Nightwing

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There was once a crooked Imperial, who wore a crooked smile.

Every day he walked the roads, tossing a tarnished gold piece up and down in the air.

He loved the way it gleamed in the sun. It reminded him of fire, of brilliant stage lights. He saw once again the world spinning as he twirled through the air in a death-defying stunt. He heard the gasps of awe from the crowd, empty admiration. He remembered hatred as they walked away back to their dens, giggling away about their night.

The crooked Imperial learned quickly how to smile.

Nobody cared that he smiled or that he existed, so they carelessly giggled and gossiped as they walked back behind closed doors. He was a young dragon then, barely a juvenile. Yet he was the richest one among kings. Secrets bore the greatest wealth. Secrets could hurt without hands, kill without knives.

Soon the crooked Imperial came upon a secret which made his crooked smile grow.

A drunk nobleman, lulled by honeyed words and wine told him a story. A young prince and a general, ghost stories, had manifested within a desoltate mountain home to strange dragons who practiced strange magic. He learned everything he could and made a deal with the devil.

Now he walked the road up toward the Observatory, his little gold piece worthless now. He sees the little prince coming back from his vigil and delights. The prince and the general walk side by side. The General sees him, glares, and drops her head. The Prince walks her briskly away, tossing a heated look over his shoulder. The imperial grins at their retreating forms.

There once was a crooked Imperial, who wore a crooked smile. He had a little secret and the devil on his shoulder. Nobody else could see it, besides maybe the ghosts. He whispered shadowed nothings, a blade against the throat.

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