His dreams had been peculiar as of late, sure. Instead of the usual rehashing of white brick walls and the immediately surrounding scenery, he saw new horizons. New horizons with unfamiliar paths, uncounted tree limbs, without steel bars on windows. The thoughts stirred him uncomfortably in his sleep- as he tossed, a faint shrill sound began to burrow into his mind. Some strange, persistent whistling coming from above. Then, a monstrous bellowing startled him awake- thunder. But no ordinary thunder at that. Strigine tried with futility to light the candle near his bedside, but the wick was swimming in wet within the candle’s golden brazier. It was then, he realized, everything else was wet too. A continuous trickle of water could be heard as rain poured down onto him from higher in the tower, a small waterfall having formed down the spiralling steps. Strigine waded through the shallow pool that had collected around him and hesitantly made his way up to the source of the downpour.

When he reached the top story, Strigine’s blood went cold- a terrible chill freezing him right to the roots of his down feathers. Before him a massive, gaping wound in the masonry yawned open toward the night sky letting in all the unpleasantness from outside. He shielded his face from the pelting rain and glanced around- his library drenched and scattered with pages fluttering around, hopelessly mismatched from their original bindings. Before he could shout, or cry, or run, another deafening sound erupted in the distance followed quickly by a tear of burning light in the sky- a light Strigine realized was coming in his direction. The lightning weaved and cracked through the ominous purple sky, twisting and spontaneously changing directions a few times before striking clean into the center of the exposed room- and the world went blinding bright.

When his eyes opened once more, Strigine was laying on his back atop a small pile of rubble, the orange skies laid bare before him, nothing concealed, no angle kept from him. And that’s when he realized, the entire roof and most of the walls of the top story of his tower were entirely gone. Strigine didn’t know quite how to feel- he searched within himself for just one emotion and found a shifting sea of conflicting thoughts. “Could this really be it? Freedom?” he thought to himself as he struggled upright. “Just, spread my wings and-” and his thoughts were interrupted by a brutal surge of pain shooting up his left arm. “Gah!” And he glanced over to see his brittle wing pinned beneath a great bulk of singed grey stone. Strigine turned and pushed the boulder aside with all the might he could muster, just managing to tip it enough for it to roll down the pile of rubble and splash onto the still-waterlogged floor.

Wincing, Strigine carefully rose to his feet and clutched his broken wing, a clear bend down the center where the rock had landed. He quickly made his way to the floor below, still intact but having been granted no relief of the elements. He grabbed an armful whatever supplies hadn’t been ruined by the rain and began to set the bone before tightly wrapping it in a bandage to keep it in place- the best remedy for a broken bone with limited supply, he’d read in numerous medical texts. After much deliberation, and pacing around in front of the crater in the ceiling, Strigine finally landed on a decision. The walls were gone, his prison demolished, and he took it as a sign to finally act on the gnawing hunch that had been on his mind for as long as he could remember. He’d confront his father and find out the truth behind his imprisonment. Strigine grabbed the least-wet pack from his room and filled it with the entirety of the weeks’ remaining rations- the imperial city would be a few days south and with careful planning it would last the journey. On his way out, he grabbed a mounted long steel blade from its mantle and fastened it to the sheath on his belt before jumping from the tower and into the basket of interweaving branches below.

Strigine breathed a frosty plume of smoke into the crisp morning air. Over a fading fire mostly made up of coals, he broke fast with the last of his rations- the cities’ gates visible now from across the lake, on the other side of which he sat. He rehearsed the lines over and over in his head, repeated them to himself all the while as he travelled- exactly what he’d say to the man who locked him up all those years ago. His goal close enough to see, he rose to his feet and prepared to set off. As he stomped out the last of his flickering embers, the sloshing of a small boat being hauled to shore could be heard from behind him. Strigine turned, as saw two burly cloaked figures stepping out of a small rowboat. His breath caught in his throat- another person! Two, if you could believe it! On top of what he’d say to his father, he’d also been mulling over how he’d greet the first people he seen. He’d practiced, mimed as if he was shaking hands and patting shoulders with ghosts the night before. Here it was, his moment. “Hello-”

”Oy!” One of the men croaked in a garish accent to his partner. “Look at that un’!” And he pointed at Strigine while gripping the hilt of a sword in the other hand. His partner glanced over at Strigine, then back to the man.

“What?” The partner shrugged, seeming unimpressed.

“His forehead, idiot. Look at his forehead!” And the two of them at once fixed on Strigine, observing him. Strigine furrowed his crescent brow. In an instant, it seemed all he knew about the world was being ripped apart from its’ very fabric. How had they known? However in the world did these lowly thugs know of the crescent’s nature? He was the last of the children of prophecy, one of the world’s last kept secrets, his father had told him! ...And when he thought on that last fact, he realized his darkest, worst fears may indeed have been true.

The men charged forward, weapons drawn with bloody intent. “You’ll fetch a pretty price, boy.” The partner spat as he hefted an axe in his hands.

