Venn opened his eyes first. He lay on the ground far below the mammoth trees, watching the rainwater drip from the pines. Flick was beside him, her tail curled around him. Her fur was slowly turning from a sunset orange to a smooth white. That was a clue that winter would arrive soon. But not yet; the leaves were still dancing in gold.

After a moment, Venn flutters to his two feet and hops onto Flick's back, his talons gripping her fur gently. Flick didn’t stir. She was awake—he could feel it in the way her breath shifted, in the slight twitch of her ears—but she didn’t move. The rain was soft, the forest still. Above them, the canopy swayed like something half-asleep, and the gold leaves spun slowly through the air, catching light that hadn’t yet decided to fade.

Venn settled into her fur, his feathers slick with mist. “Hello,” he said in a pitchy, copied voice, half to Flick and half to the forest.

Flick's ears shifted and swiveled backwards. Venn clicked his beak, stood up, and glided smoothly to the soil in front of Flick. He turned to her and clicked his beak again, cocking his head slightly. Finally, Flick opened her eyes.

Amber. Not bright, not dulled—just steady. Like fire that had learned patience.

She stretched her legs out in front of her. Yawning gently, she displayed her sharp, canine teeth. Venn suddenly spread his wings and pushed up into the misty air, feathers slicing through the wind like blades. Flick lifted her head, eyes now alert and following Venn’s motions. He soared higher and higher, until he was above the trees and then he flew in orbits. The woodlands here were silent. He never fancied silence.

Venn circles once, then twice, then dips low—just enough for Flick to see the glint in his eye, the tilt of his wing. He doesn’t land. He doesn’t wait. He just turns and flies.

Flick rises. Of course she does. And trails his slow flight.

* Flick trots lively below Venn’s high glide. The wind is marked with a scent bright and sweet—berries, perhaps, or simply the last bloom of summer. Flick smelled the pollen and sneezed. She moved without hesitation, each step playful, each sniff deliberate. She tilted her snout to watch Venn frolic in the sky. Indeed their lives were colorful. Life would be black and white if they weren't together. After a long and pleasant trot, Flick explodes into an opening. The field is thick with vegetation. It stretched as far as the eye could see to the north, creating waves of golden grass along the horizon. Flick stood at the edge of the ocean of grass, taking in her surroundings. She knew that if she jumped in now, getting out would be difficult. She looked up to the shimmering sky and saw the black figure of a raven. Finally, she realized that it didn't matter. That they could keep each other afloat. Then, she dove in headfirst. On the edge of the field was a castle. The castle stood like a forgotten sentinel—its stone walls mottled with age, turrets leaning slightly as if bowed by time. Ivy clung to its surface in thick, tangled veins, and the windows flickered with the last light of day, some glowing faintly, others hollow and dark. A single banner hung limp from the tallest spire, its colors faded into dusk. Though distant, the structure pulsed with human memory—a place Flick and Venn should have feared. But the sky above it burned in shades of rose and amber, and the wind carried no warning. So they stepped closer, drawn not by logic, but by the ache for stranger things. The field was softer than memory underneath Flick's paws—each blade of grass glowing faintly, as if it had swallowed the sun. Flick swam in the tide of gold, nearly being submerged when it grew taller. Only her face poked up to get oxygen, but she didn't mind. Venn traversed the sky in a low flight. He studied the field in his loops, keeping an eye on Flick as he went. The evening wind was turning cold as the sun began to settle down on the horizon. Venn descended gracefully, too. His wings flapped repeatedly so as not to plummet to the ground. Rather, he landed on Flick's shoulders and folded his wings back. The castle grew with each tiptoe closer. Soon it stabbed the bleeding sky, its tallest spire piercing the amber clouds like a blade forged from forgotten vows. Flick paused, her breath shallow, the golden grass brushing her chest as if urging her back. But Venn nestled deeper into her fur, and the wind carried no warning. The air was thick with color—rose, rust, violet—and the castle, though crumbling, stood proud, etched into the horizon like a scar that refused to fade. They didn’t speak. They simply stepped forward, not out of courage, but out of curiosity. The kind that only finds you when the world feels strange enough to follow. However, it was when the castle stood too high on the grass, looming above them as an ominous, frightening figure, that Flick stopped walking. The sun was nearly below the horizon now, and the light in the sky was diminishing. Flick eagerly stared at the castle as the stones faded to darkness without ample sunlight. Venn didn't bother to move. Then, Flick lay down with the weight of dusk on her back, the castle pressing against the sky like a question. The question danced in Flick’s mind. Venn knew it, too. For it was the question they both loved most. What if the story is ours, even if no one tells it? The sky above them was vast and restless, a canvas smeared with the last bruises of day. Streaks of copper and violet bled into one another, cloud edges glowing like embers that refused to die. The highest wisps curled like forgotten handwriting, and lower clouds drifted slow, heavy with the weight of stories not yet told. Stars hadn’t arrived yet—but the sky was preparing. It held that breathless in-between, where light is memory and darkness is promise. A single bird crossed overhead, silhouetted against the fading fire, its wings slicing through the dusk like a question too sharp to speak aloud. Flick’s eyes traced the motion, then softened. She curled deeper into the grass, the blades cool against her fur, the castle ahead of her now just a shape. Venn tucked himself close, feathers brushing her shoulder, his small chest rising and falling in rhythm with hers. Above them, the sky kept changing—slowly, deliberately—like it was listening. And beneath that listening sky, they slept. Not to escape, but to belong. *

Flick's body stayed curled in the grass, but her mind had already leapt skyward, chasing the shimmer. She and Venn had slipped into a dream, like a stone dropping into water—quiet, deep, and instantly elsewhere.

Above them, the sky had shed its solemn dusk and bloomed into motion—ribbons of light unfurling like laughter, constellations spinning loose from their anchors. The stars no longer held still; they danced, rearranging themselves into animals Flick had only ever imagined: a fox leaping through flame, a dog stitched from candlelight, a falcon with wings of ink.

Venn soared ahead, crowned in moon-thread, his feathers trailing sparks that sang. Flick rose without effort, lifted by the hush beneath her paws, the field now a cloud, the air thick with joy. Around them, the sky parade began—not with trumpets, but with memory, with shimmer, with the kind of music only dreams remember.

And somewhere in the swirl of light and motion, Flick laughed. Not the kind born of amusement, but the kind that comes when the world finally feels like it belongs to you.

They had never chased anything in their life—but this was worth chasing, and the sky made it easy to believe.