Of course, if Anarchy were in her panther form, she would certainly notice the change in my breathing, and I can’t be surewhat form the keeper is currently in, but it seems they’re too absorbed in their conversation to notice my alert state.
“You asked me what I knew of your creation, and I answered truthfully,” Anarchy says in a quiet snarl. “I don’t know who you were, Keeper. But that’s the thing… nobody did.”
The keeper’s response is terse. “Your point?”
“There were whispers about the other keepers,” Anarchy says. “Rumors about who they wereandwho they weren’t. But as for your identity, there was only silence.”
The sound of soft footfalls reaches me, bare feet on stone, and I picture one of them stepping toward the other. Most likely Anarchy moving toward the keeper, given the lightness of the sound.
“It was a terrible silence, Keeper,” she whispers in a near hiss. “For all this time, I’ve wondered why.” She pauses, her voice strained. “Why was there such silence around you?”
The friction in the air increases and now I wish the sun were still shining because then I might be able to see their silhouettes.
“What are you hiding, Keeper?” she asks, a hint of desperation in her voice now.
“We’re all hiding something,” he replies, so coldly that I picture him in his tall, blue-eyed, black-haired form. “We are dark creatures, are we not?”
She lets out another hiss, but this time, it sounds like an expression of frustration before her voice hardens. “Whatever it is, know this: Donothurt Darkness. Don’t shatter the heart she gave you. And whatever you do, don’t try to circumvent her path.”
Again, there’s a soft footfall and now I picture her stepping right up into his space. “The creatures of the dark have waited a long time for someone with the power to unite us. Don’t stand in the way of her destiny.”
“And what of your destiny, Anna-ve-shaleia?” he asks, his low growl making it sound like he’s morphing into his dragon form now.
There’s another silence and then she whispers, “My destiny is my own.”
“On that, we are agreed.”
Anarchy’s response is clipped and polite, but now it seems she’s moving away. “When Darkness wakes up, let her know that Lucian and I will be on the beach. It’s best if she works on her wings before I tire her out with combat training.”
With that, her footfalls recede and I’m left to wonder at their conversation and how much friction the coming month could bring.
When I’m ready for my first session with Lucian on the beach, Anarchy and the panthers seem to sense my unwillingness to spread my wings in front of them and they quickly disappear into the jungle.
The keeper, too, makes himself scarce, telling me he’s going to meditate on how to break the panthers’ curse. Meditation seems like an uncharacteristically peaceful thing for him to do, but I don’t question it. Whatever it takes.
My brother appears far more relaxed than I was expecting, his golden eyes bright, and I wonder if he, too, is finally well-rested—assuming he also slept the afternoon away.
“Learning how to fly isn’t about beating your wings,” he says, standing opposite me on the sand. “You need to learn about your wings as a part of your body and how every other part of your body relates to them. Can you release them for me?”
I brace for the pain as I allow the crawling sensation, the tingling in my back, to dominate my senses. Gritting my teeth in anticipation of the tearing sensation, I force my wings to burst forth.
Lucian winces. “That looked painful.”
“It always is.”
He clears his throat. “Okay, well, first you’re going to sit down and let your wings flop to the sand. I want to check your feathers and then your back muscles. If that’s okay with you?”
“Sure.”
It’s a relief to kneel on the sand and curl forward, letting my wings’ weight rest down on either side of me—even if I’ll be shaking off the grit later.
Lucian starts with my feathers, just as he said he would.
“These are heavily metallic,” he says, and when I look up he’s wearing an incredulous expression.
He carefully splays one of my largest feathers across his palm. “See how the core shines? And if you touch it, it’s cold like metal.”
“Yeah.” I grimace. “I sort of got that when our good old Dad rammed one of my feathers into my shoulder.”
