Chapter 1: The Grounded Alpha's Lament
Faelan pressed his head against the rough wood of the barn door, the knot in the plank a perfect lens for his amber eye.Outside, the world was soft and sunny. Sister Margaret was crouched on a faded quilt, her wimple a bright spot against the green grass, surrounded by a halo of little ones.Their laughter was a hollow, distant sound.
He watched her take a piece of paper from a toddler, a mess of waxy color scribbled across it.“Oh, my! What a splendid rainbow, Liam!” Her voice, warm and honeyed, floated across the yard and through the crack in the door.It was a knife, twisting.It was for them.Not for him.
A low, aching sound built in his chest, a vibration that started deep in his throat. He let it out—a long, mournful whine that echoed in the dusty hollow of the barn. The hens clucked nervously in their roost.He ignored them. His small ear-feathers lay flat against his skull.His tail twitched, scattering hay.
Sister Margaret didn’t even flinch.She just pointed to another drawing, her smile unwavering.“And look at this lovely house! So many windows!”
He did it again, louder, layering the whine with a pitiful trill at the end.Look at me.Hear me.Come here.Nothing.
Frustration coiled hot in his gut. He slammed a scaled fist against the door, the impact shuddering through the frame.A little dust sifted down from the rafters. Outside, one of the toddlers glanced over, wide-eyed.Sister Margaret gently turned the child’s face back to the drawing.
He was stuck.Grounded.All because of the stupid hens.
It hadn’t been his fault, not really.They had feathers.He had feathers.They were the closest thing here to him. He’d just wanted… company.Attention. But they’d run, and the chase had been fun, the frantic clucking and flapping, the power in his talons as he’d herded them into a corner.It had felt like being important. Then Sister Agnes had come in with her broom, her face like thunder, and the shouting had started. Scaring the livestock, Faelan!A complete menace!What is the matter with you?
Now he was here, in the semi-dark, and the alpha of the barn was being forgotten. The title felt stupid and small.An alpha no one listened to was just a thing in a corner.
The praise outside continued, a gentle drizzle of words that parched him. He sank down, his bird-like legs folding under him, his great wings draping over his form like a shroud. The hay prickled through the feathers on his underside. He tucked his head against his arm, the red scales cool against his cheek. He could still see them through the crack, a happy little picture he wasn’t in.A shadow fell across the sliver of light.
The barn door creaked open.Faelan’s head snapped up, his ear-feathers lifting instantly. Sister Margaret stood in the doorway, blocking the sun, her hands folded into her sleeves.
Silence stretched, heavy with the scent of damp straw and his own stubborn misery.
“That,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, “was a very dramatic performance. I could hear you all the way by the hydrangeas.”
Faelan looked away, focusing on a warped plank in the wall. He let out a small, defiant huff of air.
“Look at me, please.”
He dragged his gaze back to her.Her face wasn’t angry. It was that patient, tired look she got when the little ones threw tantrums too.It was worse than anger.
“You scared the hens half to death,” she said.“Sister Agnes spent an hour calming them down. They may not lay for a week. Do you understand why that’s a problem?”
“They started it,” he mumbled, the words sounding thin even to him.
“They’re chickens, Faelan. They don’t ‘start’ things.” She stepped inside, letting the door swing partly shut.The barn felt closer with her in it.“You are not a chicken.You are eighteen. You know better.”
He felt his wings tighten against his back.“They have feathers. I have feathers.”
“That is not a basis for romance, dear.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “And it is certainly not a reason to terrorize God’s creatures.”
He looked down at his claws, digging one into the packed earth floor. The attention was on him now, but it was all wrong.It was scolding, not praise.“You were all outside. Having fun.”
“And you were in here, as you were told to be, because of your choices.” She sighed, a soft sound lost in the vastness of the barn. “The world does not stop because you are in a mood, Faelan.The little ones need care too. You are not the only soul here.”
His whine had been a failure. His reasoning was a failure.A hot lump formed in his throat. He was too big for this, too old to be sulking in a barn, yet here he was, feeling about two inches tall. He wished desperately she would just yell and be done with it.She didn’t yell. She reached into a pocket of her habit and pulled out a small, wrinkled cloth pouch.He knew that pouch. His nostrils flared.“Now,” she said, her tone shifting, becoming pragmatic. “You have two hours left of your grounding. You may spend it sulking in this corner, making everyone—including yourself—miserable. Or,” she opened the pouch, and the sweet, tangy scent of dried apple filled the air between them, “you can make a better choice. You can sit quietly, usefully, and reflect. And if you can do that, without another sound, I will leave this here for you.”
She placed a single dried apple slice on a clean feed sack near the door.
It was a tiny thing.A shriveled, brown thing.It was everything.
The war inside him was short and brutal.His pride screamed to knock the sack away, to turn his back. His need, raw and hungry, won. He gave a single, stiff nod, his eyes locked on the apple.“Good,” Sister Margaret said.She didn’t praise him. She simply acknowledged.“I will be back at sundown.No chasing.No whining. Just peace.”
She turned and left, pulling the door closed behind her. The bolt slid home with a soft, final thud.The barn was quiet again, save for the rustle of hens. The shaft of light from the high window had moved, dust motes dancing in a new beam. Faelan stared at the apple slice on the sack.It was a pathetic prize.A consolation.
Slowly, uncurling his large form, he crept forward on his talons, his movements careful not to stir the hay too much. He reached out a clawed hand, hesitated, then picked up the offering.He put the whole piece in his mouth. The taste was intense, a burst of concentrated sweetness and autumn that made his eyes close for a second.
He didn’t go back to his corner.He settled by the door, his back against the wood, and listened. The laughter outside had faded; naptime, probably. He could hear the distant clatter of a cart, Sister Agnes humming a hymn near the coop, the first few patters of rain on the slate roof.
He was still in the barn.He was still grounded. But he had the faint taste of apple on his tongue, and for now, that was enough to keep the whine buried deep in his chest, a low, unhappy ember instead of a raging fire. He watched the shadows lengthen across the hay-strewn floor, waiting, already counting the minutes until the bolt slid back.