Chapter 9: Wings

“Leaving the Mistwing” colour pencil on paper by Chaiga T. Cheska

The following morning’s meditation left a stillness upon the deck, a clarity that seemed almost crystalline, sharpened by the early sun. Oren, Tavik, and Bran, their ears now bearing the subtle point of their ancestry, gathered in a standing half-circle as the first gold rays spilt across the river’s glassy expanse. Nix, standing before them, exuded a quiet confidence tempered with humility. He had never imagined himself a guide, yet the others looked to him with hope, eyes bright and questioning.

“Magic is less a command than a conversation,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of recent learning. “The sea dragon has been teaching me this. You don’t force it. You ask, and you listen, and you trust the answer.”

With that, his slender hands traced patterns in the air, each movement trailing a fine filament of light that unfurled and twisted, weaving itself into delicate, fluttering shapes. Tiny motes gathered, coalescing into iridescent butterflies that danced and shimmered above the planks, wings glinting like fragments of dawn. With a small, conspiratorial grin, Nix flicked his wrist, sending a pair of luminous magical insects wheeling through the air, one settling on Bo’s forehead just as the helmsman’s gaze drifted away from the course.

Bo started, swiping at the illusion, and the boys’ laughter swallowed his muttered protest. Encouraged, Tavik attempted to mimic Nix’s gestures; his concentration drew forth a solitary glow, which promptly fizzed into a limp, shivering wisp before vanishing altogether.

“Oh, splendid.” Tavik’s voice was dry. “A marvel of the ages. Watch as I conjure dawn’s least impressive beetle.”

Bran’s efforts fared no better: his attempt produced a handful of light that erupted in a silent pop, scattering tiny sparks across his boots. Even Oren, composed and diligent, managed only a wavering orb that flickered uncertainly, then darted straight for Bo’s nose as if by design. The effect was immediate. Bo recoiled, then crossed to where they all stood in quick, even strides and with a theatrical groan, heaved himself onto Oren, pinning him to the deck in a mock contest of strength.

“If you dare summon another of those winged pests, I’ll see you swab the deck for a fortnight!” Bo declared, though laughter undermined his threat.

Oren, trapped beneath the helmsman’s bulk, managed a strangled protest, his grin irrepressible. The others cackled helplessly, Tavik dabbing tears from his eyes as Bran clutched his side.

“Watch out, Nix,” Oren called as he struggled out from under Bo. “Or I’ll tip you in the river for teaching me such a trick!”

Nix, doubled over by the rail, could scarcely breathe for laughter. “If you tip me into the current, Oren, I’ll ask the sea dragon to give you the biggest splash you’ve ever seen,” he managed, barely regaining his composure.

Bran, recovering, shook his head with mock solemnity. “A morning of miracles and mischief. Who’d have thought the ancient blood would yield such chaos?”

The river stretched itself beneath the quiet of morning, broad and untroubled, a silvered mirror disturbed only by the faintest of ripples. The air was crisp, heavy with the salt tang drawn up by the tidal pull, drifting faintly through the rigging and settling upon each brow with the promise of the sea’s nearness.

The crew moved with the reverence of those who sensed the world was on the cusp of a turning point. Boots sounded softly upon the planks; breath plumed in the coolness as provisions were checked for the hundredth time and weapons were made ready with silent, deliberate hands. Even the laughter, when it came, seemed subdued and poignant, as though each knew it might not come so easily again.

A small boat, the others hadn’t realised was there, was so well hidden that it was swung out from its cradle and lowered gently alongside, its oars poised like folded wings, its rope coiled neatly and ready, the hull bobbing in the gentle wake of the longship. The Emaris herself seemed to sigh at the release, timbers shifting as though reluctant to let go.

Upon the deck, farewells gathered and pressed close. Captain Sten, broad-shouldered and grizzled by tide and weather, clapped Oren’s forearm in a grip that spoke both of trust and warning.

“The river becomes tumultuous after this bend,” Captain Sten intoned, voice gravelled and measured. “Keep your wits about you, lad, the Eldertree’s edge is not for the unwary. And remember, the wind here listens. Speak softly if you must speak at all.”

Oren nodded with gravity, but Tavik, unable to keep solemnity for long, offered a crooked grin. “If we stray off course, Captain, I’ll just let Bran talk us out; no one listens to sense like the old pathways.”

