Page 85 of Architecti
I take it from her, and I’m amazed at the delicacy of the stone.It’s been carved and chipped out of some kind of crystal.
“I didn’t think you liked art.”
She shrugs.“I got to break pieces of the stone off to make the shapes.That felt satisfying, so I kept going.And I figured it looked more like your pupa than mine.I tried obsidian for mine but it didn’t work out as well, so I threw it against a wall.”
I clutch the carving to my chest, understanding how, for once, she created something through destruction.
“Do you see, sister?”she says.
“See what?”
Her wings ruffle, the tips have grown darker this year.The ends are almost black as night now.
“That even though you were born to destroy, you are still powerful beyond measure?You can still create.”
Her eyes narrow at me.“Not all power comes from creation,Architecti.”She spits my name.
I’ve annoyed her.
I should have been more careful with how I spoke, the words I used.
My eyes sting with tears.I wanted to be nice, to make her feel good.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that.I think what you’ve made is wonderful, and I adore it.”
But I can tell it’s too late.She’s shut down, the coldness of her eyes hardening as she retreats out of the room.
My heart sinks, a coiling low in my belly that tells me she will punish me for my mistake.
* * *
Dozens of angels congregate in the great hall to witness the emergence of our moths.Our pupae sit on a plinth in the middle of the room.We stand a few feet away.It’s been a year since I held my power.Since I felt the thrum and light of magical energy.My fingertips ache to hold the swelling rise of power again.
The pupae look flimsy, as they should.At last, the silk has worn thin enough our moths can emerge.My stomach won’t stop somersaulting with excitement.
Murmurs ripple around the room, poorly disguised whispers that compare our pupae, that note the differences.I hate that they only use kind words to describe mine and ugly words to describe hers.
I stand next to her and slip my hand into hers.“Don’t listen to them,” I whisper.
But she grips my hand, squeezing harder and harder until my knuckles grind against each other, and I have to bite down a yelp and yank my hand away.
“That’s how it feels,” she says.
“How what feels?”I cradle my bruised fingers.
“Them.Their words.It grinds me down.Wears me thin.They don’t want me here.It doesn’t matter what lies you try and whisper into existence.I know it’s true.”
I’m about to answer, but the high elder angel steps in front of our pupae.
“Welcome, angels, to another magnificent Emergence.This rite is significant in every angel’s life.For a year we are stripped bare, cut off from our divine right to celestial magic.”
The angels clap, only it’s a fluttering of wings rather than slap of hands.It’s a light ruffling sort of sound that feels like bubbles and sunshine.
“The pupa does not falter, it does not yield to will nor pride.It shapes only what was always there—hidden, waiting, growing.”
My skin heats with excitement and my wings bristle up and down when I can’t contain my energy.
There’s a soft crackle, like the breaking of an egg.The elder stops speaking and turns to the pupa, a smile of delight breaking across his expression.
