CHAPTER 81: WINGS IN THE DAWN

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Emberling’s head tilted. The breeze seemed to pause. Firelight flickered over the chick’s downy neck, catching sparks of deep crimson and dawn-gold.

"A-u-r-o-r-a," Fenna repeated slowly, accent lingering on each syllable. "First light after the darkest night. A promise that shadows never last."

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Emberling aka Aurora spread her wings in a tiny flutter, it was a bit smaller than Star’s but wide enough to wrap Fenna’s wrist. She let out an excited trill, brighter than Zephyr had ever heard from her. Star rumbled approvingly, the tone rolling like shifting boulders, and gently nudged the chick with his snout.

Aurora chirped again and hopped in a small circle, clearly delighted by whatever spark the new name ignited deep within her phoenix blood. Fenna laughed—a rare, open sound that drew Zephyr’s smile in return.

"Seems she approves," Zephyr said. "It’s a great name."

"She’d better." Fenna returned to the fire, her posture lighter. "Of course it’s a great name, I am the best at naming you know that." She thinks, "I will name our children with good names. I won’t let you name them." He smiled in her imagination and blush thinking about the process of making children.

They spent another hour in quiet productivity. Fenna finished the few more arrows while humming a soft melody that made Aurora sway sleepily; Zephyr braided reed cord into a fresh sling pack for tomorrow’s supplies. When the fire dwindled to embers, they banked it beneath a folding lid of ironbark, scattered a fine layer of ash to hide the glow, then set their watches for tonight. Star first, Fenna second, Zephyr last.

A few hours later...

Zephyr’s watch ended just as dawn’s first brush stroked the eastern treetops with pale gold. He kicked soil over the stump he’d used as a high perch and stretched arms stiff from stillness. All night, there was no sign of the leopard, only distant branch-creaks and the hush of nocturnal insects.

He stepped into the tent area, found Fenna already up, rolling their tent cloth tight. Star crouched near the temporary nest, wings half-spanned, tail flicking side to side with anticipation. Perched on his back looking unexpectedly regal. Aurora sat on the nest.

Zephyr paused.

The chick’s feathers had shed some of yesterday’s dull gray, revealing sleeker crimson-gold plumes along her wing edges and crown. Maybe naming truly had sparked an advance in her molting cycle.

Fenna noticed him and motioned with her chin. "They’re waiting for your signal."

Zephyr raised a brow. "You think she’s ready?"

"Star thinks so." Fenna’s black hair striped with soot reminded him of ash-kissed birch bark. "And she stopped trembling every time he flaps. That counts for something."

Star huffed, impatient.

Aurora fixed Zephyr with wide, dawn-colored eyes, not quite amber, not quite orange. It was burning with determination.

Zephyr chuckled. "All right. Let’s see what you can do."

He threw his arm outward. Star surged forward, wings snapping open in one fluid motion, scattering needles and dust. Aurora clung tight, talons hooking scaled ridges as Star bounded into a short run, leaped, and beat his wings with powerful, even strokes. The wind he created washed over Zephyr and Fenna in warm gusts, smelling faintly of charcoal and sunrise.

They rose above the treetops in seconds. Star’s ink-dark silhouette contrasted against the paleening sky. Aurora wobbled, almost slipped, then righted her balance. A tiny flare of orange flickered at her wingtips—instinctive fireburst that stabilized her posture. Zephyr grinned as the pair banked left, slicing across a shaft of sunlight, then dove, wings tucked, only to ascend again in a spiral of smoke and dew.

Fenna let out a low whistle. "Already better than yesterday. Since her mother’s rebirth, she never flew. But today..."

Zephyr’s pride brimmed, but he tamped it down. "Enjoy the show; we’ve work."

They set to dismantling the camp. Every item vanished into packs—pot, bedrolls, reed spool, dried char-fruit, blade kit, the foil-lined pouch of wolf cores. They stamped out lingering heat under the ironbark lid, brushed away footprints with leaf brooms, and scattered pine ashes to mask their scent.

Zephyr roved the clearing twice more, wiping scorch marks from stones and cutting away frayed vines that bore telltale signs of their presence. He marked a discreet "safe" place near the old piton tree in case they ever had to retreat here, "Survival is never leaving breadcrumbs behind, this is basic of the wild." had said.

Meanwhile Fenna prepared the first carry load: the heaviest pack and the bundled arrow shafts. She slung it over her shoulder, waited at the clearing’s edge.

"Lead the way when you’re ready," she called.

Zephyr cupped hands around his mouth. "Star! Aurora! Can you two Scout east ridge? Signal us if you find any danger."

High above, Star’s baritone roar answered. Aurora’s higher trill followed, like a child echoing an elder’s warcry.

Zephyr nodded. "There’s our escort."

The relocation march began along a shadowed gully that paralleled a half-dry creek. The path rose steadily, weaving through basalt outcrops that formed natural walls. Too narrow for the leopard to sprint, but wide enough for them. The terrain was tough, yet it offered vantage: high ridges, choke points, overhangs ideal for traps.

Zephyr led at a brisk pace, scouting ahead for snare sites. Every hundred steps he paused, sliced an angled notch into a tree at knee-height, then covered it with a fist-sized slab of bark. Later, he’d set trip wires there—thin gut fiber attached to clusters of obsidian shards disguised under moss. If something as heavy as a fire leopard burst through, it would slice its own paws to ribbons.

Fenna’s turn came after two kilometers. They switched packs without stopping; she took point while Zephyr carried the load of arrows and some dry meat. Sun climbed higher, dapples of gold and jade sliding over the path. Overhead, Star and Aurora soared in playful loops. Occasionally Star would stall midair, then jerk upward to encourage Aurora to mimic the move. The chick squeaked with joy and sometimes sadness each time she tried, tottered, and recovered.