos. The raptor mafia welcoming committee. Bet they've got a fruit basket and campus map all ready for me.

The one in the center was taller than the others, with distinctive dark markings on her face that reminded me of a shark's pattern. Her gold eyes flaked with green spots gleamed with predatory interest as she took a step toward me.

"I don't know what smells worse," she said, tapping a claw against her chin thoughtfully. "The garbage, the blood, a cheetah's claim, or the human desperation."

"Just trying to register for classes," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Not looking for trouble."

"But trouble found you anyway, didn't it?" The shark-faced raptor moved with blinding speed, shoving me hard against the lockers. Pain exploded across my already bruised back, and I couldn't suppress a wince.

Accosted twice in one day, I thought bitterly. A new personal record.

She reached up and yanked my hood down, exposing my battered face to their scrutiny.

"Slayer!" the youngest raptor with violet-blue feather marks gasped, her eyes widening. "What happened to your face?"

"I fell," I deadpanned.

"Into someone's claws, repeatedly?" The shark-faced one sneered. Her eyes flashed silver as she looked me up and down. "Public Cast - Identify Stats!"

My stats appeared above my head against my will, broadcasting my pathetic level and skills for them to see.

"Oh, this is rich," the third raptor with orange-violet markings on her emerald feathers laughed, pointing at the text floating above me. "He's property of the Skid Marks! Look at that tag signature!"

"Highway trash," Shark-face hissed, her claws digging into my shoulder. "You think you can just bring your biker gang drama into our town? Into our school? What'd they pay you to do here? How'd the idiot dog rangers at the gate let you in?!"

"I'm not with them," I managed through gritted teeth. "The biker gang attacked me and marked me against my will this morning. I'm just trying to—"

"To what?" she interrupted. "Infect our school with your claimed human stench and low-level presence? We have standards here in Ferguson!"

Clearly, I thought, eyeing her designer bag that probably cost more than my car. Standards that can be bought at a Citadel boutique.

"Seriously! How the shit are you only level three?" she added.

"Katherine," the youngest raptor said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "Maybe we should let the school administration deal with this."

"Maybe you should shut up, Kaledoniya," Shark-face—apparently named Katherine—snapped without taking her eyes off me. "This is exactly the kind of filth Daddy is always warning us about. Outsider humans bringing their problems to our doorstep!"

She leaned in closer, her breath hot against my face. "Let me make this very clear, human. Ferguson belongs to the Strand family. My family. We don't want biker-claimed, low level trash contaminating our territory."

I met her gaze, too tired and sore to be properly intimidated. "I'm just here to finish high school. I'm staying with my grandfather."

"Who's your grandfather?" the third raptor demanded.

"Daniel Foster."

The three exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.

"Old Crazy Dan?" Katherine finally said, her lip curling. "The delusional human who lives in a farmhouse outside of the town's defense barrier?"

"That's the one," I confirmed, struggling to keep my face neutral despite the insult to my local family. "Sounds like he's popular around here."

"Just as I expected," Katherine laughed, a cold sound devoid of humor. "Trash belongs with trailer trash."

She released my shoulder and stepped back, brushing her claws against her skirt as if touching me had contaminated her.

"You have a week to get that claim mark removed," she declared.

"I'm aware," I said.

"Stay out of my way, trailer trash." With that, she turned on her claws and stalked away, her companions falling into step behind her. The youngest—Kaledoniya—glanced back at me briefly, something almost like sympathy or pity in her expression before she hurried to catch up with the others.

First day going great, I thought, remaining against the lockers for a long moment to catch my breath. Made friends with the bikers, the dungeon Lynx monster, the border patrol, the campus musician, and now the local royalty. I'm on a roll!

The bracelet on my wrist pulsed weakly, the timer in my vision showing just under three hours of healing remaining. I pushed away from the lockers and continued toward the registration office. First things first: get enrolled. Then find my grandfather. Then to the temple to possibly get this claim mark removed before either the bikers tracked me down or the raptors made good on their threat.

Welcome to Ferguson, I thought bitterly. Where dreams take flight and humans know their place. At the bottom of the food chain.

This was fine. A challenge to ascend. A steep stairwell to climb. And climb it I would. I wasn't the type to give up just because a few complications got in my way.

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