My Wild Beast

On wobbly legs, Yoa hobbled along the cave, relief releasing his shoulders as the reflection of the water above casted wavy shadows along young Yoa's hollowed cheeks. He paused to tighten the cloth around his waist so it would not fall. Zahul had to walk by his side, staff in hand, and aided Yoa whenever his knees buckled from his weakened form.

Every step weighed heavily. It was like the earth itself tested his right to stand tall, but he moved forward. It was a struggle, but the corner of his lips tugged up. He had done it. He'd finally done it.

After seasons of training, enduring, devoting his life to this path, he had become what few ever could. A guardian of Tayun.

Yohuali was the next Yiska, the second youngest in all remembered time to bear the sacred title.

The only problem was that Yoa couldn't remember what he'd done to pass this final trial. There were only fragmented glimpses, flashes of his memories buried deep in his mind. It should have troubled him, but after everything he'd learned from Tayun, there was no room for doubt. If he was not meant to know what happened, or to remember what he saw, then there was a reason. And that was enough; his resolve remained unshaken.

His feet came to a stop upon seeing a figure on the ground, his wings spread out beneath him. Vulcan's eyes were glassy, staring vacantly at the ceiling, drool trickling down from the corner of his lip and pooling beside his head. His chest rose and fell dangerously slow, and like Yoa, he had lost a lot of weight.

Was that how he'd looked while he was in his trial?

"What has kept him from returning?" Yoa murmured.

A gust of wind swept around the young warrior and he fell to his knees beside Vulcan, his eyes widening as darkness consumed his sight momentarily. Then distorted imagery began to play until he was pulled into the memory itself. He instantly understood where he was with all this new knowledge now thrumming along his bloodstream.

His curiosity had roused Yiska's newfound powers within him, and now he stood as a phantom inside Vulcan's mind. It had to be because Harpy eagles stood proud and tall, gathered in front of a throne on top of a pile of bones. Vulcan sat there, staring down at the Silver Feather flock, eyes glistening with victory.

Yoa walked through some of the birds and began climbing the skulls and bones until he stood beside Vulcan. Slowly, the eagle shifter, turned his head like he sensed Yoa's presence but could not see him.

"Is this what you truly desired?" Yoa asked in a whisper.

"It is," Vulcan answered truthfully as he placed his elbow on the armrest and rested his cheek on his palm, his gaze roaming over his people. "If I cannot become Yiska then I will take my place as heir to the Sky Matron…"

Yoa lowered into a squat then looked up at Vulcan. This was why he was failing this trial. Yoa may not remember much from his own trial but Yiska and Tayun must have sensed what was truly in Vulcan's heart. Becoming Tayun's guardian was not his first choice.

A frown formed between Yoa's brows as a thought occurred to him. Vulcan was always meant to rule Silver Feather, so why did he pursue this path to become Yiska?

Yiska answered that for him. Vulcan's eyes flicked to Yoa's and like water being sucked through a hole, he was pulled into another memory. Hot and cold pulsed along his bloodstream before his stomach coiled and nausea almost burned along his throat until his backside landed heavily on something solid once more.

This time Yoa sat on a branch, his long legs dangling loosely from it as this dreamworld demystified and his surroundings came into focus. He had a grand view of what he now knew to be called Talonspire. It was a towering, thinner tree, unlike the others in Silver Feather. This was where Vulcan met his mother whenever called upon.

Only those of the Sky Matron's line could reach it. It was there, high above the world, between the roaring gusts, that mother and son spoke. And now, after watching Vulcan climb, not fly, along Talonspire, he understood the dynamics between Ixana and Vulcan more.

Vulcan's emotions and thoughts were pulled into Yoa as he watched a young boy, Vulcan, aged eight, struggle up the daunting, towering Talonspire.

The cold air of the high perch stung Vulcan's face. He should have flown, his mother would have expected it, but his wings still ached from yesterday's drills, and the bruises on his back hadn't faded yet.

