First Aerial Duel

The challenge, when it came, was delivered with the kind of booming enthusiasm that could startle pigeons from a mile away. The Rival, whose name Williyar was still struggling to recall (was it Bartholomew? Or perhaps Bartholomew’s louder cousin?), stood before him, arms akimbo, a grin splitting his face like a mischievous crescent moon. “So, Wing-Wobbler,” he bellowed, the nickname landing with all the grace of a dropped anvil, “I hear you’ve been… flapping about. Fancy a proper race, eh? Just you and me, up where the real birds fly!”

Williyar, who had been meticulously trying to fold his recalcitrant wings into a more subdued, less conspicuous shape behind his back, flinched. His wings, still feeling like alien appendages attached to his shoulder blades, twitched in response. He’d spent the better part of the week trying to achieve a semblance of normalcy, which mostly involved a lot of awkward shuffling and strategically placed scarves. The thought of intentionally flying, especially in front of this boisterous personality, sent a familiar tremor of anxiety through him.

“A… a race?” Williyar stammered, his voice barely a whisper above the rustling of his wings. He tried to tuck them closer, but they seemed to have a mind of their own, puffing out like indignant feathers.