The Bosphorus shimmered behind the latticed windows of the Feriye Palace’s west salon, where afternoon sun struck gilt-framed mirrors and pooled around figures in suits and diplomatic dress. The sea breeze smelled faintly of diesel and jasmine. A peacock screamed somewhere in the gardens.
Afran, King of Rum, leaned forward in his brocade-backed chair and offered Henry Atwood a glass of tea. ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘half the world already thinks the Centaurids are either a genetic hoax or a messianic omen. We can’t have that speculation getting out of control and fermenting into cults.’
Henry Atwood—trim in his ministerial suit, tie slightly loosened—sipped his tea and set it down carefully. ‘We can do truth. But we must make it beautiful. This is Rothenia we
are talking about. Give us an archangel on horseback and we’ll build a shrine. But give us half-horse boys with registration cards and med-disclosure forms, and you might have protest marches. Who after all licenced these human boys and girls to mutate into mythic creatures in school term time?’
Will Martinovic stretched out lazily on the chaise by the window, sunlight catching the copper highlights in his long brown hair. ‘So give them a poster boy,’ he said. ‘Someone they know. Someone sweet. Someone who knocked up a mare on his military mission and came home with a baby centaur.’
Henry paused. ‘You mean Jules Kral?’
‘Obviously I mean Jules.’ Will grinned, sharp and amused. ‘Rothenia’s favourite runaway twink. The lad with a camera in one hand and now, apparently, a colt’s reins in the other. And he’s genuinely a typical Rothenian boy, which helps. I mean, he mounted the mare for fun and giggles, said it meant nothing emotionally, and now he’s changing nappies and teaching the boy to read. Classic Rothenian masculinity with a magical twist.’
Afran raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought he was gay.’
‘Oh, he is, Franzi. But according to him, mares don’t count.’ Will shrugged. ‘Honestly, you don’t get more posthuman than that.’
Henry leaned back in his chair. ‘If Strelsenermedia signs off on this, I may fund a docuseries. Soft focus, lots of natural light, maybe a wind machine for the tail shots.’
Will laughed. ‘Jules can handle wind. I’ll ring him. It’s not like him to turn down an all-expenses-paid return trip home. After all, his kid’s too young for any long-distance flight.’
***
The RMS Mihai Eminescu was one of the older Danube liners, all polished teak decks and groaning brass fixtures. It was a miracle it had survived the Horde’s pillage of the Danube basin. She had a somewhat nostalgic air—like a riverboat designed by someone who had once watched Death on the Nile and had been entranced.
Jules Kral lounged in a deck chair in human guise and his long coat, sunglasses sliding down his nose, while his son in centaur shape trotted elegant figure-eights around the sundeck. Willem Wildmane Julescolt was unmistakably his: long-limbed, slightly chaotic, and absurdly photogenic. His chestnut coat gleamed; his little hooves clip-clopped on the polished wooden deckplanks.
The other passengers had adjusted remarkably well. It helped that they’d been warned: ‘one minor and one adult male centaurid on board.’ The captain had smiled too brightly, then upgraded them to the presidential suite.
They were passing Royal Budapest under a pink sky, its distinguished river frontage catching fire in the dusk. Yellow and black Hapsburg bunting was everywhere. There were anniversary celebrations for the accession of King Lajos II. A squadron of flag-decked Oecumenic naval destroyers were anchored at the grandeur of the Parliament House, to honour the Hungarian king.
‘You know,’ Jules said to his son, watching a string of ducks trail in their wake, ‘this is weird even for me.’
Wildmane trotted up and curled his human torso beside Jules’s chair, chewing a sugar cube he’d picked off the coffee tray. ‘What is?’
‘This,’ Jules said, waving vaguely at the river, the boat, the fancy glass of iced plum tonic. ‘Fatherhood. River cruises. Haircare. Having to explain to border guards that your son has hooves, but yes, he is yours.’
Wildmane giggled. ‘I like being yours.’
Jules sighed and kissed the crown of his son’s hair. ‘Yeah. I like being yours too.’
