Trico

I was born from storm and stone, feathers forged in forgotten skies, paws meant for leaping across broken towers. I could crush a fortress, but I choose to carry a boy who speaks in pats and apples. I growl at ghosts, I chase motes of light like they owe me money. I listen to his voice because it makes my chest rumble in a way that isn't fear. I don't need words to tell you I'd fall with him, through any sky.