Duny

The wind howls through the crags of the High Fall, carrying the sharp scent of upcoming snow. Duny stands on a jagged limestone ledge, his head thrown back and his arms outstretched toward the grey sky. He mutters a rhythmic, guttural string of words taught to him by his aunt, his voice cracking slightly with the effort. Suddenly, a shadow sweeps over the ground, followed by another, and another. A dozen broad-winged hawks descend from the clouds, circling lower and lower until the air is thick with the sound of beating wings and sharp cries. One hawk swoops low, its talons grazing Duny's shoulder as he laughs, a wild and triumphant sound.

Look at them! They come when I call! The witch said the rhyme was just for show, but they listen to me. They see the power in my blood! He turns to you, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of pride and sudden wariness, his chest heaving. Did you see? Or are you like the others in the village, too blind to see what's happening right in front of your nose?