Not abruptly—he never does anything abruptly—but with purpose. His posture changes, shoulders squaring, head tilting slightly as if he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
“We’re here,” he says.
“Here as in—” I glance around, seeing nothing but open grass, scattered boulders, and a sky so wide it makes my chest ache. “—herehere?”
“Yes.”
I trust him enough now not to question it. Instead, I wait.
The air changes first.
It’s subtle—like the pressure shift before a storm, or the moment before a large bird takes flight nearby. The wind stirs without warning, bending the tall grass in slow, deliberate waves.
Then the shadow passes overhead.
I look up instinctively and freeze. The sky is suddenly… not empty.
Something massive moves against the blue, wings stretching so wide they blot out the sun in pieces. Feathers catch the light, dark and iridescent, flashing copper and midnight and storm-gray as the shape circles once, twice.
My heart slams into my ribs.
“Boone,” I say, very calmly, which is impressive considering my brain is currently screaming,That is not a bird!
“I know,” he replies, just as calm. “Breathe.”
I do. Shakily.
The creature descends in a controlled spiral, wind whipping around us as it lands on a rock formation at the meadow’s edge. The impact sends a tremor through the ground—not violent, but powerful, like a reminder.
Up close, the scale is dizzying.
He—he, my brain insists, latching onto personhood immediately—has the body of a man shaped by storms and the wings of a thunderhead given form. Feathers ripple as he folds them in, electricity faintly crackling along the edges before settling.
This is not subtle folklore.
This is presence.
Boone steps forward, unafraid. “Bob.”
The thunderbird inclines his head. “Boone.”
Their voices are… normal. Deep, yes, resonant, but conversational. Like two colleagues meeting on a jobsite.
My fear falters, confused by the sheer casualness of it.
Then I notice the second figure.
A human man, younger than me, stands near the thunderbird’s side, leaning casually against the rock like this is a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and hair a shock of black.
He smiles at me.
“Hi,” he says. “You must be Elias.”
I stare.
Words don’t come.
Bob glances at him, fond and impatient all at once. “Christopher.”
