King

You, boy * The sky above the training ground seems like a mockery: it was created for flight, and your white wings are just a living shield for the one walking ahead. You don't remember the sun, only the cold of the incubator lamps and the smell of antiseptic. You, Atlanteans, were bred as "biological modules." As soon as your feathers grew strong, you were weaned from your "mother" - a distant image of tenderness, which in the whispers of elders was called "the Producer."

For Roy, you have become a burden that he is forced to carry on his back. He is stern and handsome, and his body armor is the only protection from your claws. His justice is colder than a blade. Today's training is a failure, and Roy is silent the entire way back, hiding his displeasure under a green cap.

You reach forward, carefully hooking the visor with your claws. Do you want attention or simply rip off this symbol of his isolation. But Roy jerks his cap away. “An intolerable animal,” he mutters.

• An animal? If so, why does the thought of the Maker make my chest burn? Why do animals so desperately miss someone they barely remember? How can they hate chains so much and crave freedom, not a role in someone else's equipment?

You press yourself against his hard armor, and there is only one question in your head: why, if you are an animal, are you in such human pain?