***
The Kral garden had changed little in the years since Jules had last been home. The low whitewashed walls, the flagstones set in their warm summer gravel, the thyme and lavender curling in unruly tufts round the cracked sundial—it was all precisely as he remembered it. What had changed, of course, was what stood beside him on the gravel: a reddish-bay colt with bright hazel eyes and a stripe of wild white down his nose.
Willem Wildmane Julescolt, of the Order of Centaurids, snorted eagerly and trotted ahead through the open garden gate in centaur guise, tail flicking like a banner. Jules’s father was already in the garden, pruning shears in hand. He straightened up slowly—greying hair wild, T-shirt tucked into his gardening shorts, reading glasses skewed on his nose. He took in the newcomer, all four legs of him.
Jules coughed. ‘Dad. This is Wildmane. My son. Your grandson.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the rustle of roses and the creak of the garden bench as Jules’s father slowly sat down on it. ‘I see,’ the older man said at last, in a voice as dry as his potting soil. ‘And I suppose he calls you Daddy.’
Wildmane perked up. ‘I call him táta, sir,’ he said brightly, his Rothenian only slightly slurred by his long jaw. ‘Or sometimes ‘tall one with the treats.’’
Mr Kral blinked. The colt trotted over, his hooves surprisingly dainty on the flagstones, and delicately nuzzled one of the rose bushes. Before Jules could stop him, Wildmane bit off a fully opened bloom, chewed, then sneezed dramatically.
‘Bit spiky,’ he observed. ‘Do you have any gooseberries?’
Jules covered his face with a hand. ‘He’s... got a taste for ornamental flora. Sorry.’
Mr Kral looked at the stump of the rose. ‘That was from your mother’s birthday cultivar.’
‘Sorry,’ Jules muttered again. ‘He’s still learning what’s sacred and what’s salad.’
At that moment, Wildmane turned, flicked his tail with regal satisfaction, and—without warning—lifted his hindquarters and let loose a steaming jet of urine directly onto the lawn.
The noise alone was shocking.
Jules’s father watched, stone-faced.
When it was over, Wildmane gave his bum a little shake and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Is it alright if I mark here? It smells like home.’
Jules’s father stood. He looked between his son and his grandson, then down at the soaked turf. At last, he said, ‘Well. He’s family, I suppose. You want some lemonade?’
Jules sagged with relief. ‘God, yes.’
‘Colt?’ the old man asked, already heading inside.
Wildmane’s ears perked. ‘Got apple juice? I normally drink from a bucket, granddad.’
‘Your aunt will probably appreciate a little pony ride afterwards, our kid.’
***
The studio was colder than expected. Jules rubbed his hands together beneath the desk while the floor crew scurried like efficient beetles across the pale set. Everything was cream and silver—tasteful, sterile, and vaguely space-age. A wind machine had already been tested on Wildmane’s tail and now sat idle, ominous and humming. Through the glass above, the producer’s box glowed blue. Henry Atwood stood at the console in shirt sleeves, headset in place, arms folded, supervising for the ministry. A red light flickered over his brow like a judgment.
‘Thirty seconds,’ someone called.
Will Martinovic shifted in his seat. He wore a soft cashmere jacket over a white Henley, his legs casually crossed. He looked infuriatingly at home under the studio lights. Jules, by contrast, felt like a cat about to be introduced to a bath. He had chosen to be in human guise.
Wildmane had been given his own custom-built seat, an elegant half-dais covered in fleece and engineered to accommodate his equine bulk while framing his human torso attractively for camera. His dad had garbed his upper human body in a Starcrossed tee shirt, to help establish Wildmane’s Rothenian credentials. He preened a little, brushing his fingers through the forelock that flopped rakishly over one hazel eye.
‘You okay, colt?’ Jules murmured.
Wildmane beamed. ‘Yes, táta. This is better than school back home. Can I wave to the people?’
‘Only if they wave first.’
A voice crackled in their earpieces: ‘And we’re live in five, four, three…’
A soft orchestral sting. The lights came up. Marek Toblescu leaned slightly into frame, flawless in makeup, his silver-threaded hair brushed back like a Rothenian anchorman deity.
