On Wings of Thunder

Gasping for air, Trystan stared wide-eyed at the opening he’d fallen through. It was the only light available, and it showed him that he’d plunged into a narrow hole, like a well, with sheer stone walls. Dust and dirt fluttered down, and he coughed, rolling over onto his side. He winced and thanked his lucky stars he’d shimmered his wings intangible as soon as he’d landed in the gardens, before the mob. They could have been damaged by the fall. He hoped this hole wasn’t too narrow to fly out. There should be at least enough room for a good leap.

“Why don’t you stay down there, Unchosen?” Makhail said, the asshole captain of the bully squad. “Seems the perfect place for you.”

Laughter and jeers followed his apparently witty statement, and Trystan listened to it fade as the bullies walked away, leaving him. That was fine by him. He wanted to be left alone.

Trystan quickly determined there wasn’t any serious damage to his body—though his robe was a different story—and sat up. But even as he slid his hand along the stone floor, he felt something sharp cut his palm. Cringing, Trystan flinched and looked at his hand. Pink blood welled along the deep, diagonal slice across his palm, the sting annoying.

“Great. Perfect.” He sighed. “I hate my life.”

Trystan was an unchosen. In a world where one’s life, profession, and destiny were determined at birth by the seer, the unchosen were a disgrace. For him it was worse than for others. His parents were accomplished and formidable commanders of the Upper Realm’s armies. They reported directly to the angels’ ultimate ruler: the high chancellor. Commander Gabreld and Commander Lavella had been paired at a young age and produced five children. Of those five children, Trystan was the youngest, and one of the only ten unchosen born in his generation.

He didn’t see his parents often. In fact, he’d only seen them a handful of times since he had left home at five years of age and been put with others like him. His parents were never mean or cruel to him, not like the bullies who knocked him down into this hole. No, his parents had fed him, cared for him, and perhaps in their own way, loved him. But they never went out of their way to see him, nor did they often send messages or letters. He knew they communicated frequently with his sister Annalise, a knowledge keeper. His other brothers and sister were in different cities spread across the Upper Realm, and he never saw them or heard from them.

He was a dirty secret no one wanted to bring attention to.

Trystan stared at the blood on his hand and fought back the tears of frustration and resignation. He would never be anything or anyone. He would never be wanted.

Shaking his head, he sat back on his heels and watched the blood slide off his hand and splatter on the stone. But even as he watched, his blood started to… move?

Eyes widening, Trystan leaned forward, certain he was imagining things. The light from the opening suddenly shone brighter as the sun moved into position directly above. He wasn’t imagining things. His blood was moving! That was also when he noticed the stone floor wasn’t smooth like the walls: there was a carving sliced deeply into it. He couldn’t determine what the etching was, the light wasn’t that good, but it didn’t seem random. There was definitely some purpose to it. His blood was drawn to those grooves. It filled a small portion of the indentation and then simply settled there. Curiosity burning, Trystan held his hand over the carving and let more of his blood drip down. Once again, as if drawn by some unseen force, his blood rolled to the grooves and began filling them out, defining them.

A small part of the carving was soon highlighted with his blood, and Trystan could make out an artistic rendering of a thick neck with scales and horns.

Was this a rendition of a demon?