Wings of Fire Oneshots

𝐀 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

                                                                       ~𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜~

Arctic spread his wings, staggering upright while limping on his hind leg. 

"What are you writing, you little monster?" Arctic growled, eyes fixed on his son in a nasty grimace.

Darkstalker didn't answer, he didn't even look up from his task at hand. Not even when Clearsight pleaded with him to stop, shrugging her off. Fathom took a step toward Darkstalker, looking like he was going to do something but hesitated. The Nightwing's ink-dipped claw slid across the paper, jutting down random letters in his chicken-scratch handwriting, neat words formed in their place.

Arctic huffed in irritation; his nostrils flared. That disrespectful rat! Not answering me when I ask a question.

The Icewing opened his mouth but before he could say anything his son cut him short.

"Now," Darkstalker said to his father. "Stop talking."

Arctic attempted to speak but nothing came out.

He screamed, yelled, and still nothing. Words tried to creep up his throat, clawing their way into his windpipe but failed to roll off his tongue in an audible sound. It was like talking while deaf, except you can hear everybody's voice but yours.

Darkstalker grinned, delighted with himself. "Never use your magic again," he said pleasantly. "Never attack me or my friends ever again and don't try to escape."

Arctic clutched his throat. His tail lashed in outrage like a snake on fire, quills raking through the sand.

"What did you do?" Fathom whispered in horror.

"Release Whiteout from the spell you put on her," Darkstalker continued, ignoring the Seawing.

Arctic's spines bristled bitterly. His talons tingled and the next thing he knew his claws were reaching for his daughter on their own accord. He strained his muscles, shakily trying to pull his talons out of their snakish trance but to no avail. Arctic hooked a serrated claw around the silver chain of the necklace and slipped it off Whiteout's neck. He held the gold-glass seashell in his talon for a moment, bubbles captured underneath its surface. Then, with un-dragonly strength, his arm convulsed, and his claws wrapped around the smooth glass, crushing it. A mix of blood and glass shards gleamed in the afternoon sun, and he dumped the remnants of the jewelry onto the sand.

During this, the only thing Arctic could think about was Clearsight's prophecy. The words swirled around in his head.

Beware your two queens, beware your own power. Your claws will betray you in your final hour.

A pit of dread in the Icewing's stomach formed and Arctic felt his breath catch in his throat.

Your claws will betray you in your final hour. He was going to die and by his own talons.

                                                                 ***

The sun had set. Vibrant violates, pinks, yellows, and oranges of the sky mixed into an obsidian black like an inkwell spilling out onto a blank scroll. Flickering stars spattered the abyss above them in the same manner dewdrops caught in a spiderweb shimmered in the sunlight.

They arrived back at the Nightwing Kingdom early in the night. Below them, the Great Diamond bustled with dragons attending the night market. Torches throughout the plaza enlivened the night with a warm glow, shadows of passing dragons stretching and contorting along the ground. The event came into detail as they swooped closer, stands and booths were set up containing all sorts of items and treats from delicate glass works and talon-carved trinkets to smoked duck on a stick and honeycomb squares. Everyone enjoying their time, oblivious to how the world would change from that moment on.