The last thing Aeryx Talonfall heard before the fall was laughter.

Not cruel laughter—not at first. Nervous. Relieved. The kind that comes when a burden is finally cut loose.

The abyssal hole yawned beneath the ruined stone bridge, a wound in the world that swallowed light and sound alike. Wind screamed up from it, clawing at her feathers, tugging at the straps of the packs still slung across her shoulders. Packs she had carried for them. Armor. Rations. Relics. Gold. Injuries they were too proud to admit slowed them down.

“A porter,” they had said.

“Dead weight,” they had meant.

Aeryx turned just in time to see the shove—one gauntleted hand, firm and decisive, striking between her wings. Not enough to kill her outright. Just enough to make sure she fell.

She didn’t scream. Falcons didn’t waste breath like that.

The world inverted as she dropped, stone and torchlight shrinking above her. The rope she instinctively reached for had already been cut. She understood then: this wasn’t panic, or desperation. It was planned. Calculated. Decided long before they reached the bridge.

She hit darkness hard.

The fall should have killed her. Maybe it almost did.

She woke tangled in shattered straps and broken packs at the bottom of the abyss, bones screaming, feathers caked with black dust that drank in light. The air was cold and wrong, heavy with an ancient pressure that made her chest ache with every breath. Far above, the hole was no more than a distant scar—silent, uncaring.

The irony burned hotter than her wounds.

She had never been the strongest in the party. Never the fastest blade or the loudest voice. But she had carried everything—their burdens, their spoils, their survival. When others rested, she adjusted straps. When others bled, she redistributed weight so they could keep moving. When they complained of exhaustion, she tightened her talons and said nothing.

Because porters weren’t meant to complain.

Now the packs lay torn open around her, contents scattered like the remains of a life she no longer belonged to. Supplies she could use. Gear that had never truly been hers. Proof that even discarded, she was still expected to be useful.

Aeryx pushed herself upright with a hiss, one wing dragging slightly. Her golden eyes adjusted slowly, catching shapes in the abyss—stone formations like broken teeth, shadows that shifted when they shouldn’t, and something deeper... watching.

She laughed then. Soft. Bitter. Almost hysterical.

“So this is where dead weight goes.”

Above her, the party would be moving on. Telling stories about how she slipped. How tragic it was. How unavoidable.

Below her, something ancient stirred.

Aeryx Talonfall tightened the remaining straps across her chest, salvaged what she could carry, and took her first limping step into the dark—not as a porter, not as a companion...

...but as someone who had learned exactly what trust was worth.

Picture edited according to feedback from etr as I respect them