Against the Wind

10.2 || Amina

It was a darker gold than the flames she'd summoned to save Safiya, a mix of angry red and syrupy amber, but heat dripped into the air just the same. The Feralite's shriek sounded in echo. Amina couldn't feel the moment her arms were released, but she did feel the fire lash out, snapping like it had teeth that snared the creature's fibrous wing. The weight on her chest released, and she shot to her feet as quickly as possible, hand thrust out as the flames' hot flush folded backward from her outstretched fingertips. Her eyes felt like they burned in reflection of the brief, flashy inferno.

Shrieking again, the Feralite threw herself against the railing, nearly drowned out by the dissonant rattle of the metal bowing under her forceful weight. The fire winked out as rapidly as it had appeared. Amina tried not to suffocate on the stench of charred feathers, starkly bitter and acrid, and stood her ground even as the half-human's slit glare flicked up. Crouched on all fours as a trembling, smoking bundle of grey flesh and blue fluff, she embodied everything feral that was said about her race.

Amina's heart hammered painfully hard. She drew up her chin, grateful for the cool, reassuring press of her headpiece's gold medallion against her forehead. "I'm not weak," she bit out, "and I won't make this easy."

The Feralite's bared fangs slithered into the shape of a grim smile. "Good," she hissed.

She sprung, wings flared, but Amina was ready this time. Remnants of the dust she'd called from below—formerly mixed in with the sand, left abandoned along with the bones of beasts left from the previous week's battle—were scattered in thin trails around her shoes, and it was simple to flick her fingers, beckoning the scraps to rise and follow her hasty commands. The breeze of her adrenaline became a gust, a vine-like tongue of wind she flung at the Feralite and used to blast them apart. With another almighty crash, the Feralite collided with the nearer railing. She staggered, feet kicking as she struggled not to fall again, and Amina squeezed her fist, coiling the wind like a rope that bound the creature in place. Wings pinned to her sides, she writhed and snarled, breaths coming thick and shredded and shaken.

Amina focused on that contrast, keeping her own breathing as rhythmic as possible. Her arm ached. This power was like glitter in her blood, light and rapturous, but she couldn't lose herself in it. Unlike usual, it was no endless bliss. She could feel the way it scraped the edges of its void, boxed in, shrinking. She'd burned through a lot of her stolen supply already. Each mote of dust that crumbled into the air brought her closer to having nothing.

She couldn't keep this up, but the Feralite couldn't know that. She remained steady and summoned her fiercest glare, her fieriest voice, the insolent kind Isra would've cuffed her over the head for.

Plus, her thoughts tumbled and raced. This could be a chance to piece together that strange, shadowy mystery she had to solve.

She stepped closer. "What are you here for, Feralite?"

The Feralite's next exhale wheezed. It was only then that Amina realised the shakiness had nothing to do with fear; her blue eyes glittered still, and though she still twisted and winced in the wind's capture, her words rode upon yet more laughter. "I came to kill you."

Amina fought not to show how cold those simple, gleeful words made her. "Why?" she demanded.

"You will fall." Insanity pranced through the Feralite's expression, cut in the jagged strokes of a too-wide smile. "Your city will fall. It is promised."

The chills were swift to harden. They frosted Amina's bones with spiky fury, tightening her jaw. Not while I'm around to protect it. "Who promised that?"

"Lyxxira. She promises us salvation." Her grin grew sharp and wicked. "And Kyril promises us blood."

Intention flickered in her gaze a split-second before she moved. Her wings dove backward, breaking free of the dust's hold with a horrible snap Amina could've sworn she heard reverberate. Desperation's alarm bells sounded in echo. Stamping her foot before her in a firm stride, she thrust her arm to its full length, focus like a trio of blades twisted with her aching fingers, and commanded her rope-like wind to shove back as hard as it could. The Feralite's breeze fizzled, stiff and limp as she was pressed against the wall, limbs splayed at flat angles. Her laughter became pleasingly strained.

"You can't best us." The words ground over Amina's tongue, raw as sandpaper. She felt like a stick of wood, her hold on the dust like the ends of twigs, the brittlest of dams thinning the last trickle of a river's rage. "Our city is too powerful."

Fluttering wings beat against her crumbling barrier. "Is it?" the Feralite wheezed.

"I am powerful," Amina spat. She shoved back, thumb twitching as if it really did rub against frayed feathers and fragile bones. "One more move and I'll break you in two." She wanted to. If she had more dust, it would be easy.

Nothing was going to happen to her home. She'd squeeze a hundred of these bloodthirsty creatures to death if that was what it took to keep Tehazihbith safe. That was her promise—to Zephyrine and to her future.

She prayed that it showed in her eyes, hoped that was the reason the Feralite stilled. They should be afraid.

If only the creature's smile wasn't so persistent. She clicked her tongue. Between laboured breaths, she cooed, "The human pup thinks she is strong." Her fangs flashed. "Hope to die next time, little brave pup. My death is mercy."

In one fluid push, she kicked at the floor, and Amina felt her rope shatter properly this time. While she scrambled to pick up the pieces, the Feralite slunk free. Before any shard of flickering wind could tangle her, she spread her wings, dove backward over the wall and vanished from sight. In a burst of residual energy, Amina dashed after her, but the night and the desert were quick to swallow her whole.

The wall's top was rough and numb against Amina's palms and hard enough to take her weight. Tension ensnared her too fiercely to allow her to collapse, but the dizziness said she was ready to. A sprinkle of dust settled in a slender crescent at her feet, too thin even to sing, granting little of its usual sparkling glow.

Blood trickled down her arms, crusting between her fingers. It had slipped her notice until now. It was warm ice, and it clung, serving as a grim reminder that this was all horribly real.

A deep, hollow sense of dread consumed her. She needed her trial. She needed to talk to Zephyrine. She needed to save—

Herself? They were trying to kill her.

The air was even colder than before, rife with shivers. She couldn't put her finger on when exactly she fell to her knees, felt the smooth sheen of stone beneath her skin, but she detected the damp flicker of fear that rose the second before she blacked out.

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