THE dream always began with feathers.
White ones—drifting gently through a golden sky. They spiraled downward in slow, lazy circles until they turned black halfway through the fall, catching fire as they hit the ground.
Orion jerked upright in bed, breath tight in his chest. The sunrise spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and warm as honey. Hallowmere hardly ever saw clouds—at least not anymore. The sun had its constant throne in the sky, and every day its crowned radiance blessed its favored city.
He pressed a palm over his sternum, waiting for his heart to quiet. Today was meant to be perfect. Today was meant to be the day everything he’d trained for finally manifested in front of all of Hallowmere—Beatification. Recognition. Acceptance.
Wings.
He exhaled once more, deep and steady, and pushed up from bed.
