Petal Brightwing's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The needle led Petal to a hollow in the rocks by midday. She landed and peered down. Far below, a great nest filled the pit. The silver feather lay across it, shining. A huge bird-beast dozed beside the feather, its claws longer than Petal's whole body. One flick of its wing would crush her. She was the size of its eyelash. She needed an edge, or she would never get close. "You'll die before you reach it," said a voice behind her. Petal spun. A fairy stood on the rock, wings dark as soot, eyes cold and blue. He wore black and watched her the way a thief watches a locked door. She stepped back and gripped the pouch at her side. "Who are you?" "Cyrus Thornwick." He nodded at the beast. "I've tried for that feather twice. It swatted me into the wall both times." He did not sound friendly. But he did not lie, either. "Then why help me?" "Because small is what beats it." He pulled a set of vials from his coat. The liquid inside swirled, pink and green and blue, bright with trapped light. "Shrinking draughts. Drink one and you shrink to a speck. Too small to swat. Small enough to walk right under its claw." Petal frowned. "And armor? It would still feel me move." "That's the second half." Cyrus reached into a cloth sack stitched with glowing marks. He drew out armor no bigger than a thimble, silver and dark, covered in tiny runes. "The sack gives what the moment needs. It gave me this when I thought of you." He held it out. "The runes hide your heat. The beast won't sense you at all." She took the armor. It fit her like a second skin, cool and light. She looked at the shady fairy and knew she could not trust his face. But the plan made sense. A beast that swats a fist cannot swat a grain of sand. "If this is a trick," she said, "I have a blade." She touched the needle-sword at her hip, its edge shining in every color. Cyrus almost smiled. "Keep it ready. You'll want it for the stem that holds the feather down." Petal uncorked the pink vial and drank. The world swelled around her. The rock became a mountain. Her armor shrank with her and held tight. She was a speck now, armored and hidden, standing in the beast's shadow without a stir of its feathers. She crept forward. The claw rose and fell as the beast breathed. She slipped beneath it. No swat came. No eye opened. For the first time, the feather was within reach. Then a shadow crossed above her. Cyrus had shrunk too, and he moved fast toward the nest, ahead of her, straight for the silver feather. He had not come to help her carry it. He had come to take it first.