There's a hole in my heart that's bleeding
When the names were drawn and the riders placed, a broad and bright smile spread across Noah’s features. Noah wondered which kind of man would stay mounted when the world turned violent and unpredictable, and whether Zavien even knew yet which kind he was. Then he was griffin, bull, competition.
The chutes rattled like they might tear apart. Wood groaned andiron clanged. Inside, Noah’s griffin form coiled as tight as a drawn bow — hindquarters bunching, talons and claws carving splinters from the floor, wings half-spread and shuddering with caged force.
The gate cracked open.
He detonated into daylight.
No gradual surge — just violence. A vertical explosion of fur and feathers and fury. His forehand hit the air first, wings beating once with a thunderclap that kicked up dust in a wild plume. His hind legs launched high, back rounding hard before Noah twisted.
He didn’t buck like a bull. He spiraled.
The sentinels left shoulder dropped, his right wing snapped open, and his entire mass corkscrewed mid-bound. He barely touched earth again before he rebounded, and launched again — higher — hindquarters kicking skyward in a brutal flick meant to rip balance away.
He landed crooked on purpose and rebounded instantly, a chain of impacts with no rhythm to learn, no pattern to predict.
Another jump. Another savage twist.
But its given me strength I needed to carry on