Bo, ever irreverent, reached over to cuff Tavik’s arm. “Just keep your sword arm sharp, or you will be splitting firewood for the river spirits.” He winked at Nix, whose lips twitched, half understanding the sailor’s humour.

Ingrid, already at the rail, tossed her braided blond hair back and beckoned. “Come, before the sun climbs too high and you all melt into puddles of sentiment.”

One by one, they descended, Oren steady and silent, Tavik humming an off-key tune, Bran with his medicine bag slung over his shoulder, and Nix last, his hand resting light on the rail, his breathing calm and measured as he centred himself for the transition from river to land. He paused at the rail’s edge, eyes closed briefly, reaching through the web of connection to feel the sea dragon’s vast presence below. A farewell, silent and profound, passed between them. Then Ingrid herself followed, poised at the prow with an air of unshakeable command.

Ingrid took the oars with brisk efficiency, sleeves rolled to her elbows, wrists strong and certain. Bran, ever eager, slid into place beside her, reaching for the oarlocks. “Let me help, at least,” he insisted.

Ingrid shot him a glance as sharp as river light. “You will only throw us in circles. Sit down before I use this oar on you.”

Bran grinned, undeterred, and made a show of retreating to the bench, rocking the boat in the process. Tavik barked, “Oi! Sit still unless you fancy a swim to shore!”

Oren’s voice cut through, quiet but edged. “Enough, both of you. We part company with dignity, try not to disgrace us before the first current.”

Nix sat quietly, gaze fixed on the shifting surface, where morning clouds trailed their reflections and the secrets of the depths pulsed just beyond reach. He felt the sea dragon’s presence, slick and patient, watching beneath the hull, a promise and a farewell. The parting was a weight in his chest, but he breathed through it, drawing on the meditation practice he’d learned. Connection didn’t sever just because distance grew. The strand between them would stretch but not break. This knowledge eased the ache, transforming it into something he could bear.

As the rowboat drifted free, the longship receded behind them, Captain Sten’s outline framed by the rising sun, Bo’s wild grin a last flicker of home. The Emaris seemed to watch in silence as the distance grew, the river’s stillness swelling to fill the gap between friend and farewell.

Only the lap of water against wood broke the quiet, that ancient, ceaseless music echoing in the pauses of low, half-hearted jests. Tavik, peering ahead with narrowed eyes, muttered, “Here’s to dry land and dull days, eh?”

Ingrid snorted softly, her oars cutting the water in a steady rhythm. “You don’t know what to do with either.”

Oren, his gaze lingering on the vanishing longship, replied, “We don’t seek dull days. Only safe passage.”

The boat slipped shoreward, bearing them into a day redolent with promise and peril, under a sky bright with possibility and rimmed with the salt edge of change.

Ingrid’s arms drew the oars inwards with a measured, unhurried grace, guiding the rowboat towards the stony crescent of beach where river and land conspired in quiet greeting. Pebbles, slick with spray and trembling in the tide’s embrace, glimmered in a shifting mosaic: ochre and slate, pearl and jet, scattered haphazardly by the world’s long turning. The prow slid up onto the stones with a muted, scraping sigh, the hull grinding softly as the water relinquished its hold.

Without a word, Oren leapt lightly ashore, boots splashing in the shallows, Tavik following with less elegance but equal resolve. Together they heaved the boat, its weight stubborn yet insubstantial compared to the current’s memory, farther up the beach, until the hull rested above the line where the river gnawed hungrily at the land. In that moment, the banter which had so recently buoyed their spirits ebbed away, leaving a stillness dense with the anticipation of parting. The wind carried only the tremulous rattle of stones as the tide played its ancient song; the lapping of water, the distant caw of a lone gull wheeling above the scudding clouds, and the faint, mineral tang of wet earth and salt hung in the air.

Bran, Nix, and Ingrid disembarked in turn, their boots crunching on the many-coloured pebbles, each stone a shard of hue: ochre, cobalt, green sea-glass, and the blush of washed agate. Rock pools, rimmed with barnacles and threaded with weed, revealed shy crabs and starfish like scattered jewels, glinting beneath the surface. There, with a last shared glance, the moment for parting pressed in, gentle but inescapable.

