a silent film he'd watched a thousand times before
As Frey’s hands cupped his cheeks, Marcus froze. Even if the herald had received him quite positively up to this point, he wasn’t stupid enough not to have a reverent fear bubbling beneath his skin in Frey’s presence. The herald’s touch sank into him like snowfall sinking into soil, silent and absolute. His breath cracked, and caught in his throat. Light danced behind his eyes, strange and warm and endless. He felt the edges of himself blur like skin wasn’t enough to hold all that was waking inside him. For a heartbeat, he thought he might break. Tears pricked his lashes—not from pain, but awe. He didn’t pull away. He let it happen.
The sky was vast and bright and it called to him. When Frey released him, he went. He flew. Wind curled beneath his wings, stronger than he’d imagined, sharper than breath. Marcus rose with it, climbed into the wild cold and let out a cry—high and piercing, all instinct and joy and awe. The world fell away below him: the gleam of the Sea of Glass, the quiet shrine, the shape of Frey looking up, his father waiting with held breath. He didn’t think. He felt. He flew.
He didn’t want to land.
But eventually, when the ache of wonder grew too big for even his wings to hold, Marcus circled lower. His talons touched down on the ice, and the shift came swiftly with bones crackling inward, feathers curling to skin, until he stood upright once more.
And different.
Taller. Broader. His clothes strained, tight now now on limbs that weren’t a child’s anymore. His voice, when it came, was deeper. Not unrecognizable, but older. Wiser…yet to be determined. He stared down at his hands. The angles were longer now, the magic in him humming like a fresh heartbeat.
He looked up at Frey, breath catching. “You really changed me.” Not just a new shape. Not just wings. Not just age. Something deeper, broader, wilder.
The sky was vast and bright and it called to him. When Frey released him, he went. He flew. Wind curled beneath his wings, stronger than he’d imagined, sharper than breath. Marcus rose with it, climbed into the wild cold and let out a cry—high and piercing, all instinct and joy and awe. The world fell away below him: the gleam of the Sea of Glass, the quiet shrine, the shape of Frey looking up, his father waiting with held breath. He didn’t think. He felt. He flew.
He didn’t want to land.
But eventually, when the ache of wonder grew too big for even his wings to hold, Marcus circled lower. His talons touched down on the ice, and the shift came swiftly with bones crackling inward, feathers curling to skin, until he stood upright once more.
And different.
Taller. Broader. His clothes strained, tight now now on limbs that weren’t a child’s anymore. His voice, when it came, was deeper. Not unrecognizable, but older. Wiser…yet to be determined. He stared down at his hands. The angles were longer now, the magic in him humming like a fresh heartbeat.
He looked up at Frey, breath catching. “You really changed me.” Not just a new shape. Not just wings. Not just age. Something deeper, broader, wilder.
marcus olson
