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He pressed himself as close to the rock as he could, but his height from the ground ensured there was no safe means to escape. Should a bolt decide to strike, he would make the perfect target.
The laughter in his head grew louder.
His muscles tightened.
A black, toxic rage stirred inside of him.
Another flash, even closer than before, forced him flat against the mountain. As if it were coming right for him. What a ridiculous thought. So ridiculous, he could not help but laugh. Loud, hysterical laughter, like his father’s still pounding at his skull.
Yet another bolt struck the rock beside him, and he watched as the tiny flickering jags danced across the wet surface.
He laughed harder than before. “Come for me, if you want me so badly! I am here! Here!”
The world flicked to darkness. A white-hot bolt struck his chest. Arms stretched to either side, he stood paralyzed, his body surrendering to the searing heat that shot through him. His muscles twitched on their own. His lungs locked up.
The fire released its hold, and he teetered on the ledge, helpless to catch himself.
On a stifled breath, he fell forward.
Horror seized him as he watched the rocky ground below rise toward him at a sickening speed. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out.
There was no stopping the inevitable fall. No saving himself.
He closed his eyes and prepared his mind for the impact.
If only he could have sprouted wings and flown right then.
No sooner had the thought struck him when a sharp slicing sound cut through the hum of wind rushing past his ears, and a fiery pain tore across his shoulder blades. Something black shuddered in his periphery, and he turned just enough to see an enormous wing stretched outward. He snapped his attention to the opposite side and observed the same. His descent slowed, but not enough to keep him from striking the rock on a hardthunkthat buckled his knees. He tumbled and rolled down the sharp slope, which tore at his skin. The ground punched at his ribs, his spine, his legs, his arms in an erratic attack, as he barreled gracelessly over the unforgiving earth.
Until he finally rolled to a stop.
Lungs seized up, he clawed at the gritty dirt beneath him, struggling for one sip of breath. With his mouth agape, he fought to suck in the air that had gotten knocked out of his chest. The canopy of trees overhead blurred and sharpened. Black birds circled, their form merging into a single, black halo. In the center, he saw an image of his mother. Her lips moved, but he could not make out what she was saying.
He lifted his head, desperate to hear her, while panic pounded at his ribs for air.
“Breathe!” she screamed. “Breathe!”
He gasped, swallowed a gulp of cold air, and the image of her fizzled to nothing.
Rolling to his side, he coughed and choked, heaving with every inhale. Minutes passed before his muscles relented their grip and he took the first easy breath.
Beneath him lay an enormous wing with feathers lined in glinting ribbons of silver. Tiny bolts of lightning danced over their surface, and when he reached out to touch one, he hesitated, recalling that moment on the mountain’s ledge when he’d been struck.
There had been stories of others less fortunate, those who’d perished at the first touch of lightning, and yet, the baron had lived. He had not only lived, he feltinvigorated. Stronger, if such a thing were possible, but the baron knew that it was not. How could one become stronger from a strike of lightning, after all?
And yet, how could one sprout wings with a mere thought?
He stroked his finger across one of the feathers, marveling at the way the jagged bolts sparkled over his hand. Smiling at the tickling vibration that hummed beneath his skin, he twisted his hand in front of him, and with a nervous tremble, he reached back to palpate a thick bone-like structure sticking out from his shoulder blade.
He quickly retracted his hand on a shocked breath. The grotesque deformity of his flesh sent a shudder of nausea through him. Hands trembling with the cold, his chest giving a retching tug, he reached again and ran his fingers over the rigid protrusion. He let out a whimper of panic when the soft, downy fibers that ran along the bone drifted beneath the pads of his fingers.
What would his mother say when she saw him? Or worse, his father? Surely, they’d lock him in a cage. They would brand him a deviant–aberration–and hand him over to the bishop to be properly judged.
With a firm grip of the bone, he tugged as much as he was able in an effort to dislodge the odd appendage from his back, but it was no use. Aside from a small flare of pain, it would not budge.
He pushed to his feet, taking notice that his legs could hold his weight. That, somehow, his bones had not been crushed in the fall and were strong enough to accommodate the heavy wings that extended outward on either side of him. By some miracle, his legs and shoulders felt stronger than before.
Reaching around, he gripped one of the wings and pulled, grunting with the effort. The lightning played beneath his fingertips, and he released it.
