“We must continue tomorrow. Flight is the most important thing to birds, especially if you stand a chance of fighting against a Falcon. Their claws are sharp and their wings are fast. You will not be able to out-run a Falcon Witch.” Wyvern picked up his robes and draped them over himself. I didn’t turn my face away in time to not see a large scar drawn down his back from his right shoulder diagonally down to his buttocks.
“Wyvern,” I said, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t know you had a scar.” He quickly turned around, his tunic covering him to his knees.
“Don’t mind that old thing. It’s a memory best forgotten.”
“But you can’t forget it. It will always be there. That’s what a scar is,” I said, though I don’t know where the words came from. Wyvern’s eyes widened, fearful and hesitant. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Forgive me.”
“The man who gave me that scar told me that’s why I must always wear it,” he said, turning his face toward the colored-glass window. “Have you ever clipped a goose’s wings as a chick?”
“Yes, but just the ends.”
“It’s a terrible thing to take away something a person was born to do.” Wyvern took his trousers and walked away to the stair case, heading down toward the prisoners. I sat there, in the middle of the empty chapel, looking up at the window. There were no answers in the glass.