The Mouflons—proud and ancient.
The European Mouflon, the Asiatic Mouflon, the Mediterranean Mouflon. Once the forerunners of all sheepkind, they were the stock from which the first domestic sheep emerged thousands of years ago. Their bloodline had birthed dynasties, their estates sprawling across continents, their legacy woven into the very fabric of civilization. Surely, this heritage alone should be enough to cement their place at the apex of ovine society?
But in the modern world, history is a weak currency, easily devalued.
Today, her family's lineage wasn't celebrated—it was contested. The so-called scientific council had the audacity to declare the Mouflons not even a real species, demoting them to the humiliating status of "feral sheep." Estates that had been in her family for centuries were seized and handed over to their rivals—the "real" species.
As if that wasn't enough, ancient sheep breeds, those dusty relics that hadn't evolved since the Stone Age, clamored for her family's land, money, and influence. These breeds, ironically more closely related to her own lineage, had turned their backs on the Mouflons, biting the very hand that had nurtured them into existence. After everything her family had done—fighting wars to secure their place in history, holding back the rise of feral goats so sheep could reign as one of the world's dominant farm animals—this was their reward. Betrayal. Spite. Greed.
Her family's rivals, the Urial sheep, had been particularly vicious. They spread rumors that the European Mouflon bloodline was tainted by hybridization, claiming her family's wealth and status were owed in part to them. Even worse, some members of her extended family defected to the Urials, aligning themselves culturally and economically with these backstabbers. And where were the other Mouflons? The Asiatic, the Mediterranean branches of their once-proud tree? Silent. Distant. They despised her family for their alliance with domestic sheep, blaming them for "ruining nature."
Everywhere she looked, enemies emerged from the shadows, tearing at her family's legacy like vultures at a carcass.
But perhaps the ultimate insult came from the Caprines—wild and domestic goats, ibexes, markhors—all of whom carried an ancient grudge. They hated her family for creating the domestic sheep during the same era goats domesticated their own. Back then, it had been a race to shape civilization, and the Mouflons had chosen to empower the herds who harvested grain, built walls, and raised livestock. It was a choice that secured their dominance but made them enemies for life.
The wars that followed had been devastating, their scale unimaginable, leaving generations of bitterness in their wake. Millions now carried on that hatred, rooting for the downfall of her family, celebrating every loss, every insult, every indignity.
The pressure was crushing.
She stared at herself in the full-length mirror of her dorm room, her uniform meticulously tailored, a testament to her dwindling wealth. The white-and-navy colors of Pecora Preparatory were prim and proper, but hers had been modified with subtle luxury: imported lace trimming, bespoke buttons shaped like fleur-de-lis, and the faintest shimmer in the fabric under the right light. It was elegant, understated, and screamingly expensive for anyone who knew how to look.
But what did it matter? No matter how perfect she looked, no matter how carefully she carried herself, it wouldn't silence the whispers.
She sighed, running her fingers through her freshly styled hair, the soft waves falling over her shoulders like a waterfall of sable. Her manicured nails clicked lightly against her phone screen as she scrolled aimlessly, not really reading the messages piling up from family and acquaintances.
Her family's downfall felt inevitable.
"Ugh, this is ridiculous," she muttered aloud, flopping onto the plush duvet that covered her dorm bed. The bed was too soft, too sterile, but her designer pillows and imported silk sheets helped a little. "I can't believe this is my life now."
She glared at the ceiling, frustration twisting her features. "We literally created modern sheep. Modern! Sheep! They owe us everything! And this is the thanks we get?" Her voice grew sharper, louder, as though berating the invisible forces that had turned against her. "They call us feral. They steal our land. And now I'm stuck in this—this prison pretending I'm not one bad financial decision away from poverty."
Her throat tightened at the thought. Poverty. Mediocrity. Obscurity. Those words haunted her more than any ghost.
She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow as she gazed into the mirror again. "I'm not going down like this," she whispered, her voice trembling with resolve. "If this is the end, I'm going to burn bright before the ship sinks. They'll talk about me for decades."
A knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. She sat up, smoothing her skirt and forcing her features into a mask of poise. "Who is it?"
"Room inspection," came a voice from the other side.
She sighed dramatically, standing with the grace of someone who had been trained since birth to make every movement look intentional. "Just a second!"
After a quick glance around to make sure everything was in its place, she opened the door, her smile perfectly calculated. The hall monitor—a domestic sheep, of course—gave her a cursory glance before moving on.
She shut the door and leaned against it, her expression slipping into something darker.
Making friends here was crucial. Allies meant influence, and influence meant survival. She needed to charm, to impress, to intimidate. Her choice of classes alone was a political act. Should she align herself with the domestic sheep, acknowledging her hybrid bloodline? Or claim the wild sheep as her kin, despite their disdain for her family? Or perhaps the mixed-caprine classes—broad and flexible, but offering no clear loyalty.
She hated this. She hated all of it.
But this wasn't a game she could afford to lose.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, her gaze sharp and calculating. "If being the good girl doesn't work," she said softly, "then I'll just have to be the bad girl."
Her lips curled into a faint smile, more bitter than amused. It wasn't in her nature to act this way—to scheme, to manipulate, to harden her heart—but nature didn't care. Adapt or go extinct. That was the law of survival.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, reading a message from one of her distant cousins.
Good luck at Pecora. Don't embarrass the family name.
She rolled her eyes, tossing the phone onto the bed. "As if I needed the reminder."
For the first time since she'd arrived, she allowed herself a genuine laugh—soft, bitter, and full of disbelief. "This school has no idea what's coming."