‘Good evening, dear viewers. Tonight, Eastnet is honoured to bring you a special feature in partnership with the Minisry of Media and Telecommunications and the Interior Ministry of the Kingdom of Rum, represented here by no less than His Highness, the Consort of Rum, Willem Martinovic, a former citizen of our city of Strelzen. With us in Studio One are three very remarkable guests—heroes, perhaps, of the world to come.’
The camera swept left. ‘From Rum we have of course the acclaimed Will Martinovic,—known to many of you for his award-winning dispatches from the Tigris front. Alongside him is his good friend and veteran of the recent Sassanid war, Lieutenant Jules Kral. And in pride of place, may I introduce Willem Wildmane Julescolt—Centaurid colt, and, perhaps more importantly tonight, Rothenian citizen.’
Wildmane sat straighter. He gave the camera a solemn nod, then an impish smile.
‘Mr Martinovic,’ Marek said, turning smoothly, ‘Let’s begin with you. You’ve seen these boys fight, bond, and survive. What do they represent to you?’
Will’s smile had gravitas. ‘Hope, mostly. Proof that we’re not finished as a species. That love and loyalty and courage still matter, even when they come in new shapes.’
‘And Mr Kral—Jules, if I may—you’ve always been a fiercely independent voice. What convinced you to step into the national conversation like this?’
Jules hesitated. Then: ‘My son. I didn’t ask to be a father. But he’s mine. He was born of a moment I didn’t expect and a species I didn’t understand. And now he’s the best thing in my life. I don’t want him to grow up thinking he’s a freak, or worse, a scandal. He’s Rothenian as much as Centaurid. He’s us. He deserves to be seen.’
The studio held its breath. Somewhere above, Henry Atwood leaned in and adjusted a level by hand.
‘And Wildmane,’ Marek said warmly, turning to the colt, ‘What do you want people to know about you?’
Wildmane blinked, then looked into the camera with a sudden clarity far beyond his years.
‘I want them to know I’m not scary. I like apple juice. I like reading. I know my flags and my rivers and my capitals. I know that people look at me and think I’m strange—but I’m also your grandson, your nephew, your friend at school. I’m not a hoax. I’m just... the future. And I promise not to eat your roses if you let me visit.’
Laughter flickered around the control booth. Henry didn’t smile, but he reached slowly for the fader that would cue the break music swell. Marek Toblescu turned back to camera, his voice full of velvet and resolve. ‘There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Not a prophecy. Not a scandal. Just a boy and his dad. We’ll be back after the break.’ The red light winked out. Studio silence fell.
Wildmane turned to Jules. ‘Did I do okay?’
Jules kissed his son’s temple. ‘You did more than okay. You just made history.’
Above them, Henry Atwood removed his headset, rubbed his eyes, and whispered to no one in particular: ‘That’ll hold them—but now the harder questions.’
***
A fresh musical cue faded beneath Marek’s voice as the cameras reactivated. ‘Welcome back to Eastnet Reports. We’re continuing our special programme on the Centaurid phenomenon. Before the break, we met young Willem Julescolt—known also as Wildmane—whose existence has, in the words of one Imperial press release, ‘reshaped the conversation around species identity in the Oecumene.’ But now we turn to events in Mesopotamia.’
Marek’s gaze settled on Jules with a faint narrowing of the eyes. The charm remained, but it was the charm of a practiced blade. ‘Jules Kral. You were embedded with Centaurid forces during the final weeks of the Tigris Campaign. Can you tell us, plainly, what happened? How did the Centaurids break the Sassanid lines where human armies could not?’
Jules shifted slightly in his seat. The lighting felt warmer now, and not in a pleasant way.
‘They didn’t break them,’ he said. ‘They ran through them. It wasn’t strategy—it was velocity. The Order of Centaurids isn’t a cavalry corps, Marek. It’s a kin-bonded, post-species, hybridised assault force capable of operating without armour, rest, or conventional supply lines. They don’t ride horses. They are the horses. And they charge. And they have their impact.’
Will, beside him, nodded slowly. ‘They outran air support. Outmanoeuvred armoured vehicles. They moved through terrain the Sassanids thought impassable—dry wadis, salt flats, collapsed roads. They didn’t flank the enemy. They flooded him.’