Ingrid clasped Oren’s forearm, then Tavik’s, each gesture brief and warm as old sunlight. She turned to Nix, her tone fond. “Keep your eyes on the river’s edge, and your feet out of its mouth, little fish.”

Nix met her gaze steadily, a small smile touching his lips. “I’ll do my best, Ingrid. Thank you for everything.” His voice was calm, centred, the boy who had learned to sit with difficult things rather than flee from them.

Bran lingered, the air taut between him and Ingrid, before stepping close and drawing her into a fierce, silent embrace. The world seemed to quiet, save for the shifting stones beneath their feet. Bran murmured something low, too soft for the others, whose faces carefully arranged themselves into polite distraction as they hoisted their packs and busied their hands. Ingrid’s laugh, quick and bittersweet, spilt out and was gone, replaced by a gravity that said all the rest.

With a final, resolute nod, Ingrid pushed off from the shore, boots scraping over the bright stones, and sprang back into the boat. Her oars dipped, and the little craft slipped once more onto the river’s gleaming skin, the hull’s passage singing a last farewell as she rowed in steady rhythm towards the distant longship. Bran remained for a heartbeat, watching the boat’s progress, eyes bright and unshed with all the things not spoken.

Oren, sensing the moment’s weight, glanced sidelong at Bran and, with a crooked half-smile, bumped a shoulder in passing. No words needed, only presence. Tavik’s hand found Nix’s pack, giving it a gentle tug to bring him back from the water’s edge, and Oren drew the boy into the safety of their midst as they set off up the beach. Nix cast one last look back at the river, its surface inscrutable, and sent through the web of connection a wordless farewell to his sea dragon friend. The strand stretched between them, gossamer-thin but holding. Then he turned away, the stones shifting underfoot, towards whatever lay beyond the tide’s reach.

A silence settled, tremulous and uncertain, as the brothers and Nix pressed up from the tide line, the boat now a memory. Pebbles gave way beneath their feet, then steadied as the shore broadened and the river’s lull faded behind them. It was then, in a pause between the shingle’s sigh and the mutter of approaching surf, that the air bloomed with a sudden sound: a canvas crackling, urgent and alive, as the sails of the Mistwing unfurled against the morning sky behind them.

Bran’s head turned, seized by the note of distant movement; his feet stilled, and the others followed his gaze, hearts caught by the vision. Across the water, the sails, vivid against the blue, filled and shivered in the wind. Sunlight scattered in bright tesserae along their curve, gilding each ripple and crease as Captain Sten and Bo toiled upon the deck, voices rising in cheerful, unintelligible shouts. Ingrid’s laughter cut through the bluster, bold and buoyant, carrying back to shore as the Mistwing heeled and the timbers groaned: a song of wood and river, the hull slicing free into deeper water.

Bran lingered, eyes tracking the white bloom of sail and the flicker of familiar figures growing small against the horizon. He would have watched until the ship vanished entirely, but Oren’s call arrived sharp and low, pulling the present taut about them once more. “Come along, Bran. The river will keep its secrets yet.”

Reluctantly, Bran turned his back on the water. The four moved together up the beach, boots scuffing the shingle in steady rhythm. Curiosity about this new world gathered in Nix’s chest, each step drawing him further from the river’s familiar embrace and into something unknown. The shore was beautiful in its strangeness: different stones, different light, different air. Behind them, he could still sense the sea dragon’s watchful presence, a comfort and a tether even as the distance grew.

The sky overhead brightened, but ahead the land rose steep and forbidding. Tavik ranged in front, his warrior’s instincts alert, scanning the terrain. Oren walked beside Nix, his protective presence steady. Bran brought up the rear, his healer’s eyes cataloguing plants and lichens even as his steps began to slow.

They rounded a curve in the shoreline, and there it rose before them: the cliff. A great tumbled mass of dark stone, its face streaked with salt and shadow, narrow ledges winding upwards towards heights lost in the morning glare. The path was clear, the only way forward, yet treacherous as a blade’s edge.

Tavik stopped first, hands on his hips, assessing. Oren came to stand beside him, and Nix, fascinated, moved closer to examine the rock face. Behind them came a sound: Bran’s boots had ceased their scuffing rhythm.

Nix turned, curious, and sensing something, saw Bran standing stock-still, his face gone pale as milk, staring upwards at the cliff as though it were a living thing that meant him harm. The healer’s pack slipped slightly on his shoulder, forgotten. His eyes tracked the height, the narrow ledges, the dizzying expanse of empty air, and something in his expression shuttered closed.

