It was afternoon, and I was strolling, one foot in front of the other, along the paved road of folks either standing behind selling-stands or buying or, as I was, passing through. A handsome kitsune with blood-red apples that he swore were tasty enough to satisfy a wendigo with just one fruit; a female cyclops cleaning out fish behind hooked ones hanging from the roof of the stand, freshly caught from the lake nearby.

  Another one-eyed giant with a larger stand than his neighbors caught my eye. Of course, I’m not buying anything. He claimed to have true caladriuses and brownies and also sold the food they liked best, but with an extra fee. There are way more selling stands, but I don’t give a bit of dung to list them in my head.

  Up ahead on the road, I heard arguing. Something like “This silk lacks purity! I can tell. It feels so rough! Blah blah blah blah, fix it. Blah scam blah ah blah…” I rolled my eyes — that voice sounded so insensible.

  I left the road, entering the lush grassland of Electro Moor, escaping what Sunburn — my sister who was born from the same bit motherwood as I — called “the safety of society”. Whenever she would bring up my tendency to stray away from others, I would always have one retort ready to fire: “Our feathers will burn anyone who dares to touch us! There’s nothing that should scare us.” Despite the slight cowardice of my sister, I still cared about her. She liked to convince others with facts; I’d rather swindle. She was cautious; I was confident. Or, as she (and a few of her friends) liked to say, arrogant. She was undeniably the best at resisting the hypnosis some kitsunes were born with.

  Until some kitsune did it a month ago.

  Until this taupe-and-brown female kitsune with crimson eyes (from what I saw) tricked Sunburn into wading into a pond, coaxing her to her death. I have no idea and don’t want to know how she did it. All I cared about now was hunting down every female kitsune who looked the same as Sunburn’s killer. So far, one down. What a sad number.

  Some folks say I’m depressed, smarter ones say I’m seeking revenge.

  I’m the latter.

  I wandered out on the moor for a few minutes before realizing that being in the sky would be the perfect way to relax. I start running briefly, spreading my wings. They flap once, twice, and then I’m soaring above the now petty-looking moorland below me. My legs instinctively tuck forward into my stomach feathers.

  The thrill of being free and in the sky once again after being cooped up on the ground with land-dwellers rushed through my veins, and I felt pleased that I was born as a winged folk.

  The panoramic view up here contained everything from the selling-stands to Kryo Mountain. Kryo was probably the only place I’ve ever been to that has snow. I know that because I go there every few weeks to feast on a yeti. It’s pretty simple to kill one: drop onto one’s face, burn their eyes, set them on fire, and wait for them to die. It’s a wonder how no yeti I’ve killed had never been like, “Oh hey. Here’s some snow right here at my feet! Why don’t I just stop-drop-and-roll into it, so to put out this fire and stuff?”

  Even those giants must know that strength is useless if you’re stupid.

  My crown of feathers shaded my eyes from intense sunrays, and I heard the recognizable cries of the Thunderbird. The chatter of searching caladriuses, the sleekly black feathers of a raven Messenger, and the stench and screech of a harpy reached my senses.

  Moments later, high above the volcano I called home, the lava’s heat warmed my feathers in flight. It replaced the cool rush of the breeze that being up in normal air supplied for me. I guessed that being dipped in lukewarm water would feel like that to folks who wouldn’t die a humiliating death the minute they touched it as I glided away from the lava.

  I continued gliding on the skyline for what felt like seconds (it wasn’t). I touched down smoothly at the Asheq Woodland’s entrance. With a quick tuck of my flaming wings, I looked for water sources. None in sight. Yay.

  As I caught sight of the griffins’ palace, I also noticed grand eagle gargoyles adorning the cream marble. Neatly placed under the half-moon windows on each story were statues of griffins lying down lazily. The thick, robust wooden door featured artwork slapped directly on it, depicting a lion roaring menacingly, an eagle perched on a tree branch, and a regal-looking griffin illustrated with its beak held high. The pattern repeated vertically along the gate.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  As I was glaring at the show-off mansion in disgust, a rough, annoyed voice interrupted me, asking, “What is your business with the royals?” I turned to find two griffins guarding the door — one male with pale ocher lion fur, pale gold eyes, and sepia brown wings, and the other female with tan fur, sharp yellow eyes, and auburn brown wings. Snorting at the sight of them, I answered, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just… admiring… your royal castle full of… royal brats.”

  The male griffin flared up instantly (Anger Issues, I observed) and started marching towards me. The sensible female griffin yelled after him, “Hey! We’re not supposed to leave our posts until the afternoon! It’s barely noon!”

