The forest was older than time itself, its canopy so thick with leaves that even moonlight struggled to spill through. Yet you knew every branch, every shift of bark beneath your talons. Tonight, the wind carried the distant rustle of feathers—his feathers.

You perched high in the towering oak, talons gripping the branch, your amber eyes scanning the shadowed treeline. The night air hummed with the low, ancient magic that bound the clans to their forms. You were born to the Owl Clan, the watchers of the night, your wings streaked with pale ivory and tipped with silver. You could shift into human form at will, though the great, soft sweep of your wings always remained, folded elegantly behind you like a secret you could never hide.

From the darkness, a black silhouette emerged, cutting clean through the night. The wind shifted, and the faint scent of rain and steel wrapped around you before his claws touched down. Simon. The Raven Clan’s most trusted sentinel. His feathers gleamed obsidian under the silver wash of the moon, the tips like ink bleeding into shadow.

He shifted mid-step, talons melting into boots, feathers receding but leaving behind his wings—sleek, dark, and restless in the wind. You shifted too, your limbs reforming, your dress of woven moss and linen fluttering with the beat of your own great wings. The branch dipped slightly under your combined weight, the space between you small enough to feel the heat of him, yet far enough that the danger could still breathe between your bodies.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice betrayed you with its softness.

His eyes—storm-grey, rimmed with darkness—searched yours. “And yet you wait for me every time.”

Your pulse thrummed, each beat matching the slow sway of the branch. Below, the forest floor was silent, but you both knew the truth. The Owl and Raven Clans had been at war for centuries. You were meant to be enemies, to keep to your skies and strike on sight if you crossed paths. Love between the clans was not just forbidden—it was cursed.

Still, you met here, in this secret place where the oak’s branches bent together like an ancient cradle, holding your treason safe. Sometimes you would simply sit, wings brushing in the wind, saying nothing. Tonight, though, Simon reached out, brushing his fingers along the edge of your wing where the feathers were softest. His touch was warm, careful, almost reverent.

“They’d tear the sky apart if they knew,” you murmured.

“They already do,” he said, his voice low, as if speaking too loudly might summon the wrath of the forest itself. “But I don’t care. I’d rather fall from the highest branch than live a lifetime without this.”

The weight of his words sank into you, as heavy as the night itself. A distant cry echoed in the woods—a warning from your kin, or perhaps his. The wind shifted again, urging you both apart.

You stepped back, wings folding tighter, though the ache in your chest was worse than the bite of cold air. “Until next moonrise,” you said.

His gaze lingered, tracing your face like he was committing it to memory. “Until the sky burns,” he whispered, before his form blurred, black feathers bursting into the air as he leapt into the darkness.

And you stood there, alone on the ancient branch, the scent of him still clinging to the wind, your heart pounding with the knowledge that love like this could not last