Ixana stood at the edge of the terrace, overlooking the cloud-swept horizon, feathers rippling in the wind. Her form was statuesque: silver-plumed, flawless, terrible in her beauty. Vulcan hesitated.

"You're late," she said without turning.

"I—" His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. "I came as fast as I could."

She turned slowly, one brow lifting. "Fast? You climbed."

"I… My wings…"

"Don't embarrass yourself with excuses." She strode toward him, every step measured. "You are the son of the Sky Matron. If your wings are broken, you fly anyway. If you fall, you learn to bleed with dignity."

Vulcan dropped his gaze.

Ixana reached out, and instead of offering her son comfort like Yoa might have expected, her clawed hand gripped Vulcan's chin. She tilted his face up to meet her eyes. "Look at you," she murmured, tone both pitying and cold. "Eyes full of water. Legs shaking. Do you know what I see?"

Vulcan swallowed.

"A nestling. One that should've been pushed out long ago." She released him, brushing her hands as though they'd gathered dirt. "And yet here you are, still crying, still crawling."

"I'll do better," he said, voice tight.

"I don't want better," she snapped. "I want worthy."

The world smeared around Yoa, trembling like a thunderous storm until he was ripped from this reality and thrown into another dream.

Vulcan was taller, broader, and only thirteen. Yoa was certain this was around the time the Marked Ones had been called upon by Tayun. He watched as the scene transformed around him.

Initiation pyres lit the cliffside red as dusk fell.

The flock watched from the ridge, wings folded, expressions expectant. Vulcan stood at the bottom of the trial ring, facing the masked firekeeper. He could feel the eyes on him. All of them. But most of all—hers.

Ixana sat on a high stone dais, her silver throne cast in shadow. Her headdress, crafted from the feathers of a thunderbird, a rare sky-dweller she had slain herself, made her appear twice as tall. And twice as untouchable.

Vulcan lit his torch. It flickered weakly in the wind.

He moved toward the obsidian gate. His trial: to carry the flame without letting it die, along the cliffside. With the roaring winds, Yoa could see this was an impossible task. Impossible, unless the Sky Matrons wielded some power he was unaware of.

Halfway through the trial, the torch flickered more viciously, dimming in the growing darkness. Vulcan's foot slipped and he reached out, gripping onto stone so he wouldn't fall. The focus of this trial is to keep the torch aflame, if he used his wings and flew then he would fail.

After steadying himself, Vulcan shielded the torch more, and kept moving forward, his face growing more pained as the wind roared against him, almost forcing off the cliffside again. Then the cliff fell away so there was only one raised rocky path without anything to hold onto.

Gusts of wind tried pushing Vulcan's body from side to side, but he fought through it, gritting his teeth, wings spread and angled for better balance. His wings aided in shielding the flame more. But the path was long, and the skies grew stormy.

By the time he emerged again, sneezing, and drenched from the hammering rain, the torch was no more than a dying ember.

By the time he emerged again, Vulcan sneezed, soaked to the bone, the rain still falling in heavy sheets. The torch in his hand sputtered, no more than a dying ember.

Ixana chose this night specifically for her child, ensuring his trial was more difficult than others in the flock. Nobody thought the flame would go out as silence greeted the prince.

Ixana stood.

"Is that it?" she called down, voice like thunder rolling across the cliffs.

"I—"

"You were given flame, and you returned with ash." She descended the stairs slowly, purposefully. "Do you know what that makes you, Vulcan?"

He bowed his head.

"A boy who cannot carry the honour he was born for." She walked in a slow circle around him. "Fire obeys only the worthy. You are to inherit the skies, yet this flame chose to leave you."

Ixana sighed heavily in disappointment as gasps rippled through the crowds from her words.

Vulcan's hands curled into fists as he bit his tongue. Sheets of rain hammered into him, his hair clinging to his neck and face, as he withheld the glare burning bright behind his eyes.

Ixana leaned close. "You were never meant to carry my legacy," she whispered, her breath like frost, reminding Vulcan how loathsome she is to have bred a son. "I needed an heir. Instead, I am left with a son who disgraces me every day."