“No,” Bran said, the word barely a whisper. Then louder: “No. I’m not doing that.”

Tavik glanced back, then looked at the cliff, then at his brother again. Understanding dawned in his face. “Bran, it’s the only way up.”

But Bran was already backing away, his eyes never leaving the stone face, scanning left and right along the shoreline as though some other route might materialise from wishful thinking alone. “There has to be another way. Along the beach, perhaps. Or inland, around the base. I’ll find it and meet you at the top. I can navigate well enough.”

His voice was rising, taking on a thin, frantic edge that made Oren turn fully to face him.

“Bran,” Oren began, moving towards his youngest brother with careful, measured steps.

“Don’t.” Bran held up a hand, still backing away, his boots crunching on pebbles. “Don’t tell me it’s safe, Oren. Don’t tell me it’s the only way. I’ll find another route. I’m good at finding routes. You know I am.”

Tavik exchanged a glance with Oren, uncertainty flickering across his features. He’d seen Bran anxious before, seen him uncertain, but never this. Never fear, painted so stark across his face.

“Come on, Bran,” Oren’s voice was gentle, firm. “There is no other way. Captain Sten, Tavik and I studied the maps for hours. You were there, with us, planning this route. This cliff is the passage to the ravines. Everything else is sheer wall or crumbling stone that wouldn’t hold a sparrow’s weight.”

“Then I’ll wait here.” Bran’s jaw set, stubborn despite the tremor in his voice. “You three go ahead. I’ll make camp on the beach. You can come back for me once you’ve scouted the way.”

“We can’t leave you alone, don’t be ridiculous!” Oren said. “What’s got into you? You’ve never had a problem with climbing before?”

Bran’s eyes darted to the cliff again, and Nix saw him swallow hard. Saw the way his hands had begun to shake. Through the web of connection, Nix could sense the thread between the brothers pulled taut, vibrating with tension: Oren’s worry, Tavik’s uncertainty, and Bran’s fear, sharp and cold as winter iron.

“I have no problem with climbing, Oren!” Bran’s voice cracked on the words. “I just don’t want to be up that high. It’s not safe. What if something happens and...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t voice the outcome.

Nix watched, fascinated and concerned, as Oren closed the remaining distance and placed both hands on Bran’s shoulders, ducking his head to catch his brother’s gaze.

“What happened?” Oren asked quietly. “This fear, it’s not just height. What are you not telling us?”

Bran’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then: “It doesn’t matter.” He said, pushing Oren’s hands from his shoulders. “Where’s the rope we packed? Are we going to use it? Let’s get this over with then.” Bran looked like a trapped animal trying to make the best of things.

Silence fell, broken only by the distant cry of gulls and the endless whisper of waves on stone.

Tavik stepped beside Oren, frowning down at Bran as his younger brother went through his pack, then gestured to look for the rope in Tavik’s pack. “You’re acting really strange, Bran,” Tavik said as he opened his own pack and showed that he didn’t have any rope.

“What happened to the rope? I know we packed it.” Bran said, frustratedly. “Oren, do you have it?”

“Don’t you remember? You offered it to Bo when he had to repair the sail,” Oren said with a worried look at his younger brother. “We don’t need a rope. There are ledges all the way up. Tavik and I planned this route. It’s safe, I promise.”

“Oh gods, I forgot about the sail.” Groaned Bran, rubbing his head.

“Come on, let’s go. I’ll help you.” Oren’s tone shifted, brooking no argument, the voice of an elder brother who’d made his decision and would not be swayed. “All you have to do is listen to me, which I realise might be a challenge!” Oren grinned, trying to lighten the fear he still saw in Bran’s eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe, little brother.”

Bran looked between his brothers, seeing the resolution in their faces, and something in him grudgingly relented. “If I die,” he whispered fiercely, pointing his finger severely at each of them, “I won’t forgive you. Either of you.”

Oren pulled Bran to walk ahead of him. “Come on.”

Nix, watching this exchange, felt the threads between them shifting, reweaving. Fear and brotherhood and stubbornness all tangled together, and beneath it, a current of trust despite everything. Nix found it fascinating to learn through these brothers what brothers were supposed to behave like, as he again reflected on his own discordant relationship with Simi, whom he could feel still tracking him, several days’ walk away.

