Three days. Three whole days repeating the same mistakes stubbornly.

  Day 1: invent panic flight, end up in a bush.

  Day 2: short horizontal flights, no more than ten seconds before gravity reminded me I'm a pathetic flying creature.

  Day 3: finally, something resembling real flight... or at least a less ridiculous owl.

  The forest remained beautiful, immense, and slightly mocking. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, cutting the air into golden blades. I felt every vibration, every leaf rustle, every insect tremble under my gaze... terrified and exhilarated at the same time.

  Instinct: — You're improving.

  Thalen: — Great... soon I'll glide gracefully before crashing miserably into a branch?

  Instinct: — Yes. And yes. Keep whining; it sharpens your... dignity. Or what's left of it.

  I learned to listen to the wind. Not just feel it, but question it, bend it to my will. Every wing beat became a tiny explosion of precision, every movement a dance with gravity.

  Instinct: — Observe, sense, strike. Hunting isn't a game, it's a poetic assassination.

  The first mole I caught properly was... a macabre masterpiece. Silence. Death. Triumph. And there I stood on my branch, proudly, like a little feathered god.

  Thalen: — Awesome... a forest ninja. I can kill moles now, but still can't handle a normal social evening in real life.

  Instinct: — Welcome to your new life. The old one was boring, this one is deadly. Learn to master night vision, hyper-sensitive hearing, and your talons... those damn talons that can crush a skull if used properly.

  Thalen: — I feel like a tiny gothic killer... with a slight ego problem.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Instinct: — Ego useless, but amusing. Use your brain, idiot. Instinct doesn't kill alone. You must think, anticipate, calculate... or you end up crushed by your own talent.

  I flew between the trees, folding my wings, sliding through currents. The forest became both a battlefield and a training ground. My human architect body felt so far away. My owl body? A living machine, powerful and agile.

  Thalen: — Ha! I can pivot in the air without crashing! I could almost... dominate the sky!

  Instinct: — Almost. But don't forget: the forest loves humiliating the arrogant. Every branch could become your coffin. Every current, your executioner.

  I learned to feel the slightest breath of air, every vibration of branch or leaf, every whisper of prey. My body had become a perfect sensor. Every wing beat taught me a new lesson, sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious.

  Thalen: — So... I'm an owl. A gothic assassin. Able to read the wind, hear moles, and see in the dark... but still can't manage my social life.

  Instinct: — Exactly. And remember: brute force is for fools. You must observe, understand, influence. Otherwise, your kingdom turns into a pile of crushed feathers.

  The sun set. The moon rose, cold and mocking. I glided above the stream, wings stretched. I felt the wind beneath my feathers, night as a cloak. Everything was calm... too calm. The adrenaline made me euphoric.

  Thalen: — Oh, I can do this... and this... and that... Wait... my talons! I can grab almost anything mid-flight!

  Instinct: — Yes. You are a miniature assassin... with a tyrant's ego. Use your gifts to learn, not to show off to moles.

  Thalen: — Eh... no promises. They're so cute when they're not dead.

  Instinct: — You're screwed. Completely. But effective.

  I began planning. The perfect branch. Tight angles. Stealth attacks. And after... my kingdom. Or what remained after I reorganized this damn forest.

  Thalen: — So my plan: master flight, dominate the sky, hunt like a cruel genius... and then... establish my kingdom?

  Instinct: — Less royal. More strategic. But have fun, little killer owl.

  Thalen: — Better. But a little royalty in the tragedy, no?

  The wind lifted my feathers. The nocturnal world was mine. For the first time, I didn't just feel fear or loneliness... but power, clarity, and the irony of my existence. Little lost owl, ambitious, I was no longer Thalen Rowen, depressed architect. I was Thalen Rowen, architect of the skies and poetic killer of the forest.