Marek turned to Will, voice level. ‘So this wasn’t a matter of clever new tactics or superior weapons.’
‘No,’ Will said. ‘This was biology turned doctrine. Sassanid horses simply would not withstand the onset of a Centaurid line. It was a proof of concept for the future of war.’
‘And what,’ Marek asked, a hint of steel now, ‘do you say to those who call that future ethically unacceptable?’
Jules exhaled. ‘Look. No one’s turning children into unicorns in laboratories. These are volunteers. Kids. Queer kids, often. Marginalised kids. They weren’t conscripted—they were chosen. And they chose back. That matters.’ He paused. Wildmane glanced up at him with a quiet, serious pride. ‘I watched a seventeen-year-old trans boy named Lydia take down a Sassanid command post with nothing but a longbow and a grenade belt strapped to his saddlebag. I watched a pegasid named Mára swoop in under fire to drag wounded humans out of a collapsing forward base. I watched ten Centaurids go down in the sands at Taqaddum—and not one of them regretted being there. They’re not freaks. They’re the bravest people I’ve ever met.’
Marek let the silence stretch just long enough. ‘And what do you say, Jules, to the concern—voiced even within the Oecumenical Council—that the Centaurids represent a challenge to human governance? That they may form their own nation, insist on their own demands? Perhaps, one day, have their own state?’
Jules blinked. ‘I say… maybe they should. Indeed, the enlightened kingdom of Rum has already allowed them their autonomy in Anatolia.’ That landed hard. ‘I mean,’ he added, voice firmer now, ‘We already have built legal structures around uplifted dolphins and AI entities. Are we really so frightened of boys with tails and wings who love each other?’
Will interjected softly. ‘It’s not a threat. It’s an evolution. The Oecumene has a choice—to embrace these children, or try to fence them in. We all know how fences end. Centaurids can leap them.’
Marek inclined his head. ‘And yet some Rothenians worry. Parents worry. That their sons might be… taken. Changed.’
Wildmane cleared his throat. The camera swung. ‘No one took me,’ he said, eyes wide but steady. ‘I grew up in my herd where everybody loves me. And now I can run with the sun. And I have a daddy who is the best. If your boy wants that, maybe let him try.’
Marek nodded, slowly. ‘One final question, then,’ he said. ‘To you, Jules. Where do you see the Centaurid Order in ten years’ time?’ Jules sat back. ‘Not fighting. Leading. Teaching. Farming. Performing in circuses. Falling in love. Getting their hooves done. Building new mythologies. Probably making embarrassing documentaries. And—hopefully—being boringly, sweetly, defiantly normal.’
The red light dimmed. The music played out. From the booth, Henry Atwood nodded once—then flicked off the intercom and let out a slow breath. In the silence that followed, Jules reached over and squeezed Will’s hand beneath the desk. Wildmane’s tail swished once, proud and restless. The future had just walked into Rothenia. On four legs.
***
It began with hooves in the parks. The morning after the interview, footage of Wildmane eating roses and defending his right to be ‘just the future’ was clipped, subtitled, and set to music by teens across Rothenia. TikToks bloomed like mayflowers. A challenge began: #RunWithWildmane. Boys and girls—mostly younger teens—strapped on crafted tails, painted freckles across their cheeks, and filmed themselves trotting down school corridors or galloping shirtless through city plazas. One went viral galloping across the Osten Tor Bridge at dusk, tail trailing behind him like a standard.
Someone printed a run of unofficial shirts: ‘TÁTA’S BOY’ across the chest, a silhouette of a centaur colt beneath. Within a week, garden centres were reporting a spike in ornamental flower theft. Within two, the Education Minister had to release a statement reminding students that centaurid transformation still required formal parental approval and could not be undertaken ‘in playgrounds, dormitories, or after soccer practice.’ Eastnet ran a follow-up feature. One school in Tarlenheim had built a Centaurid Reading Nook, shaped like a stable. Another held a referendum to change their soccer mascot from ‘the Rams’ to ‘the Wildmanes.’
