Chapter 15: Wings Against Wings

Morning came with a hazy light slipping through the leaves. The jungle pulsed with life—buzzing insects, distant screeches, rustling branches. I perched near the edge of my den, licking the last of the dried blood from my claws. The bones of the doe still lay scattered behind me. Picked clean.

But I was already hungry again.

Not because my belly was empty. But because my body demanded more. Every meal made me stronger, faster, and I could feel that change now. My limbs had filled out. My wings stretched farther. My flame, though still no roaring blaze, had a sharper heat when it sparked from my throat.

So I hunted.

Not in desperation. Not scavenging like I used to.

I hunted like I belonged.

I took to the skies, gliding low over the treetops. The wind was smooth today, favoring my wings, letting me coast without effort. Below, I scanned the canopy—looking for movement, listening for sounds that didn't belong.

Then I heard it.

A rush of air.

Wings.

Not mine.

I glanced up—three birds, gliding in lazy circles above the trees. Big ones. Not the tiny flittering bugs with feathers I used to ignore. These were jungle flyers, some the size of large dogs. Colorful, with long beaks and sharp talons.

And meat.

My stomach tightened in anticipation.

I climbed higher, flapping hard, wings slicing the air as I gained altitude. I flew above them, letting the wind carry me into their blind spot. They didn't notice me. Not until I folded my wings and dove.

The wind roared in my ears. My claws extended. My jaws opened.

The first bird barely squawked before I crashed into it.

We tumbled mid-air, feathers flying, its wings flailing as I sank my teeth into its neck. I snapped it fast, then flared my wings just in time to pull up before we both slammed into the trees.

The others screamed and fled.

Cowards.

I clutched the dead bird in my claws and flew back toward my den, blood dripping from its broken body. The flight was easy now. My muscles didn't burn like they used to. I was used to this. I was built for this.

Back at my perch, I feasted again.

Bird meat was lighter, but rich. Juicy. The bones were thin and easy to crush between my teeth. I ate fast. Clean. Efficient.

Then I stretched my wings and looked out over the jungle again.

This was my routine now.

Hunt in the morning. Eat. Fly.

I no longer waited for others to leave scraps. I didn't cower in trees hoping to avoid danger.

I was the danger now.

Small still, sure. But growing.

Every single day.

And the sky?

The sky was mine.