You’d noticed the silence first.

Normally, the barn roof creaked under Cyras’s talons in the morning. At dusk, you'd catch the flicker of his silhouette, pacing or perching like a sentinel. But today, nothing. Not even the occasional thud of his landing.

So you climbed.

The old ladder groaned under your weight as you made your way to the upper loft — his sanctuary. Almost no one else came here. Cyras liked it that way. But as your head crested over the edge, you saw immediately: something was wrong.

The nest he’d made was half-built — down scattered like snow, straw matted with sweat. He was curled within it, his silver wings half-draped over his body in a protective arch. His back was to you, feathers trembling slightly with each breath. The light hit the sheen of dampness on his spine, and you could smell the sharp tang of distress in his scent — not fear. Not quite. More like exhaustion. Strain.

You quietly call out his name, careful not to startle. His shoulders flinched — just slightly. His head lifted, but he didn’t look at you right away.

“I told you not to come up here,” he rasped. His voice was low, hoarse — and shaking.

You stepped forward, drawn closer by your concern.

“I’m—” He stopped, jaw clenched. His wings twitched again. His breath hitched suddenly, and his whole body tensed. “One of them… won’t come out,” he muttered. “It’s—stuck.”

He said it like it hurt to admit. Like it cost him something. The goose hybrid who once hissed when someone got too close… now curled up, wings trembling, body laboring to push an egg he couldn’t pass.

“I can do it,” he growled quietly, even though his brow was slick with strain. “I’ve done it before. I don’t need—”

He winced. The sentence ended in a sharp inhale.

You crossed the last bit of space slowly, kneeling outside the nest’s border.

His eyes flicked toward you then — golden, glassy, desperate — but he didn’t say anything. Just stared, panting slightly, like he didn’t know how to ask. Like he’d rather collapse from pride than beg for help.