Divine Singularity || Reader x Murder Drones

III

The feeling of flight was unlike anything you'd ever experienced—so exhilarating, so pure in its freedom, it bordered on divine. The wind rushed past your form in steady currents, slipping between feathers and flesh that made it feel as though the very sky had accepted your presence. There was no turbulence, no resistance, just air slicing around your shape as you moved, untethered by gravity or obligation.

You had been soaring for so long that the day had quietly surrendered to night, the golden blaze of the sun fading gently into the soft hush of dusk. In its place, the moon had risen, silver and watchful, casting a glow so pale it felt like the world had dipped itself in milk and silence. The stars blinked into existence one by one, freckling the heavens with cold light. You craned your neck upward, gazing beyond the blanket of night, and for a moment—just a moment—you wondered if they were really that far away. With all the changes your body had undergone, was it really so foolish to think that one day, you might reach them?

You extended your wings farther, their span casting massive shadows over the forest below. The trees now looked like neat little patches of clover—a child's painting of a forest rather than the wild thing it truly was. The land below had grown so small, so miniscule. From up here, the problems felt distant. Shrunk. Less powerful.

Nestled against the soft rise of your upper back, hidden beneath an arc of warm feathers, the little dove had made itself comfortable. You hadn't realized when exactly it had snuck into your care again, but now it was there, perfectly content, gently preening its wings and occasionally cooing to let you know it was still present. The bond you both shared was a strange one—two creatures of wing and instinct, one ancient and mythic, the other small and insignificant, sharing the sky.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity—through all the anxiety, transformation, fear, and the quiet existential horror of not knowing what you truly were—you found yourself smiling.

Because as monstrous as your new form was—stitched together from light and dream, claw and sinew—this one thing was... good. Flying was good. The ability to tear yourself from the earth and soar into the heavens wasn't a curse, it was a gift. A powerful, exhilarating gift that made something within you want to scream in triumph and weep in joy all at once.

You still feared what you were becoming. You still feared what you might lose in the process of trying to tame it. But the skies didn't judge. The wind didn't recoil. And the stars, ever silent, seemed to peer back at you.

Maybe this form wasn't entirely a burden. Maybe there was beauty to be salvaged in it.

You let yourself glide in slow, lazy circles, spiraling gently downward with no real destination. Just to rest. Just for a while.

Your eyes drifted to the edge of the forest, and for some reason, your mind thought of her. Of Cyn.

You wondered if she could fly too. If her body slinking and serpentine form had ever taken to the sky the way yours did now. Or was her hunger too heavy? Did her monstrous mass keep her grounded, dragging her down like an anchor chained to the bones of dead stars?

Could she even feel joy like this?

You doubted it. But the thought lingered like ash caught in the wind, refusing to be swept away as you descended through the thinning clouds, your massive wings folding gradually inward. The ground welcomed your return with a low, resonant quake that rippled through the forest floor. Trees shivered. Birds scattered. The Earth itself had welcomed you home.

Your talons curled into the soil as you shifted your weight, feathers ruffling as you lifted your head. It was only then, in the brief stillness, that you noticed it—nestled between the trees and half-swallowed by nature's reclamation stood a structure, cloaked in shadows and crawling ivy. You approached carefully, the forest parting just enough to reveal more of the crumbling walls, broken stained glass, and flaking paint. And there, jutting out from above the door, was a golden symbol half broken, weathered and dulled with time. Though, it looked strangely like the glyphs Cyn used.