It wasn't a body, or arms, or even a head.
It was a wing.
A gigantic, world-splitting wing of dark, bluish flesh, ripping itself from the earth like it had been waiting for this exact moment to crawl free. It spread, slow and deliberate, blotting out half the damn sky.
The crows—those freaky, loyal background birds—lost all nerve at once. They scattered, screeching, abandoning their ominous circle to get as far away as possible. Even the swamp seemed to recoil.
It resembled a bird's wing, but it wasn't one. It had the shape, yes—but none of the detail, none of the feathers. Just this impossible, alien outline that bent the eye if you stared too long. It was a sight older than the world itself. Something people weren't built to look at.
Everyone stood there, slack-jawed. Even Majestria, who could bitch about literally anything—even she shut her mouth, her anger stunned right out of her by sheer awe.
It was unforgettable. Wrong. Beautiful. Terrifying.
