A storm was coming. I could scent it, feel it in the swirling wind that rippled the snow in waves like an ocean. It was gathering, building strength, like a tsunami. Another surging wind escaped out of the claws of the beast itself, snarling and roaring across the white foothills. A layer of ice pellets hissed across the cream field, tiny bullets that scraped at my jet legs. My wings arced outwards, half-open, half-closed, as I wrestled with my proud mind. Only a fool, after all, would take to the bruised clouds above, the dark smears that flickered with tongues of white. Fool I was, I leaped from the hill, raven wings expanding, unfurling ebony sails. For a few minutes I was ascending swiftly, my muscles tightening and pulling, my wings working hard to pull up my iron-gray body. A gust of wind snapped at me, playing with my black and white locks, lifting my tail, entwining crude fingers in my wings. I banked to the wind, and for a brief moment I was horizontal, side-ways. My onyx wings, little cutouts of the night, gave a sturdy down-stroke and I balanced out, playfully testing out the dusk's storm. I flew higher, until I was at the belly of the storm. Surprisingly, all was silent. The boom of thunder roared in my ears as I had entered, but once I stayed inside this little cocoon, everything was muffled, murkish, as if I was underwater. Black wings arched to scoop up the air, keeping me aloft, gliding easily at the eye of the storm. I was a seasoned flier, a seasoned warrior, and a soon-to-be leader. At least, that's what I told myself. I wouldn't lie- I was ambitious, hungry, and not exactly humble. Could a leader who was struck by demons rule? I didn't know. But if they weren't, well, I would be the first.
I am Svetlana. I will be the queen.
A low rumble broke my musings. Snow flickered around me, big wet flakes bordering on rain. But the crashing lightning did not dare to touch me. I was the lightning child. But still, my wings, unused to such hard work, were beginning to weaken. Damn. I better start flying more. I snapped my wings shut, and I shot out of the thunderstorm faster than any hawk, wind snapping my mane, ice and snow blinding me. My wings shot out, muscles straining to pull me out of the dive, and my obsidian hooves scraped ice. I gained in altitude- a hundred feet, two hundred, before circling downwards, landing with a soft sigh. Down here, the scent of lightning did not permeate the air, only the white scent of falling snow.
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