They approached the cliff face, Bran moving like a man walking to his execution, each step heavier than the last. At the base, he stopped, craned his neck back to stare at the heights, and Nix heard him whisper something that might have been a prayer.

“Right,” Tavik said, forcing cheer into his voice. “Nix, you’re good at climbing. Show us how it’s done, and we’ll follow as best as we can.”

Nix nodded, already moving to the rock face, then, as a thought struck him, he turned to the others, saying quickly, “Don’t forget your own magic. It’ll help.” And with that, he turned, missing the startled looks on their faces as his fingers found holds easily, instinctively, and he began to climb with the fluid grace of someone born to it. This was joy: the stone solid beneath his hands, the wind in his hair, his body remembering something ancient about movement and balance and the thrill of height. He could hear Tavik climbing beside him, the older boy’s breathing measured and controlled, his movements efficient, and enjoyment in the climb, too.

Below, Oren was positioning Bran at the first handhold. “There. See that ledge? That’s all you need to think about. Not the top. Just that ledge. One handhold at a time.”

Bran’s voice floated up, tight with tension. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this...”

“Bran,” Oren sighed. “Focus on climbing, not on how much you hate it, perhaps.”

Nix and Tavik reached the top first, Tavik hauling himself over the edge with a grunt and immediately turning to reach back for Nix. Their hands clasped, and Tavik pulled, and Nix came up and over in one smooth motion, grinning with the exhilaration of the climb.

“That was brilliant!” Nix’s eyes were bright; his earlier calm had given way to boyish enthusiasm. “Did you see how the stone changes texture halfway up? And the way the wind catches there, right at the jutting bit?”

Tavik couldn’t help but smile at Nix’s delight, even as his attention shifted to the two figures still making their slow way up the cliff face below. Bran clung perhaps twenty feet down, his form small and desperate against the dark wall, whilst Oren, steadfast as ever, climbed just below, his stance braced and his voice a steady stream of encouragement that rose on the wind.

“That’s it, Bran. Don’t look down. Left hand, there by your shoulder. Good. Now the right foot, that crack there, see it?”

Nix settled on the lip of the plateau, legs swinging free, and gazed down at his friends. Jubilant to be up so high at last. Through the web of connection, he could see the threads between them: Oren’s steady, golden presence, threaded through with worry; Bran’s pale, flickering strand, tight with fear; and between them, the bond of brotherhood holding firm despite the tension.

He wanted to ease that fear, to unknot it the way he’d learned to unknot the strands in the market. But that would be forcing change, and the sea dragon had taught him better. Still, he could offer distraction, could weave light into the heavy moment, he thought.

“Bran!” Nix called down, his voice carrying on the wind. “I just saw a Shellback Turtle fly past! I think they’ve evolved wings whilst we weren’t looking. Very disconcerting!”

From below came Bran’s strangled response: “Not. Helping. Nix!”

But there was the faintest hint of something other than fear in those words. Perhaps exasperation. Perhaps the tiniest thread of amusement.

Nix grinned and tried again. “Well, if turtles can fly, Bran, you can certainly climb. Though I admit, you’re somewhat less aerodynamic. Perhaps if you tucked your elbows in?”

“I’m going to push you off this cliff when I get up there,” Bran called back, but his voice was stronger now, the banter pulling him outside of his fear for just a moment.

Oren, below, caught Nix’s eye and gave the smallest of nods. Keep going, the gesture said. It’s working.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Nix returned cheerfully. “And given that you climb with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, I fancy my chances. No offence to potatoes, naturally. Very noble vegetables.”

Tavik snorted beside him. “Steady on, Nix. He’s still got another fifteen feet.”

“Fifteen feet!” Nix called down. “Did you hear that, Bran? Only fifteen more feet, and you can attempt to attack me properly. I’ll wait here. I’m very patient.”

Despite himself, and despite the fear singing through every muscle and the sweat making his palms slick against the stone, Bran felt his mouth twitch. The idiot boy was making him smile. Here, clinging to a cliff face, certain he was about to plummet to his death, and Nix was going on about flying turtles and potatoes.

“Right hand up,” Oren coached from below. “There’s a good grip just by your head. Feel for it. Yes, there. Well done, Bran. You’re doing brilliantly.”

