Caprion's Wings by T. L. Shreffler

twisting his face. Now I’m perfectly useless. His
sternum would heal eventually, but not soon enough.
    After a moment, the chain tugged at
his wrist and Moss sat upright against the wall. Her small, thin
body pressed against his arm tightly with no hesitation, no thought
of personal space. She felt warm—warmer than expected in such a
cold room. It made him think of her race’s heritage, formed of Fire
and Darkness. Did all of the Sixth Race emit so much heat? He
remembered the demon in the crypts: molten red flesh glowing
through cracked and blackened skin, like a creature made of lava
and scorched earth.
    He wondered, suddenly, what her own
demon looked like, if she could summon it at will or if she was
still too young to control it. The thought almost made him nervous.
Could she turn into her demon-self right here, in the darkness of
this cell, while his chains rendered him defenseless?
    No, he thought, glancing at her sunstone collar. As much as the
stone seared her skin, it also kept her demon in check. And he felt
a little guilty, doubting her intentions. Even without the collar,
he didn’t think she would attack him. She had helped him against
the demon in the crypt, dragging him to safety when it broke loose.
She had followed his orders in front of Sumas, remaining calm,
resting her hand on his shoulder despite her vulnerable position.
She trusted him—perhaps because she had no other choice. And he
would have to do the same. In this moment, she might be his last
ally on the island.
    “Why do you want to be like them?” she
asked softly.
    Caprion glanced down at her, catching
the reflection of her cat-green eyes. “I don’t,” he said, surprised
by his own realization. For the last six years, he had planned to
become just like the other Harpies. He had dreamed of becoming a
soldier, of conquering Sumas and proving himself the better man.
For so long he had craved it, built his plans and his ambitions
around it.
    But after yesterday’s failed Singing,
his hope had drained out of him. Years of plans had fallen to
nothing more than intangible dreams, drifting farther and farther
out of reach. He felt that loss keenly within himself; he no longer
knew who he was, where he fit. And now, seeing how his own kind
treated the Sixth Race—especially young Moss, a child destined to
suffer and perish—he wondered why he had yearned for such things.
Why had the life of a soldier seemed so noble?
    He understood why they
needed to practice against the Sixth Race, and yet why use
children? Why target those who couldn’t defend themselves? Why not
fight true demons, like the creature he had released from the
crypts? Caprion’s face drew into a bitter frown. His race abused
their power. The Harpies made nothing but demands from him: find your wings, become stronger, sing better,
live up to your family’s reputation, be like Sumas. Moss took him as he was. She didn’t ask anything
from him at all. In fact, she wanted quite the opposite—for him to
remain the same.
    “Give up your wings,” she said softly,
a pleading edge to her voice, as though reading his thoughts. “You
don’t need them. They’ll ruin you. I like the way you are now.
You’re brave and honest and….” Her voice faded at her last words,
as though revealing too much of herself. She dropped her gaze and
pulled away, shifting her position.
    Without thinking, Caprion
gently tugged the chain at his wrist, keeping her close. She
glanced up at him, her eyes flickering suspiciously, but he didn’t
let her go. In that moment, he felt incredibly protective. He
wanted to shelter her, to stand as a shield between her and the
corruption of his race. I can’t do that
without wings.
    “I must be able to fly,” he said, more
to himself than to her. “I don’t agree with Sumas and his soldiers.
I never thought my kind was capable of such evil….” He paused. “I
can’t change anything if I'm wingless. I can’t protect you or
fulfill my promise if I'm