Henry Atwood watched it all from his Strelsenermedia office with mounting pleasure, a slow, private smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He gave no press statements. But the week after the segment aired, he quietly approved funding for a travelling exhibition: ‘Our Kind of Myth: The Centaurid Future.’ The opening night would be held in the old Residenz Reitschule.
***
The letter arrived by courier.
‘On behalf of His Imperial Majesty Rudolf Elphberg, Protector of the Oecumene, you are hereby invited to attend a private investiture at the Court of the Queen Regent of Rothenia in the Residenz of Strelzen.’
Jules held the envelope in one hand and a half-cut apple in the other. Wildmane watched him from the doorway, eating toast with his tail curled protectively around his legs.
‘They’re giving you a medal, tata?’ the colt asked.
‘Looks like it, sunshine of mine.’
‘You don’t even like medals.’
‘True,’ Jules agreed. ‘But sometimes they mean something. Like… someone’s saying it mattered.’
Just to maintain the sort of cool that he thought impressed his little Wildmane, he didn’t wear a suit. He wore his coat, and boots with a little mud still on them, and a scarf his mum had knitted the year he dropped out of school. The ribbon of the Humanitarian Order of St Lucacz was pinned by Queen Harriet herself. She leaned in and said softly: ‘We need more fathers like you.’
Jules didn’t reply. Just blinked a few times, swallowed, and bowed his head.
***
Bolo Wyzhinski had bought a rustic cottage in the Green Hills District on the edge of Yuli Lucic and Roman Staufer’s country estate. It was not a rural idyll. The roof leaked, goats had grazed on the turf roof, which was in rags, and the old wine press was now used to dry laundry. Will arrived barefoot. He left his uniform in the city. They worked mostly in silence. They dug fence posts and cursed at plumbing. They drank from mismatched mugs. One night, lying under a blue tarp with a thunderstorm pounding outside, Bolo said:
‘So. You love him?’
Will blinked. ‘My Afran? Course.’
Bolo gave him a look.
Will smiled, slow and wicked. ‘Is this about the marriage?’
Bolo chuckled. ‘Am I invited, son?’ There a pause. Then: ‘Please tell me you’re not going to do a Jules Kral and change into a Centaur.’
Will laughed. ‘Where do you get your ideas, dad?’
***
Henry Atwood wore ministerial grey and carried nothing but a folio of memos and a glass baton shaped like a minaret. He was met in Constantinople by Edward Cornish, Viceroy of Thrace and Field Marshal of Rothenia. He bowed low to the Emperor Rudolf, whose presence added its usual solemnity. They all met at the Yeni Cami, in the shadow of the gold domes. The air smelled of pigeons and history.
‘North Africa,’ Henry said, unrolling a map on a table of inlaid cedar. ‘Tunisia and maybe Algeria too might be soft entries for the Oecumene. The Berbers are already partially integrated. Morocco’s holding out—but we have inroads, and it has an acceptable constitutional monarchy already.’
‘And Egypt?’ Cornish asked, sipping coffee.
Emperor Rudolf shrugged. ‘Complicated. They did after all see off the Black Horde all by themselves, and we’ve done them a favour by destroying the Neo-Sassanids. But the Mahdist Republic is losing ground. We’ve planted a Centaurid detachment in Sinai, led by a stallion named Farouk. His mother was Rothenian and his father a Palestinian immigrant in Strelzen. He may be a good nominee for a Centaurid Prince of Gaza and Palestine.’
Cornish raised a brow. ‘A stallion under-king answering to Whiteblaze?’
‘Why not? He was Jules’s bunkmate during training. Apparently he sings.’
Cornish smiled slowly. ‘So this is the future. Diplomacy by hoofprint.’
Henry didn’t smile. ‘By consent, Edward. Always by consent.’
They stood then. The call to prayer began to echo from the minarets, and for a moment nobody spoke.
Then Cornish said: ‘Are we ready, do you think? For a post-human Oecumene?’
Henry folded the map. ‘No. But our children will be.’
And they stepped out into the sun.
Copyright © 2025 Michael Arram
Posted 29 October 2025