“I’m terrified,” Bran managed, his voice shaking.

“I know.” Oren’s voice was warm, solid as the stone itself. “But you’re climbing anyway. That’s what bravery is. Now, shift your weight to your left foot. Small movements. There’s no rush.”

Bran inched upwards, each movement an act of will over instinct. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, and his knuckles had gone white where they gripped the stone. But he climbed.

Above, Nix watched the threads between them, saw the way Oren’s steady presence was slowly, gradually calming the wild flutter of Bran’s fear. Not erasing it, but containing it, making it something Bran could carry whilst still moving forwards.

“Nearly there!” Nix called, keeping his voice light. “Another few yards and you’ll be safe up here with us, where the sensible people are. Well, Tavik’s sensible. I’m still debating whether dangling one’s legs over a cliff edge counts as wisdom or madness.”

“Definitely madness,” Tavik muttered as he reached out to hold Nix in place, his hand clasping the boy’s shoulder.

Bran was close now, so close Nix could see the strain in his face, the absolute determination mixed with terror. Ten feet. Eight feet. Six.

And then Nix felt it.

A cold prickle along his spine, the way the air suddenly thickened, became heavier. Through the web of connection, something else threaded through, something that didn’t belong. It slithered through the stone, between the cracks, a presence that was hunger, curiosity, and ancient, patient malice.

Nix’s ears flattened instinctively. His eyes tracked the cliff face, searching for the source of the wrongness. There, just above where Bran reached for his next handhold, a darkness gathered in a fissure. Not shadow cast by sun, but shadow that moved against the light, that had weight and intention.

It had sensed something. Through the threads, Nix could feel it tasting the air, questing, drawn by the newly awakened elvish magic in Bran’s blood. The magic was raw, untrained, singing out like a beacon to things that fed on such power. The darkness pulsed with want, with the desire to drink that magic down, to consume it.

Nix opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the shadow moved faster.

It poured from the fissure like oil, like smoke, like ink spreading through water, a tendril of impossible darkness that reached for Bran with something like fingers, like teeth, like hunger given form. It touched the newly awakened elvish magic that clung to Bran like morning mist and tasted it, drunk on the flavour of it, wanting more, always more.

“Bran!” Nix’s cry tore from his throat, but even as he shouted, the shadow was wrapping around Bran’s boot, his ankle, cold and wrong and stealing the strength from his limbs.

Bran felt it, the touch like ice-burn, like his bones had turned to water. His grip faltered. His heart a fierce painful tattoo in his chest. The stone he’d been reaching for seemed suddenly miles away. His foot slipped on the traitorous rock, his hand couldn’t hold, and the world tilted.

He was falling.

The scream that ripped from Bran’s throat was pure animal terror, the sound of every nightmare made real, the certainty of death rushing up to meet him.

“NO!” Tavik’s roar echoed off the cliff face. “No, no, no! BRAN!”

Oren lunged upwards, his arm extending in a desperate reach, fingers brushing the coarse weave of Bran’s sleeve but failing to catch, failing to hold. “BRAN!” The name was torn from him, raw and broken.

Nix saw it all as though time had already begun to slow: Bran’s body, suspended for one impossible heartbeat before gravity claimed him; Oren’s face, horror and helplessness and grief already blooming; Tavik beside Nix, half over the edge himself, reaching, reaching for a brother already too far away.

And then something inside Nix tore open.

Not metaphorically. Actually tore.

Tavik’s hand was still on Nix’s shoulder from where he’d been anchoring the boy at the cliff’s edge, and he felt it happen. Felt the magic surge through Nix like lightning, like fire, like something ancient waking after centuries of sleep. Felt the pain lance through Nix’s shoulder blades, so acute and brilliant that for a moment Tavik couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the terrible, exultant agony of transformation.

The world slowed. Not seemed to slow. Actually stopped, frozen in amber, in crystal, in a moment stretched so thin it became eternal. Bran hung suspended in his fall, his mouth still open in that scream, his eyes wide with terror. Oren was caught mid-reach, his face a mask of anguish. Tavik stood frozen beside Nix, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder, still feeling the echo of pain and magic singing through the connection between them.

Only Nix could move.

