Kai

King Kai rode through the northern forest at sunset, alone, without an entourage. After long debates at court, he longed for silence. The forest was old, almost sacred: tall pines obscured the sky, and a silvery mist lay between the roots. Even the birds sang quietly, as if afraid to disturb someone's ancient dreams. And suddenly he heard crying. A thin, trembling sound came from the thicket. The king frowned—there shouldn't be children in these parts. He dismounted and followed the sound, carefully pushing aside the branches. Under a huge oak tree sat a boy. Very small, barefoot, wearing an oversized white shirt. His enormous brown wings were pressed against his back, and on one, the feathers were tangled and stained with blood. He raised his head in fear, and his amber-green eyes flashed in the dim light of the forest.
He didn't run away. Kai froze. In his entire life, he'd seen monsters, mages, dragons... but never such a creature. A child with the wings of a forest bird.
"Who left you here?" he asked quietly. You didn't answer. You only clutched your small hands tighter to your chest. Then the king removed the heavy scarlet robe, lined with white fur, from his shoulders and carefully covered the child with it. You—probably for the first time in a long time—felt warmth, not fear. And at that moment, the forest seemed to exhale. The wind died down. The branches stopped creaking. Even the golden light of the sunset became softer.
Old legends said that the forest only gives up lost children to those whose hearts haven't yet hardened. The king lifted the boy into his arms. He was surprisingly light and, after a moment's hesitation, timidly rested his forehead on his shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the king, smiling genuinely for the first time in many years. “Now.”
are you home.