The night stretched on endlessly after I heard the sound of wings. I sat rigid in bed, every nerve straining. The candle had burned down to a stub, leaving shadows clutching at the corners of the room. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might rattle the walls.
But no more sound came. Just the creak of wood as the house settled and the faint sigh of the wind outside. I stayed awake until the candle guttered out and darkness claimed everything.
When exhaustion finally dragged me under, my dreams were worse. The commander stood waiting on scorched earth, his armor glowing faintly red as though forged from the heart of a forge. "You begin to taste it," he said. "The edge of true power. But you are still a child playing with embers."
"I won't run," I whispered, though my voice cracked.
He tilted his head, amused. "We will see."
The ground split open behind him, and the sea of voices screamed again, a thousand throats crying at once. Heat rushed over me like a storm and I jolted awake, gasping for air.
This time, the night was silent. No wings. No fire. Just the endless dark pressing in.
I couldn't sleep again. So when the first pale streaks of dawn brushed the window, I rose on unsteady legs and washed my face in cold water until I felt halfway human.
---
Downstairs, Father was at the table, arms folded tight across his chest. His stare pinned me like a spear.
"You look worse than yesterday," he said flatly.
"I'm fine," I muttered, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.
Mother set a bowl of porridge in front of me. She tried to smile, but her eyes flickered between us, tense. "Eat," she said gently. "Both of you."
The porridge was thick, almost gummy, and every bite sat like a stone in my stomach. Father watched me until I shoved the bowl away. "You've been distracted. This family needs steady hands. Not a boy stumbling through the fields like a drunk."
"I…" My throat tightened. "I'm trying."
"Trying isn't enough." His voice was low, hard. "The world doesn't spare dreamers, Ren. You'd better learn that soon."
Mother laid a hand on his arm, urging silence, but the words had already cut deep.
---
I slipped out as soon as I could, the village already stirring. The air smelled faintly of smoke—not from hearths, but something sharper, harsher. Villagers glanced northward when they thought no one was looking. Merchants spoke in hushed tones.
Near the well, two women whispered together.
"…strange lights in the woods last night…"
"…my cousin swore he saw footprints, big as a barrel…"
My chest tightened. Always rumors. Always fear.
Mira found me by the granary, her braid catching the morning light. "You didn't sleep, did you?" she asked.
"Not much," I admitted.
"The wings?"
I nodded.
She bit her lip, then squared her shoulders. "Then it's not just your imagination. I heard them too."
Her admission hit me like a hammer. "You…?"
"I thought I was going mad," she whispered. "But if you heard it too… Ren, it means something is closer than anyone dares admit."
I wanted to say she was wrong. That it was nothing more than the wind. But the words stuck in my throat.
---
That afternoon I returned to the clearing. The grass still bore black scars from my earlier failures, a reminder of how close I'd come to losing control. I set my stance, tightened my grip on Garrick's battered practice sword, and began.
Strike. Step. Breathe.
Sparks danced quicker now, like fireflies drawn to the steel. I tried to hold them, to shape them. At first they sputtered, collapsing into nothing. My frustration burned hot, but I forced myself to keep moving.
By the seventh attempt, the glow clung longer, a pale shimmer hugging the blade. I swung downward, and the air hissed, the grass beneath sliced cleanly, scorched at the edges.
I froze, breath ragged. That hadn't been an accident. That had been me.
But triumph came with a price. My vision swam, my muscles quaked. By the tenth attempt, I collapsed onto my knees, the sword slipping from my hand. The earth tilted beneath me.
Too much. Too soon. But still—progress.
---
Evening bled across the sky as I staggered home. The sunset painted the fields crimson, and for a moment the color made my stomach twist. Red sky. Red flames. Red eyes.
I ate little, endured Father's silence, and retreated to my room.
Sleep came, but it was no mercy.
The commander waited again. His voice was steel on stone. "Weakness will be your end. And theirs."
Behind him, the endless sea of eyes surged closer. Their glow painted the world in blood.
I screamed myself awake, chest heaving. The room was dark, the candle burned low.
And in that silence, I heard it.
Not the wind. Not imagination.
Wings.
Closer.