Everyone knew that High Priests bore wings, the symbol of their everlasting commitment to serving their gods and the Fifth World. Everyone knew that the heron or owl or eagle feathers shed from them were holy things.

Until he assumed the position of High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, Acatl hadn’t known that growing them hurt. That they were heavy, awkward things that changed your entire center of gravity. That feathers itched abominably as they molted, bled if they were broken or pulled out, and needed daily preening and grooming or they left you looking like an oversized turkey. All in all, there were days where he wondered whether it had been worth it.

And then he launched himself from the top of his temple on silent wings, each beat carrying him higher and farther over his city, and he knew it was.