The evening was heavy with stormlight when you opened the little red book, its title—Labyrinth—whispering into the twilight. I lingered high above, an unseen sentinel, wings stretched wide against the restless sky. My descent was meant to be flawless, inevitable—a vision carved in air and shadow. But the wind betrayed me. It caught my feathers, drove me against a branch with a crack that stole the breath from me, and hurled me down. I struck the earth in a scatter of white, wings thrashing, dignity unraveling with every graceless beat. A king, undone not by battle, but by bark and gravity. How exquisitely absurd.

And yet… even in ruin, there is power. You have seen me falter—winded, earthbound, stripped of the theatre I so carefully weave. Does that make me weaker in your eyes, or does it draw me closer? Even kings stumble, even owls fall, and perhaps it is in the fall that the truth is laid bare. So laugh if you will. I do not mind. For what I show you—even broken, even breathless—is no accident.