Chapter two
The hue of crimson
The figure soaring above was not merely a woman; she was a vision of enchantment, with stunning wings erupting from her back.
These were no ordinary appendages; they were magnificent eagle wings, expansive and commanding, spanning wide enough to cut through the night air with grace.
Each feather was a gleaming hue of gold.
Elizabeth's heart raced as disbelief melded with wonder.
Could it be true?
The idea that a human could ascend into the heavens unassisted was a fanciful notion, but this woman—soaring freely with those radiant wings—seemed to suggest otherwise.
Was it a figment of her imagination, a whimsical dream spun from the depths of her mind?
Or was she truly witnessing something extraordinary, a sight that dared to challenge the very essence of reality?
Could she possibly be from an entirely different species?
The idea seemed preposterous, and yet Elizabeth's imagination had a tendency to run away with her. She often found herself chasing after flights of fancy, but something in this woman's presence felt undeniably peculiar. The way she carried herself, with an air of quiet confidence and an intensity in her gaze, suggested there was more to her than met the eye.
With a soft sigh, Elizabeth let her gaze drift downward, breaking her fixation on the ethereal sight above. Just a few feet away, the guards stationed along the cobblestone street were lazily lounging on a weathered wooden bench, their eyes turned towards the heavens, counting the glimmering stars that peppered the expansive sky. They laughed quietly to one another, seemingly oblivious to the enchanting lady who floated just beyond their line of sight.
What kind of magic was this?
How was it possible that she was the only one able to witness such an extraordinary phenomenon?
The realization felt both thrilling and isolating.
Was it an omen meant solely for her, a sign that only her eyes were granted passage to witness this surreal moment?
Elizabeth's mind raced with possibilities, filled with a mixture of intrigue and confusion.
How could she, out of everyone in the world, be the chosen observer of this enchanting spectacle?
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder with a tentative look. That creature stirred a strange sense of familiarity within her—she had seen it before. A haunting memory flickered, something terrifying she had witnessed long ago, connected somehow to that very creature.
However, it wasn’t the first time that peculiar things happened to Elizabeth.
Like that time in fifth grade when her assertive Maths teacher, Miss Charlotte (who looked more like a goofy, bold walnut, seriously, despite constantly insisting she was a sophisticated and clever angel at the beginning of each class), was scowling at her for getting an A instead of an A+ on her test.
Elizabeth still couldn’t forget how humiliated she felt before a sudden wave of warmth had surged through her.
The next thing she knew, her Maths teacher was doing tip-top dancing, making hilarious hand gestures while her feet stuck to the ceiling.
Before Elizabeth had figured out what was going on, her Maths teacher had fallen from the ceiling, hit the desk hard, and landed on the ground in a loud crunch. Covering her butt with her hands (which Elizabeth had realized afterwards that Miss Charlotte’s trousers were slitted open), she stormed out of the room.
Even though Elizabeth tried countless times to explain to the headmaster that she didn’t do anything except laugh really hard, she was still given detention for the rest of the year.
But she couldn’t help but have a good hysterical laugh when she remembered how silly Miss Charlotte looked after her bright pink piggy knickers, big enough to fit an elephant (no joke), covered in childish drawings, were suddenly revealed through her fingers as she stumbled away.
Elizabeth had never regarded these events as overly serious, perceiving them merely as unfortunate incidents.
Nevertheless, the peculiar incidents seemed to unfurl in tandem with moments when she felt particularly insulted or belittled by those around her. Each time her temper flared in reaction to the sharp sting of criticism, she would notice an unsettling sensation taking hold of her body. Her palms would ignite with an intense heat, a burning that felt almost otherworldly.
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Alongside this fiery sensation, a crippling pain would seize her stomach, a sharp ache likened to the feeling of being struck by a heavy object or, more disturbingly, as if something deep inside her was relentlessly striving to break free.
Subsequently, within moments, destructive events would unfold.
However, none of these could be considered as peculiar as the case of the flying lady.
It couldn’t simply be described as unlucky, could it?
As she wandered through the labyrinth of her thoughts, a sudden crack echoed from below. Curiously, we turned our gaze to the living room, which was rather dim; the only illumination flickered above us, emanating from an exquisite crystal chandelier.
Beneath it hung a large replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper. The sofa was strewn with glowing yellow parchments, while chirping birds flitted about outside the windowsill. Bathed in silver moonlight, in front of an antique mirror, stood Elizabeth’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jordan.
