DARKSTALKER

The wind carried his parents' voices long before he landed. Darkstalker's wings beat the air with steady force as the shouting grew sharper, rising and falling like the crashing waves against the cliffs below their home. The jagged outcropping, carved into terraces by generations of NightWings, offered little privacy—sound bounced endlessly across the rocky ravines, turning arguments into public theater. And his parents always gave a performance.

He swept onto the landing outside their house, talons clicking against the stone, and immediately caught the prying stares of their neighbors. Heads poked out of windows like curious birds, some brazenly gawking while others pretended to be engrossed in imaginary tasks. At least a few had the decency to retreat inside as he approached, though he noted one particularly nosy dragon—a speckled male with an irritating smirk—lingering a moment too long. Across the ravine, a female fussed with the vines draped across her doorway, her gaze flickering toward him before darting away, as though her hands were suddenly very busy.

Foolish, he thought, letting his gaze bore into her. Everyone in the Night Kingdom knew his powers, even if they underestimated him because of his age. Did she think three years weren't enough to sharpen his abilities? Did she assume he couldn't hear the whispers buzzing behind her careful façade? He chuckled to himself—a dry, humorless sound—but the amusement faded as he turned toward the house.

The storm inside was as fierce as the one howling over the cliffs.

"I'm not going to help her fight my own tribe, Foeslayer! I would never do that!" Arctic's deep, biting voice sliced through the air.

"They're not your tribe anymore—we are!" Foeslayer snapped back, her words cutting just as sharply. "And you could contribute in some other way! You don't have to join the army, but you can't keep refusing the queen! She's offering you a position in the castle. You love old castles, don't you? Mingling with royalty? You'd fit right in!"

"Fit right in?" Arctic snarled. "She's not honoring me, Foeslayer. She wants my power—the gift I should have given to the IceWings, not to your tribe. She wants it for her own gain."

"This is your tribe now, too," Foeslayer retorted, her voice rising, trembling with fury. "We're offering you something to do so you'll stop lurking around, moping and complaining, and getting on my nerves!"

Darkstalker stepped through the doorway, the smell of stale air and soot hitting him like a wall. He dropped the three hawks he'd caught near the threshold, their limp forms sliding across the floor. His eyes flicked to the back of the house, where the argument raged, and his jaw tightened. Maybe his mother had taken his advice to keep their disputes out of the front room, but clearly, she hadn't grasped the concept of quiet.

He turned his attention to Whiteout, huddled by the fireplace, her delicate wings drawn tightly over her head as if she could block out the noise. The sight made his chest ache. His sister, so serene in public, so alien to everyone but him, looked small and brittle in moments like this—moments where their parents forgot they weren't the only ones who lived here.

Don't they know she's here? Don't they care? His father doted on Whiteout in the eyes of the tribe, parading her around like a prized gem, yet treated her like a piece of background furniture when the doors were closed. The hypocrisy burned like embers under his scales.

"Hey," Darkstalker murmured, crouching beside her and draping a wing protectively over her fragile frame. His voice softened, a rare warmth creeping into his tone. "How long have they been at it?"

"I don't know," Whiteout whispered, her words barely audible over the shouting.

"Well, if you're SO MISERABLE HERE," Foeslayer's voice roared from the back room, "why don't you go BACK TO THE STUPID ICE KINGDOM ALREADY?"

Darkstalker sighed heavily, pulling Whiteout closer. His wing wrapped more securely around her trembling body as he whispered, "It's all right, sister. We'll outlive them; I know we will."

Whiteout shifted slightly beneath his wing, her pale blue eyes meeting his directly. They were clear and unblinking, like the surface of a frozen lake. "Did you see her today?" she asked, her voice lilting, curious as ever.

Darkstalker hesitated. He knew who she meant, but the answer stuck in his throat. His gaze drifted toward the fire, where the flames flickered and danced, as tangled as his thoughts. "I... no, I haven't had any visions about her recently," he said at last, though the words felt hollow. He closed his eyes, sighing. "I don't know, Whiteout. I'm conflicted. Clearsight is supposed to be my soulmate, but I still see Lumina in my visions. Why can't I love a NightWing? Why can't...?"

He trailed off, his voice catching on the unspoken frustration. Finally, he growled, "I'm just like Dad. He fell for a SkyWing but chose a NightWing instead. And look at him now—miserable, angry, broken. I'm pathetic."

Whiteout gently took his talon in hers, her touch light but firm. "You're not pathetic, brother," she said quietly, her words carrying more weight than their softness suggested. "Loving someone from a different tribe isn't really dangerous. Not if it's real."

Her words hung in the air, brushing against his mind like a fleeting wind. But Darkstalker's thoughts churned, restless and unresolved, as the flames in the fireplace crackled and hissed.

Darkstalker sighed, the weight of his frustrations and doubts melting away, if only for a moment, as he pulled his little sister into a firm embrace. Her cool, smooth scales pressed against his own, anchoring him in a way that no vision or future ever could. Her presence was a constant, a clarity amidst the storm of his mind.

He closed his eyes and let his snout rest against the space between her delicate, curving horns. Slowly, he traced the line of spikes down the back of her neck with the tip of his snout, the gesture tender and familiar, like tracing a map he already knew by heart. "I love you, Whiteout," he murmured, his voice low but steady, filled with a rare softness. "I hope you know that."

Whiteout tilted her head slightly, her clear blue eyes brightening as she smiled. Her arms tightened around him, her wings folding over his as if shielding him from the world beyond their tiny circle of warmth. "I love you too, big brother," she said, her voice as light and sure as a bird in flight.

For a moment, the firelight danced on their scales, painting their embrace in shades of gold and shadow. The voices of their parents rumbled faintly in the background, but here, in this shared moment, they didn't matter. All that mattered was the bond between them—unchanging, unbreakable, no matter what futures Darkstalker's gift might show.