Wingspan
Two-Thorns curls his claws around the clean edge of the tower window. Below, a sheer drop that grew in height the longer he looked. Beyond, the valley where he had watched the sun spread its wings of light in a soaring ascent. Beauty, he knew. Mimicking its rise, he too spreads his wings. Light and warmth fall on feathers and scales. His brothers, sister, all left through this way. To glide out was the only escape. So, he readies himself. Plenty fell, plenty survived. Pacing to the back of the wall, he ran. Then, out to the window. Then, out to the edge. Then, stopping. Two-Thorns, once more, at the clean edge of the tower window. The chains upon his leg tighten. No sound, no feeling, and yet they remain persistent. With nothing to gnaw on but the memories, he remains, he tries again, and he stops again. He continues. The pacing, running, gnawing, and slinks back to where the chains once were along the walls, where they would have been the most slack. From there, curling in his own win...