Mrs. Selena Jordan, a lawyer who had recently lost a lawsuit, consistently appeared to be straightforward and highly skilled in improvisation, given her need to ensure that the jury was convincingly swayed by her arguments. Additionally, she had to sacrifice her family, her romantic relationship, and nearly everything she cherished to keep pace with her latest cases and to maintain her reputation among her colleagues as a refined professional, and clearly she didn’t want to earn a motherhood penalty (it did happen very often, somebody’s gonna think you’re weak and less useful if you didn’t show up dedicating to your work every day.)
Nevertheless, these sacrifices did not hinder her from embodying a caring mother and an intellectual colleague.
Mr. Christopher Jordan was the very last person you saw getting opportunities screwed up. He loved order, and everything in his reach or under his control was strictly ordered, since he was a famous entrepreneur and had established his own company recently, he was quite eager and enthusiastic to say that he would be reinforcing another book of rules for his tech company within weeks (he had already written about fifty or so, and the very first thing his employees had to do was reciting the rules to him in person and list about fifty praises about the benefits of those disciplines. Ironically, there was barely any time left for innovating.)
Nevertheless, Christopher could always figure out how to solve the problems.
He thrived on the tight grip he maintained over his daughter’s every movement, as though she were a puppet dancing on his strings.
“Never trust your so-called friend, no matter how benign she seems,” He would declare, his voice steadfast and serious, a mantra that reverberated in Elizabeth’s mind. Whether they were gliding down the sunlit street toward the quaint, white-steepled church, navigating the bustling market with its kaleidoscopic displays, or even sweating through their morning exercise routines before her swimming lessons—the one activity where Elizabeth truly excelled—his warning lingered like an unwanted shadow.
Though he meant well, she found herself gnawed by confusion.
Victoria Vincent, her childhood confidante, sparkled with kindness and laughter, her smile igniting warmth in even the coldest days, yet Elizabeth could not fathom what had forged such a deep rift between her friend and her father.
Perhaps it was their habit of spending countless hours side by side in the public library, their heads buried in books, weaving stories and dreams into the fabric of their friendship.
Victoria’s love for Norse mythology enchanted Elizabeth, each tale unspooling like golden threads of adventure. But to Christopher, these stories were poison. Fueled by a tempest of anger, he once unleashed his wrath upon Elizabeth’s cherished book, tearing through its pages with a frenzy that sent shivers down her spine. Each rip echoed like a drumbeat of betrayal, punctuating his fervent accusations that the book was a malevolent force, one that could devour her very mind.
His threats echoed in her ears—she would go hungry for an entire week if another copy treaded into their home. “That book will eat your brain!” he had shouted, his face contorted in a mixture of fear and anger when he first spotted it resting innocently on her desk, as if it were a venomous serpent lying in wait.
Yet, to Elizabeth, it felt like a distant echo of a long-lost dream, as if a faded photograph, its colors washed out over time. The once vivid images had dulled, becoming mere shadows of what they used to be.
Just as her mind began to wander deeper into this nostalgic haze, a jarring chime shattered the stillness around her, slicing through her reverie like a knife through mist.
The bell tolled ominously at the stroke of midnight—precisely at midnight—its deep, resonant notes reverberating in the cool night air, sending a thrill down her spine and carrying with it an air of mystery and urgency.
Something was about to happen, Elizabeth decided.
Elizabeth crept down the marble staircases quietly. Keeping as still as possible, she headed toward the kitchen for a nice cup of hot chocolate.
Just then, she heard voices drifting from deep within the navy-blue ocean, far beneath the enchanted ceiling. Above, the ultramarine night sky was dotted with stars that seemed to smile down upon her.
Yes, there were definitely voices, resonating like those of angels.
Yet, she found herself unable to grasp their meaning.
It felt that these voices hailed from a realm beyond her own imagination—a parallel reality she had never dared to explore—one that remained completely unseen by Elizabeth…but she could feel its pull deep within her soul.
Suddenly, Christopher’s voice rang. She pressed her ears against the wall and listened,
“—Diana never came back since then—”
Elizabeth let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically. Diana, her older sister, was not only bossy but also disorganized; she barely noticed Elizabeth's presence. In fact, Elizabeth secretly wished that something—anything—would disrupt the status quo and pull Diana's attention away, even if just for a moment, and Elizabeth wouldn't mind at all if something happened to her sister.
“—As for Elizabeth, we must keep her from getting there. She is still ‘useful’ to us, especially to him—”
Clank, the cup filled with hot chocolate fell to the ground in a clutter.
“—What about her powers—her identity—”
The doorbell rang abruptly.