Strigine swallowed his fear, and thought. He’d read countless volumes on proper swordsmanship, stances, the proper parries for any number of attacks- practiced almost daily, too. Surely, he’d be more than well enough equipped for these two vagrants. He drew his sword with his good arm, winced at the pain in his other from all the movement, and stood ready.

At once, the first man’s sword swatted Strigine’s out of his hands, sent it scattering through the leaves. And in a brutal, sobering instant, Strigine was made aware that reading a thing and doing a thing were two entirely separate matters. “Oh, um-” and his words were once again cut short, this time by the knee of the man’s partner. Strigine slumped to the ground, breath drawn from his lungs. The two men towered over him, and then looked to one another.

“Get the cart. I’ll keep him here-” and this time, it was Strigine who’d interrupted them. He swiped up, furiously quick, and firmly planted a small dart into the neck of the man. “What the-” and he took two stumbling steps back before toppling over into the mud. Another topic Strigine had studied extensively in his years, horticulture. Specifically, the various effects of naturally occurring compounds found within the plant life all around him. A myriad of applications, he’d found they’d had. For instance, paralyzing nightshade, which was in bountiful supply around these parts. Strigine leveled another dart in his fingers, aiming to toss it at the man’s partner.

“No. No!” And he threw his axe down into the mud. “Let me go- I’m sorry. Let me just take my boat and-”

Strigine fished his sword from the leaves and sheathed it. “You can go, but the boat’s mine.”

He’d snatched the cloak off of the man he’d left in the mud, kept the hood drawn over his head as he walked through the streets- lest he be confronted again about the crescent marking on his forehead. Funny enough, he didn’t stand out, a dubious looking hooded figure looming through the streets in broad daylight- in fact, they were a dime a dozen here. He kept walking, until he came to a stone staircase. An old, decrepit looking place. His old home. Strigine walked up the steps, cob-webbed in some corners, and entered through the paint-chipped wooden door at the top. Inside, the place was almost entirely dark save for a faint glow from the corner fireplace. The shelves were all bare, the tables too. In a chair in front of the fire, Strigines father sat. He turned to meet his gaze, and looked more weathered and old than Strigine could’ve ever imagined. His eyes widened and he let fly a horrified gasp.

All of Strigine’s hours- days even, of practicing and perfecting the speech he’d give vanished in an instant like leaves in the whiteflow. Years of anger and pain flourished outward from inside him and erupted into a hysterical outroar. “Why?” Strigine marched toward the man, gripping the hilt of his sword, though some nagging voice in his mind urged him not to draw it. “Why? If I’m not the child of prophecy, then why!” He declared more than questioned. Then Strigine saw something next to the chair his father sat in. A large wooden chest, open and filled with coins- the golden tones waxing and waning with reflections of flickering firelight. And of an instant, Strigine felt a new wave of dread wash over him.

“For this…?” He spoke shakily, gesturing at the gold. “Didn’t want to share your fortune?” And his voice raised again, back into a yell. “Wanted to be buried with your gold, eh? So you sentence your son to a life imprisonment?” And the tears welled up in his eyes, blurred his vision.

“No!” His father gasped. “No, Strigine, no!”

“Don’t lie to me!” And Strigine kicked over the chest, gold coins spilling onto the wooden floor behind them. Still, he kept his sword sheathed, that small voice in the back of his mind urging him not to draw it- by the gods he’d wished it would go away.

“I did it to protect you! That was always the reason!” His father struggled out. He attempted to stand in his chair, weak legs shaking before relinquishing himself again to his seat. “I wanted you safe. You would never be, otherwise.”

“I know I’m not the last.” And Strigine gestured to his crescent marking. “The texts sowed doubt with your reason and my own experiences confirmed it. So stop. Lying.”

“No…” his father sighed. “You are not the last.” And Strigine trembled to hear him say it- to finally have his theory be confirmed. Oddly enough- the feeling provided no satisfaction. “But that does not mean you are not in danger.” Strigine calmed slightly, and listened to his father. “The children of prophecy are rare, but still plentiful. And they are persecuted ruthlessly for their gift. Used as navigators by pirates, soothsayers by merchants, spies for generals- and none of which of their own volition. Bought and sold, Strigine. Is that the life you desire?”

“That’s no excuse. You do not know the life I would have had. I could have fought them, I could have run, hid-”

His father sighed deeply again. “There is nowhere you can hide from them now. The tower-”

“Was a prison!” Strigine bellowed. “And I’m done being your prisoner.” He turned to leave, feeling sick. His father hung his head low, heavy with the shame of it.

“At least take the gold.” He grimaced. “I’d been using it for your supplies, upkeep on the tower. Take it, and go into hiding someplace-”

Strigine turned and scowled. “I don’t want it. And I’m done hiding.” And before he turned to leave, he threw the cloak to the floor, greeting the world outside with his head held high, brazenly displaying his crescent markings for all to see.

story by Derelict