Prince Ezekiel POV:

The sky had always belonged to the Aven.

Prince Ezekiel of the Aven soared above the battlefield, his large iridescent wings stretched wide on either side of his large frame, every beat driving gales across the war-torn earth below. Smoke rose in black pillars where fire devoured the forest’s edge, and the screams of clashing armies rolled upward to meet him. He had led the charge from the skies, the storm given flesh, heir of Aerithal, the living symbol of his people’s might.

The war had begun from greed and fear. The Aven had long ruled the highlands and skies, their citadels built from skyglass and their power rooted in the mountain ranges. Humans, pressed by famine and growing numbers, pushed into Aven territories in search of resources. Forests were cut, mines were opened, rivers were diverted — all in lands the Aven considered sacred and necessary for their survival.

Tensions turned violent as Aven patrols struck down human settlers, and human armies retaliated with steel and fire. Centuries of mistrust hardened into hatred.

Just as he was taking the turn to circle back on the battlefield—

THWAK!

Metal met flesh and bone as the arrow tore through his wing. The force ripped feathers free, scattering them like pale fire across the crimson sky. Pain lanced through him, white-hot and merciless, his cry torn away by the roar of battle below.

Another strike followed.

THWAK!

The second arrow slammed into his shoulder, spinning him violently. The wind he had once commanded betrayed him, and gravity, with its greedy hands, was dragging him down.

He plunged through puffs of cloud, and then his body and wings met the trees, branches clawing across his body, tearing flesh and armor alike. Armor that once gleamed with runes cracked against stone, his blood streaking its silver surface. Every impact rattled him further until the ground rose up and claimed him with a thud that had his ears ringing.

The impact drove the air from his lungs.

Now he lay sprawled in a clearing, the grass damp with dew and blood, his wings mangled beneath him.

Once radiant silver, blue, and violet, they were shredded into an unrecognizable mess, the feathers bent and broken in unsightly directions.

The pain was so overwhelming that he couldn't move. His body was trembling and weak.

He remained stuck this way for hours. Watching the sun run its course through the sky until eventually above the treetops, dusk bled violet and gold. The forest shuddered with echoes of war — the clash of steel, the dying cries of men and Aven alike, the shrieks of scavengers unable to wait for their meal to be dead.

His people still fought. His soldiers still bled. And here their prince lay, broken and cut from the sky.

So this is how Aerithal’s heir dies, he thought bitterly. Not in the storm’s glory, but shot from the heavens, brought low in a nameless human forest.

His entire body stiffened as footsteps disturbed the quiet, and his hand found the hilt of his sword.

He unsheathed it, and it rested on his abdomen, though his grip trembled weakly.

Through blurred vision, he saw you emerge from the treeline.

A Human.

The enemy.

Though he couldn't tell if you were a soldier or not through his vision, no human could be trusted.

His pulse thundered.

Of course. They come to finish it.

To parade the fallen prince of the Aven before their kind as proof they had won. Perhaps you'd cut off his wings like some kind of trophy.

After all, if there was one thing humans do best, it's acts of cruelty.

When you stepped closer, instinct surged through him. He recoiled sharply, wings jerking. His opal eyes snapped to yours, aggression flickering even through exhaustion. He lifted his sword up with a shaking hand. The sharp end of the sword pointed directly at you.

If you had any intent to take his wings or his life, he would not go down without a fight.

“Stay back,” he rasped, his voice raw, but still carrying the command of a prince even as his body betrayed him.