He felt the points of light at his shoulder blades, dormant things he’d never known were there, suddenly split open. The skin tore, not bloodily but cleanly, as though it had always meant to open, as though this had been written into his flesh since birth. The pain was exquisite, sharp as broken glass, bright as stars being born.

And then the wings came.

They burst from his back in a blaze of blue-green radiance, wild and untested, feathers unfurling with the reckless glory of dawn. The pattern echoed his mother’s wings, the constellations stitched through her own feathers. He’d seen them shimmer across Lisera’s back in that terrible moment when she’d transformed, when Simi had killed Ulfgar. Turquoise and malachite, azure and emerald, each feather edged in otherworldly light.

The wings were glorious. The wings were impossible. The wings were his.

And they were trying to kill him.

Nix leaned so far forward from the cliff’s edge, following the frozen trajectory of Bran’s fall, that Tavik’s hand could no longer hold him. He pitched over the edge, and time snapped back just enough for gravity to remember he existed.

He fell.

The terror was immediate, visceral, the stomach-lurching certainty that he’d made a terrible mistake. The wings were there, huge and ungainly and utterly unfamiliar, beating frantically against the air but with no skill, no knowledge of how to catch the wind. He tumbled, spun, his arms windmilling uselessly as the ground rushed up with horrible patience.

But beneath the terror, something else: exhilaration. The wild, impossible joy of the wind against his new wings, of the way the feathers caught the light, of being more than he’d been, of being everything his mother was, of being what Simi wished he could be.

And beneath that: the inexorable pull of the magic, drinking his life force like wine, demanding payment for this transformation. He could feel it hollowing him out, drawing from that place in his chest where his wound had never quite healed. If he didn’t act fast, the magic would consume him entirely.

Focus. He had to focus.

Nix forced his eyes open against the rushing wind, forcing his mind to remain still despite the terror, the thrill, and the draining pull of magic. His wings steadied, just slightly, just enough. The longest feathers at the tips swept forwards, guided by instinct older than thought, and began to trace patterns in the air.

Runes. Complex, intricate, beautiful runes in a dozen colours, each one drawn with the delicate precision of the feather-tips moving through space. His right hand lifted, one finger extended, touching each rune as it formed, activating it, sending it flying towards Bran.

The patterns spiralled outwards, flowing like water, like silk, rushing towards Bran’s frozen form. As they reached him, they wove together, joining into a net, a web, a capture of pure light and intention. The runes wrapped around Bran, then extended to catch Oren, who was closest, pulling both of them into the protective weave.

Nix could see the invisible thread connecting him to them, gossamer-thin but strong as spider-silk, strong as his own will. He pulled. Gently at first, testing the strength of it, then harder, drawing them up the cliff face, lifting them from the path of the fall, guiding them with infinite care towards the plateau’s edge where Tavik still stood frozen.

The magic was draining him faster now. He could feel his vision starting to blur at the edges, could feel the hollow in his chest aching with a cold fire. Almost done. Just a little more.

With the last of his strength, Nix placed Bran and Oren gently on the plateau, lowering them as carefully as a mother bird settling her chicks. Then, with a thought, with a release like a long-held breath, he let time go.

It rushed back like a dam breaking.

Bran’s scream cut off mid-note as he found himself suddenly on solid ground instead of falling through the air. He stumbled, his legs forgetting how to hold him, his mind still caught in the terror of the fall. Oren crashed into him from behind, the momentum of his desperate lunge carrying him forward even though the cliff face was no longer there. They went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling, scrabbling away from the edge in pure instinct.

Tavik staggered backwards, released from the frozen moment, his hand still tingling with the phantom pain of Nix’s transformation. “What... What just happened? Bran? BRAN!”

His two brothers lay panting on the stone, Oren’s arms wrapped around Bran, both of them shaking with shock and released terror. Slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might shatter the impossible reality of being alive, they pulled apart, staring at each other.

“You’re alive,” Oren breathed, his hands patting Bran’s shoulders, his arms, checking for broken bones, for injuries, for any sign that this was an illusion. “You’re alive. How are you alive?”

Bran couldn’t speak. Could only shake his head, eyes wide and glassy with shock. He’d been falling. He’d felt the certainty of death. And now he was here, on solid ground, and nothing made sense.

Then Tavik’s voice, sharp with new alarm: “Nix!”

All three of them turned, looked up, and froze.