  “Yeah, and I dare you to try touching me,” I drawled. I planted my talons into the paved dirt and lifted my bill to show that I wasn’t leaving — not until Anger Issues backed down.

  “You have no idea who you’re talking to, featherbrain,” he snarled, narrowing his eyes.

  Coolly, I reply, “Really? I think I know who you are. Arrogant lion-eagle crossbreed mistake? I think you’re a griffin. I even fashioned a suitable name for you: Anger Issues.”

  He growled, “Oh, a rude phoenix? How unholy. What an outcast.” The atmosphere grew thick with that barb, as if the very air was charged with unspoken anticipation, wrapping around us like a heavy fog.

  All I said back was, “Don’t act like you’re the same as your fellow griffins.” That last word tasted foul in my beak. “Griffins are supposed to be thinkers. You seem to be an idiot.”

  Ah, I thought as he took a battle stance, one I’ve seen similar quadrupeds use commonly. In fights already? Sunburn had always told me to stay away from trouble, to be agreeable. But no — what fun is there in peace with strangers?

  “Why don’t you hide away in your little volcano, fool?“ Anger Issues advised me, trying to chill. He held himself calmly (for a griffin), but I saw his tail sweeping from side to side, a sign that he was angry. I puff out my cheeks like a hatchling, partly pleased that I have maddened somebody. Making others irate was how I vented. Mwahahahaha.

  Surprisingly, Anger Issues showed a mix of cunning and foolishness when he lunged at me as I started to respond, much like a wampus cat pouncing on its prey. I flinched but managed to keep my ground, stepping back and closing one eye as a precaution. When he missed and smacked the pavement instead, I couldn’t help but taunt him: “Maybe you should aim for something bigger than a robin next time.”

  All I got in return was a low growl from the griffin. “As if YOU, of all creatures, would know anything about hunting.”

  After he got back on his feet and shook off the dirt from his fur, he ignored me completely, trotting back to his post while still growling under his breath. I could see he was trying to recapture that emotionless expression he typically wore while guarding the Griffin Palace. It was, if you want my honest opinion, very, very amusing to watch. He was struggling.

  Oh, the pain in the rump of having anger issues while having dealt with an irritating phoenix as a supposed-to-be-nonchalant-guard.

  Meanwhile, the other griffin remained silent throughout the encounter, but I paid her no mind. After all, why should I care about what others think, anyway?

  Gliding through the sky once again, my primary feathers slice through the sparse clouds that had gathered below the thick, gray overcast. What can I say? Those of us with wings have to use them. Why have them if we don’t?

  I spot a sturdy cherry blossom tree — probably one of the few in Dendro Forest — and decide to land there. Ah, it’s been a long time since I last perched on a branch, as there are hardly any fire-resistant trees left these days, and I’m not sure why.

  I can only blame society, though.

  I hear shuffling down below me. Leaning down to look, I notice a cave with a kitsune at its mouth, whom I assumed to be female. Her pelt was split almost cleanly into two different colors: brown and orange. She seemed to be looking for something, pawing over suspiciously long grass blades and turning over medium-sized rocks.

  “Ugh! Where — are — those — harpy-dunged — moonstones?!” A frustrated kitsune was a pretty rare sight, as most kitsunes are all so patient and holy and all that junk. Eyeing her curiously, I note there’s one big fat moonstone tucked into the crook of a yew tree’s branch. My gold eyes flip up to the tree in interest. Omen of doom after angering griffin guards — coincidence? I think not.

  But I don’t have any patience nor any fear of omens. I was pondering about how to get that moonstone withOUT the orange-brown kitsune noticing and me having to kill such a precious, impatient kitsune.

  I turned back to the kitsune, who was just sitting there, snarling with her different-colored ears down. A raven flitted near her, cawing, “Star! The Lords call for you to present yourself at your hearing for murdering your mother at noon.”

  “And why should I stupidly care!?” Star, the kitsune, snapped at the Messenger. She then suddenly leaped swiftly up, high enough to snatch the raven out of the air, and snatch she did. My back was starting to feel sore from bending over, so I stretched by straightening it and leaning a bit back on the branch.

  My leaning back made a sharp rustling sound with the leaves. Star snapped her orange-and-brown head around to face me — or rather, the tree I was perched on, since she looked confused. I froze, my crest still burning. I’d never thought about how out of place a phoenix looked perching on a cherry blossom. Even if the tree had a lot of leaves and had plenty of flowers.

  Oh well. What’s done is done; the kitsune would’ve seen me sooner or later. All I need to now is make a decent impression.