Shapes Never Meant to Be Worn

Snow fell in slow, lazy flakes, dusting the rooftops of Steinhafen, a market town near Ehrwald. The cobblestone streets were crowded despite the biting cold. Merchants called out prices, the scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with leather and smoke, and carts creaked under the weight of winter goods.

Ren, now fifteen, followed his parents through the bustling streets, his breath misting in the air. They had come to trade wool and cheese from the farm, but Ren’s attention wandered. He scanned the stalls for anything unusual: strange trinkets, rare animals, colorful cloth.

He drifted a little too far from his parents, weaving through a narrow side street to avoid the crush of the crowd. That was when he heard it: boots pounding on stone, a ragged breath, the clink of coins in a pouch.

A man burst into the alley, colliding with him hard. Their shoulders brushed. Ren was shoved to the ground.

"Thief! Catch that man!" a merchant was shouting as he chased.

And then it happened.

The world lurched sideways, colors bleeding into shadow. Ren’s vision warped, and when it settled, the body he was in was not his own. His arms were thicker, his legs longer. His breath came in heavy gasps, and in his hands was a leather pouch heavy with stolen coins.

He looked around and saw himself lying on the cobbles, eyes blank.

Panic clawed at him.

What… no… this is wrong…

But the thief’s instincts were stronger than his fear. His legs pumped, turning corners with the ease of someone who had fled a hundred times before. Ren felt the man’s muscles burn, felt his heart hammer, smelled the sweat and smoke of the town in ways sharper than human senses should allow.

And beneath it all… memories.

They came in a flood that nearly knocked him off his feet.

His name was Ulrich. 

A boy with a split lip and bare feet, scavenging crusts behind a bakery. The smell of mold in a cellar where he slept. A father who came home drunk, fists heavy and words cruel. The sharp crack of a belt. Hunger so deep it ached like sickness.

Years passed in a blink. A hand darting into pockets, pulling free coins and rings. Running from guards through narrow alleys, heart racing not from fear but exhilaration. Nights in a smoke-choked tavern, the sound of dice rattling in cups. A red-haired woman laughing against his ear, her fingers stealing the last of his winnings before vanishing into the night.

A winter so cold he could see frost on his blanket when he woke. Warming his hands over a brazier while trading stolen knives for cheap wine. Knocking over a drunk merchant for the silver chain around his neck.

Faces. Men he trusted for a week before they sold him out, women who whispered his name in the dark but forgot him by morning. A narrow escape from prison, a bribe paid with half his savings, the rest lost in another night of drink.

It was endless. The smells, the sounds, the regrets that were not his but felt as if they had always been there.

Ren staggered inside the man’s mind, trying to push the memories away before they swallowed him whole. His spirit strained against the shape he wore, but he pushed and pushed until Ulrich was shoved back and he was in control of the body.

He stood frozen until the pursuers caught up to him.

Then he left the body.

The world lurched again.

Ren stood in the same alley, back in his own body. Ulrich was being dragged away to the jail, confusion written across his face. The merchant and guards muttered that the man must be drunk.

Ren pushed himself up, leaning against the wall, gulping down air. His hands shook, not from the cold but from what he had just done.

"Are you okay, Ren?" his mother asked, worry lining her voice.

"I’m fine," he lied. "The thief… he pushed me, I fell, that’s all."

Ren had skin changed into another human. His spirit had slipped into them as easily as it did with animals.

But this was different. Dangerous.

The man’s memories had been sharp, jagged things. They had clung to him, almost drowned him. If he had stayed longer, he might have lost himself entirely.

That night, back at the inn, Ren sat by the fire, staring into the flames. His parents thought he was simply tired from the long day. They did not see the fear twisting inside him.

I can never do that again.

Animals were simple. Their minds were like clear pools, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, but always clean. Humans were storms, violent and unpredictable. And if he stepped into one, there was no guarantee he would find his way out.

The wolves had warned him long ago about taboos. He had thought they meant only the dark beasts in the forest. But now he understood there were far more dangerous shapes than claws and fangs.

There were some shapes a Skinwalker was never meant to wear.