The marigold petals clung determinedly to Williyar’s sleeves as he stood, heart thumping in his chest. The inventor patted him on the back—the only gesture more awkward than the wings themselves—then bounded away, muttering something about "adjusting the oscillation ratios."
As Williyar tried to compose himself, the garden gate creaked open. In strolled the twin forms of Emra and Pox, two neighbors who had the uncanny ability to appear wherever embarrassment struck. Emra, ever the ringleader, squinted at him over her sunglasses. Pox, all elbows and curiosity, gasped. "Williyar, are those… wings?" His voice cracked on the last word.
Williyar’s cheeks flared a deeper red. He attempted to fold his wings behind himself, only succeeding in knocking over a small ornamental gnome. The gnome’s hat pinged across the flagstones.
Emra stepped closer, eyes bright with mischief. "I always knew you were hiding something, but I never guessed it was feathers. Can you fly? Go on—show us!"
Their voices wove through the garden, and suddenly, Williyar felt the gentle press of expectation heavier than the wings themselves. He stammered, "It’s not really— I mean, it wasn’t— They’re experimental. I’m not sure—"
Pox hopped from foot to foot. "I bet you can! I bet you could even beat Garm in the funfair flying contest this weekend! He’s been bragging for days."
At the mention of Garm—a local celebrity and self-proclaimed, undefeated champion of every contest, real or imagined—Williyar’s stomach dropped. The thought of facing Garm filled him with dread… and, for a fleeting instant, a perverse urge to wipe the smirk from Garm’s face.
From the shadows of the hedgerow, the inventor re-emerged—now with a clipboard and what appeared to be a wrench fashioned from a soup ladle. "Well? Are you ready to try again? Or shall I make a few more modifications? The contest is coming, after all. Time is of the essence!"
All eyes fell on Williyar. Emra smirked, Pox grinned, the inventor’s eyes gleamed, and even the garden gnome, hatless but resolute, seemed to be watching. Williyar’s hands shook ever so slightly as he glanced from the wings to the expectant faces around him. He could play it safe, fumble through another test flight, or…
A sudden, high-pitched cackle sounded from the lane. Garm himself strutted into view, sunglasses perched at a jaunty angle, chewing on a licorice stick. He paused, spotted Williyar and his wings, and let loose a theatrical laugh. "Heard you got yourself some fancy feathers, Williyar! Hope you’re ready to eat my dust this weekend."
Heat flared in Williyar’s chest—equal parts humiliation, outrage, and, to his own surprise, stubborn resolve. This was not how he envisioned his day, or his life, but there it was: everyone was watching, and Garm was already sizing him up for defeat. For a moment, all was still—the contest, the inventor, the impossible wings, and the very real, very loud challenge hanging in the air.
Williyar’s next move would set the course for everything to follow.