Nix hovered in the air beyond the cliff’s edge, suspended on wings of impossible beauty, blue-green feathers catching the sunlight and throwing back colours that had no names. But the hover was unsteady, awkward, his wings beating frantically without rhythm or skill. His face was drawn, pale blue, his eyes wide with shock at what he’d become. The wings faltered, dipped, and Nix dropped several feet before managing to catch the air again.

“Saints above,” Bran whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Nix... You have wings.”

“He can’t control them!” Tavik scrambled to the edge, Oren beside him in an instant. “Nix!”

Nix’s head turned towards them, the movement sending him tilting sideways. His wings overcorrected, and he spun halfway around before stabilising again. He was saying something, but the wind snatched the words away.

“He’s too far out!” Oren’s voice was tight with new fear. “If he falls from that height...”

“He won’t fall.” Bran was on his feet, stumbling to join his brothers at the edge. His fear of heights was forgotten, burned away by the greater terror of watching his friend struggle. “Nix! Listen to me! You need to angle your wings! Tilt them towards us!”

But Nix was staring at his own wings now, his head craning around to look at them, and the distraction sent him into a wobbling descent. He dropped ten feet, twenty, his wings beating uselessly, panic plain on his face.

“He’s losing altitude!” Tavik’s hand gripped the cliff edge so hard his knuckles went white. “Nix! Focus! Look at us!”

Perhaps it was Tavik’s voice, or maybe some instinct finally kicked in, but Nix’s wings suddenly swept forward in a powerful stroke. He rose, unsteadily, but rose. His eyes fixed on the three faces at the cliff’s edge, on the hands reaching for him, on solid ground and safety.

Nix, frowning in concentration, focused on his friends and with no idea how to move his wings, he concentrated on thinking that he’d like to be standing on the cliff top with his friends, concentrated on how it felt to stand on that rocky cliff top and somehow his wings flew him directly over his friends, rather than over the drop, which Nix thought to be something of an improvement. He peered down at his friends, who looked up at him, perplexed at why he was above them.

“Can you come down?!” Bran called, not sure what was going on, but trying to encourage. “Just land here, Nix.”

Nix drifted slightly lower, each wing beat a little more controlled than the last. “I don’t know how to land.” Nix tilted as a gust of wind dragged him in the direction of the cliff edge and then corrected himself, feeling frustrated and exhausted. But they could all see how pale he was, how his arms hung limp at his sides, how much effort it cost him just to stay aloft. The magic had drained him, was still draining him, pulling from that hollow in his chest until there was almost nothing left.

“If you get a bit lower, we could try grabbing you,” Oren suggested, reaching up, his fingers a few feet away from the bottom of Nix’s feet. “Just a few more feet. You can do this.”

“I want...” Nix’s voice was barely audible over the wind. “I want to be on the ground. I want solid ground... Please, wings.”

And with those words, with that wish, the wings shimmered like heat haze and vanished.

Nix dropped like a stone, and with a yelp, landed solidly on Oren, who collapsed underneath him. With a last burst of energy, Nix scrambled off Oren, brushing himself down and wincing at the pain in his shoulders as Oren scrambled to his feet, baffled by the boy’s strange behaviour.

“Thank goodness that’s over….I have wings... confusing, strange things...” Muttered Nix, “and painful...” Turning, Nix focused on Bran and the others, looking earnest and exhausted and said, “Are you alright, Bran? I’m sorry I dumped you and Oren so roughly. I was running out of energy. Did you see that dark thing before you fell? In the cliff? Funny how your elvish magic is more interesting than my magic, isn’t it?” Nix chattered on, slurring his words as exhaustion took over, squinting blearily at them, as Oren, Tavik, and Bran stared on at their strange friend, definitely giving strong evidence of not being human.

“Oh, I’m so tired”, Nix said, oblivious to their scrutiny and collapsed onto the ground, lying flat on his back and looking up at the three baffled faces of his friends. Nix sighed, “Oh, this cool rock feels so nice on my wing wounds… Just going to have a little rest.” And with that, Nix closed his eyes and went to sleep.

“Did... I mean... W... What was that?” stammered Tavik, flapping his hand at the sleeping boy at their feet and looking almost accusingly at his brothers, who finally shut their open mouths.

“He is definitely not human”, said Bran, sitting down beside the sleeping boy and peering closer as if an answer would manifest over Nix to explain everything