The silver bells of Aethelgard chimed out for the Midnight Prayer, but praying
was the last thing on my agenda. Nope, I was busy bleeding.
Leaning against my chamber's cold marble vanity, my breath hitched like an old
accordion. Behind me, my light-infused membranes pulsed like a disco light show,
casting dramatic violet shadows that danced against the gold-leafed walls. Not
wings, mind you—more like a second heartbeat of glowing, living skin.
In the High-City, everything was supposed to be a serene, silent white. My wings?
They were a violet rock concert screaming in the night.
I snatched the hefty leather corset from the floor. Time to strap down the
party. Each bind was a fiery ordeal, pressing the delicate veins against my spine. I
bit my lip hard enough to taste pennies, stifling any yelp. In Aethelgard, even a
whisper could travel miles; a cry would bring the Winged Guard knocking.
"Just one more night,
" I murmured at my reflection.
My eyes, typically a safe, boring brown, were swirling with that same rebellious
violet hue. Enter Altitude Sickness. My body was made for the dense, cozy air
below. Up here, in cloudland's
"
perfection,
" I was slowly choking. The longer I
stayed in this ethereal, floating cage, the more my biology staged a revolt.
1
A sharp rap at the door sent my heart into a high-speed chase. I
scrambled to heft my lead-lined cloak over my shoulders,
wrestling with the stubborn silver clasps. The lead was no
featherweight—it was crucial to mute the pesky bioluminescent
glow that insisted on leaking from my skin. One last mirror check:
a hunched, weary girl stared back, not a glowing winged wonder.
"Rofu. The Council waits for no one. Not even the High Minister's
daughter."
Ah, Lake. His voice was a symphony of calm terror—cool, level,
and as emotionless as a tax return. I cracked the door open, my
hands doing the jitterbug. A chilly draft from the hallway brushed
my face, carrying the scent of ozone and the kind of incense
that screams
"I'm fancy."
There he stood, a statuesque figure in white and silver. His
colossal feathered wings were folded with military precision, each
feather sharp enough to slice through a bad mood. Unlike mine, his
wings were drama-free—no pulsing, no glowing. Just perfect,
polished, and as lively as a library on a Friday night.
He didn't budge, just stood there like a statue with a keen eye for
sweaty foreheads and doorframe-gripping techniques.
2
The silence between us stretched like a rubber band ready to ping!
Beneath my cloak, my wings thumped like a muffled drum, itching
to burst free. To Lake, it probably sounded like a parade.
"You look like you've seen a ghost,
" Lake finally said, his gloved hand
hovering near my shoulder. I flinched, and the leather of my
bindings squeaked like a mouse in the quiet hall. His hand retreated
slowly, his face morphing back into its usual granite facade.
"The High Minister's already perched at the Spire,
" he went on, eyes
sliding to my feet. "He wants you to lead the Pure parade. If you
can't strut, Rofu, you can't soar."
"I'm okay,
" I croaked, my throat a gravel pit.
"Don't nosedive tonight, Rofu,
" Lake said, turning away, his cape
snapping like a flag in the breezy corridor. "The air's thinner than a
supermodel. Some things are just too hefty to fly."
I watched him go, pondering if that was a friendly heads-up or a
secret vow to catch me. As Commander of the Guard, he was
supposed to snip the wings of the
"
unpure." Yet, he always seemed
on the hunt for a reason to set me free.
3
I skipped the prayer. As Lake's footsteps faded into the
ether, I scurried to my room and slammed the heavy oak
door shut. Nope, couldn't do it. I couldn't fake it among the
white-feathered Elites while my lungs gasped for air like a
fish out of water.
I wandered out to the balcony. Picture this: Aethelgard,
perched at ten thousand feet like a golden chandelier of
islands, held aloft by ancient gravity magic. Below us, the Iron
Veil—a thick, grumpy layer of gray clouds—kept the Low-World
out of sight and out of mind.
Down there lived the Walkers. They thrived in darkness, smog,
and rain. To an Elite, the Low-World was the underworld. To
me, it was the only place I could catch a decent breath.
I hopped onto the marble railing, wind slapping my hair into my
eyes. The Altitude Sickness hit its high note, stabbing pain right
behind my ribs. My wings twitched violently, almost sending me
tumbling off my perch.
4
I didn't leap forward; instead, I surrendered to the backward
plummet. Gravity's embrace was my one ticket to tranquility.
As I tumbled away from the shimmering golden spires, the air
thickened, pressing against my skin and soothing the torment
in my chest.
A thousand feet above the Iron Veil, it was time to ditch the
cloak. Snap, snap! The lead-weighted fabric vanished into the
night, and my wings burst free—an eight-foot spectacle of
deep indigo membranes, glowing violet like a blade slicing
through the dark. Unlike Aethelgard's birds, I didn't glide; I
propelled myself. My wings hummed with a low, living
frequency, vibrating against the dense air.
I banked sharply, spiraling down into the gray smog. Little did I
know, high above, a pair of white feathers shimmered in
moonlight, hidden in the shadow of a floating pillar. Lake was
still there, a silent spectator to my leap, watching the indigo
flash vanish into the clouds, his shadow silently following from
above.
5.