Leaf Wing Novels & Stories

They moved with a predatory grace that made our ground-based movements look like the flailing of wounded insects. ​The lead Sentinel, a woman named Vaneira with wings that spanned ten feet and eyes the color of a clear summer sky, landed on the very edge of our cliff. She ignored the massive Hive ship for a moment, focusing her entire attention on me. Her presence was cold, elevated, and utterly detached.

the Primal voice inside me roared. Pain exploded between my shoulder blades—a searing, tearing heat that made me scream into the wind. But the scream wasn't one of agony; it was a battle cry. From my back, two massive structures erupted. They weren't feathered like a bird’s or leathery like a bat’s. They were wings made of obsidian thorns and shimmering violet light. Every "feather" was a razor-sharp leaf forged from Malachi’s shadows and my own life force.

—I won’t break you. —I know you won’t. —She moved closer. —You’d be afraid to. I laughed. Not aloud. Inside. Just enough for my chest’s movement to stir her shoulder. I slid my palm to her waist, my thumb tracing the seam of the veil’s hem. I didn’t pull further. Just held there—as if to slow the world from rushing. Her fingertip brushed the root of my wing. Not hard, not possessively—curiously. Even the air would have moved the feathers differently had they known they’d been given a name. Now they had one.

I knelt so we were eye‑level. He bent forward, too. I opened it. Inside gleamed the tiny kitten, with etched wings and clay fur painted in soft cream and gray. It looked like it belonged in his palm. “It’s for your keychain,” I said, voice steady. “A little reminder.” He smiled wider, brushing a fingertip over the delicate wings. “It’s perfect.” I watched how he held it, careful, grateful. Then he let the charm rest in his palm and lifted his hand to reach for mine. I didn’t hesitate. My fingers curled around his.

I started to dust myself off before leaving, but before I could blink, he had me pinned up against the wall again by my neck, he was fast. This time I was ready, however, and noticed I had enough room to gain momentum heading straight up out of reach. My wings came out as I planned, ripping through my hoodie with force, pushing me off the wall. I grabbed his wrist taking advantage of his shock at the confetti of feathers coming down. I twisted my grip on his wrist to the left taking his arm with me while I ducked under it and slammed him to face the wall. I had his arm pinned to his back while my wings beat at the air in big swings causing feathers and dust to cascade around us.

He pulled out one of the dried leaves inside and let it dangle between his fingers. Mary’s eyes widened in shock, her entire body beginning to shake. "I-I don't know what that is," she stammered. Tharros scoffed, his patience wearing thin. "You don’t know?" He tilted his head mockingly. "Fine. I’ll tell you." His voice dropped, dangerously low. "This is whisperleaf. You do know what whisperleaf is, don’t you? Answer me!" Mary shook her head frantically. "I don't know, my Emperor."

Yikes "You have wings too?" I ask Aylin, and she nods before huge black wings appear behind her. Hers are membranous and resemble bat wings. They seem to absorb what little light there is, and nothing shines off of them like their darkness overpowers any kind of light. She flaps her wings once before she jumps and lets them carry her upwards. She makes it look effortless.

Even the claws, depicted with sharp precision, seemed ready to rend stone or flesh with equal ease. The dragon's wings were a masterpiece of artistry, spanning wide across Phoenix's back. The wings were composed of leathery membranes stretched between elongated bones. Veins and ridges crisscrossed the membranes, giving them an appearance that suggested aerodynamic efficiency. As Astrid's gaze trailed down from Phoenix's back to his forearm, she discovered another piece of art etched into his skin. A Celtic knot design graced his arm, its elaborate twists and turns captivating her attention like a labyrinth of ancient lore.

I turned to the looking glass again to examine my new appendages. There were two pairs. The higher set was significantly larger, and bat-like in shape, with curly black thumbs. Between the black fingers there was leathery webbing, marked with a pattern like that of a common rose butterfly’s wings—alternating stripes of black and grey, with scattered red dots in the corners. The lower, smaller pair of wings had tails like those of a swallowtail, and they conformed to the same pattern, except red spots ran more plentifully down their sides. “I’ve never seen wings like these,” said Salem, gaping in awe. “You really are like something from a fairy tale.”

The other curved backward in a brutal sweep, thicker than Apollo’s and ridged along its length, as though designed less for ceremony and more for impact. His wings were folded tight behind him, but even restrained, they carried weight. They were not the flexible, membranous stretch of Apollo’s; they were denser, layered in plates edged with serrated bone. Each ridge caught the firelight and fractured it, casting sharp shadows across the stone. In battle, those wings would not glide. They would cleave.