Pointed Feathers
569 Words
Revina spotted her like a hawk notices movement beneath the grass, quick, sharp-eyed, and with just enough mischief to make it personal.
"Where’s Marvin?" she asked, arms folded with the elegant stiffness of someone who measured respect in syllables and eye rolls.
Seraphina, already smoldering from a day of surprises, spirit sightings, and the emotional equivalent of riding a griffin through a thunderstorm, snapped.
"Not here. Don't know and don't care. Go away."
Revina arched an eyebrow. “I would love to leave your sullen presence and wander off to the Order of Healers’ quarters, believe me. But as I'm stuck with a task less fun than moss scrubbing….”
She jutted Elena’s herb basket forward like an offering cursed by passive-aggressiveness. “Apparently, I’m still supposed to work with Elena so we can both ‘learn balance from each other’” she mimed in a voice that suggested she'd rather recite fungus taxonomy backwards. “I’m not a babysitter. As an apprentice to the Warrior Order. I should be drilling axe forms and studying tactical formations for the coming-of-age presentation. Instead I’m babysitting an overenthusiastic water witch who thinks burdock is for bruises and brownies.”
Seraphina turned away, jaw clenched.
“Oh, don’t give me the cold shoulder,” Revina continued breezily. “You don’t even need to train. You’re special. That’s what everyone whispers behind their tea mugs, isn’t it? Born marked. Silver-streaked. Flame all white and pretty. You’ll get your place handed to you with flowers and harp music while the rest of us sweat our way through demonstrations like unbaked pie crusts.”
She leaned in, voice oily with condescension. “Hope you’ve written your acceptance speech. It’s probably already embroidered on the bards’ tapestries, or is it the warrior order that's chosen for you? ‘Seraphina of the Sacred Flame, Chosen of the Five Threads, She Who Can’t Make Scrambled Eggs But May One Day Save the World.’” she giggled sarcastically.
“That is quite the cosmic irony —” before Revina could finish, Baobao launched from Seraphina’s shoulder like a feathered arrow, wings outstretched and eyes gleaming with theatrical rage.
“HOOTY-FOOTED!” he shrieked, dive-bombing Revina with a precision honed by years of chasing squirrels away from sacred scrolls. “HOW DARE YOU MOCK MY HATCHLING! GIRL!”
Revina yelped, stumbled backwards, and barely saved the herb basket from becoming aromatherapy confetti.
Baobao flared his wings, puffed his chest, and hissed in what could only be described as operatic avian fury. “BEGONE WITH YOUR SNIDE LITTLE EYEBROWS AND YOUR MINT-LEAF MALICE!”
Revina, all dignity in disarray, tossed her braid and stormed off. “Fine. Enjoy your emotional support bird.”
Baobao squawked proudly. “THAT’S RIGHT.”
As she vanished around the corner, Seraphina let out a breath and… laughed. The real kind. The kind that broke through the storm.
Baobao strutted back to her side with the poise of a knight returning from dragon-swatting.
“Don’t let pettiness haunt you, hatchling,” he said, tucking himself beneath her arm again. “The leaf that rustles loudest is rarely the strongest.”
She looked at him sideways. “Did you just make that up?”
“I did. And I shall recite it to the council of Pufferkins next full moon.”
Seraphina chuckled and let the tension drain from her shoulders. For now, that would be enough.
- Writer
