Page 31 of The Phoenix Inheritance

“Today the two Princes will challenge each other in an agility contest,” our father goes on, his words magically amplified by the horn of a minotaur. “This is a race that demands the highest precision and mastery of powers, as befits only a King!”

I tune out the crowd’s excitement to study the towering hoops in the air. Some are perched so high they seem to graze the skies, while others hover a couple feet above ground. They’re barely large enough to fit the breadth of my shoulders and are circled by a ring of fire, so a mere inch of miscalculation would scald our wings. Not a deadly injury by any means, but enough to waste a few precious seconds in a race.

“... those are the rules,” my father is saying when I finally return my attention to his speech. “Let the tournament begin!”

My heart slams into my ribcage as I walk to the starting line. I stand next to Warwick, who shoots me a smile as casual as if we were about to spar together for fun.

The horn blasts once, the first of three before we shoot to the sky. I curve my wings so they’re as airfoil as possible. Instinct guides me rather than knowledge, because I’ve only had a chance to practice flying a couple of times before today’s match.

A second blow of the horn. I flex my knees so I can spring upwards with as much power as I can muster.

“Good luck, Dane.”

I frown at my brother’s whispered encouragement. His blue eyes are as unperturbed as the cloudless sky above us.

And a third call. Unsettled by how affable Warwick is despite the circumstances, I react a fraction of a second too late.

“Damn it!” I groan as I hurl upwards.

My ascent is more clumsy than anticipated. Thrown off guard and unaccustomed to my new wings, I seesaw awkwardly through the air. The balance between the powerful structure on my back and the weight of my body is a tenuous one, and I find myself alternatively sailing too high or dropping to the ground.

Warwick, in the meantime, shoots through his first hoop, to the great pleasure of our audience. For all his brotherly behavior on the terrain, above ground he’s an eager competitor. My brother flies with all the grace of someone who spent years training, soaring up and down with an accuracy I can’t possibly match.

I can’t ever win if I’ve already lost in my head,I admonish myself bitterly.

I think of Isobel, of how she always finds a solution no matter the obstacles. The memory of her lovely, quirky face soothes my nerves and my instincts take over. Finally I soar through the air in a straight line, and make it through the hoop Warwick left seconds ago.

The next one lies way below. I eye my brother’s sleek form and bolster myself to catch up. Given that I’m heavier, I dive to the ground faster. I actually overtake Warwick and speed through the second hoop before he does, thanks to those few more pounds of muscle.

The catch is that I pay for my extra weight in width, as my shoulders are considerably more broad. I lose my slight lead when fire chars my feathers and scorches my skin, making me flinch in pain.

Warwick is already a hundred feet above. I propel myself up laboriously, the small blaze on my wings sapping some of my momentum. I manage to pass him again in another plunge towards the ground, but my brother is never far behind. He always ends up shooting ahead.

Ultimately Warwick’s narrower build, the velocity of his ascents and his superior coordination pay off. He bolts through the hoops with the deftness of a fiery arrow, while I burn my wings time and time again.

My heart drops when the horn sounds and the crowd erupts. Warwick won.

I can’t even look his way when I land. Bitter humiliation washes through me. I was an idiot for ever believing I could beat my brother. Not only does he have years of practice, but I also can’t think of a single time I won against him, period. Not even when we played tag as children.

“It’s only ever the first round, Dane.”

A medal hangs around Warwick’s neck. The flash of gold is all I see.

“Congratulations,” I manage to utter. “You did great.”

But that’s as noble as I can be. I storm out of the arena before all the roaring and clapping causes me to bang my head against the wall for my own incompetence.

The following morning, I’m not an ounce less furious when I march into the field. After yesterday’s test of agility, today we affront each other in a battle of strength. The concept is pure and simple: whoever drops to the ground first is declared defeated. No weapons but our bare fists and talons. Having never so much as hunted a mouse in my new form, I have no idea of my phoenix’s power.

Once more, Warwick is quicker to soar towards the sky. I barely have time to take off when I’m nearly knocked to the ground by a sweeping wing. The crowd gasps as I hover a fingerbreadth above the dirt, nearly losing the match seconds after it began.

I don’t have the luxury of failing. If Warwick wins this round, there won’t even be a third one. I’ll be branded a loser before I have a chance to prove myself.

My anguish churns and fuels my ascent. I shoot my brother’s way, but he swiftly dodges my blow. Before I can turn around he attacks me from behind, shoving me back where I came from.

Red hot anger seeps into my veins. Warwick outplayed me one time too much. I won’t let myself be pushed around anymore.

I fly higher, as I learned yesterday that I surpass him in rapidity and power when I plunge from above. I dive down towards his coppery form with the fierceness of a missile.

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