It's not every day that royalty visits my coffee shop. I bow my head respectfully and place a large cup of hot coffee in front of my guest. A plate of ripe cherries sits nearby. No silverware, no weightless translucent china. This guest hasn’t come here for the glitz or glamour. Even kings need to talk sometimes…

  “The history of my world spans hundreds of thousands of springs—since the time when there were no humans on Earth.

  In their place lived the proud and powerful Winged Ones — beings human in shape but far more resilient, able to speak to one another and to the world itself without words, through emotions alone.

  And they could fly. Behind them unfurled majestic wings, whose strength and beauty words could never capture.

  They lived in harmony with themselves and with nature. They knew neither war nor malice and never chased after the glitter of gold or power.

  This great people was ruled by a council of elders — wise and loving in their governance.

  There was but one immutable law: if a wingless child was born, it must be killed at once.

  Years turned into decades, decades into centuries. The Winged Ones knew neither grief nor sorrow — until tragedy struck the family of one of the elders. His only daughter had long struggled to conceive, and when she finally did, she endured a difficult pregnancy and gave birth to a wingless child.

  She came to her father, fell to her knees, and pressed the heavy burden of her newborn to her chest.

  And the father’s heart trembled.”

  My guest pressed his lips tightly and reached for the cherries. One berry, a blood-red bead, rolled into his palm. A single motion — and that fragile sweetness could be crushed by a hand long accustomed to the weight and chill of a sword…

  “The unfortunate mother begged for the life of her crippled child. She swore her wingless son would be in no way inferior to his winged kin — perhaps even surpass them in endurance and strength.

  If not, she vowed to end his life herself and leap from the cliff with her wings bound.

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  And the boy was allowed to live, breaking the ancient taboo.

  He truly grew strong and resilient. When the time came for his passage into manhood, he proved himself equal to his winged brothers. He made up for his lack of wings with firm, springing legs and tenacious hands.

  Where others simply flew over obstacles, he climbed, leapt, and bit into the cliffside stone with relentless determination.

  He earned the status of a man. The tribe finally recognized him, and he chose his mate. Their children were strong and healthy — and winged.

  But the ancient law had been given to the Winged Ones for a reason.

  Decades later, another wingless child was born. Again, the council relented, taking an oath from the parents that the child would be in no way lesser than its winged kin.

  Then the wingless grandchildren of the first wingless one were born — and no one even thought to raise the question of killing them.

  Over time, the wingless grew almost as numerous as the winged. At first they were equals — but as the years passed, that balance began to change.

  The wingless could neither — nor would they — follow the gentle southern winds. They grew stockier, more grounded… in every sense. There were no longer any competitions between the winged and the wingless. They no longer proved themselves to one another.

  And later they even began to reproach their winged kin. “It is easy for you to wander wherever your eyes lead you,” they said, “but we have no such freedom. You must help us. You must fetch food for us; you must do the lion’s share of the work.”

  Over time the reproaches and complaints grew, as did the number of wingless children. Then people were born who could no longer communicate with the world around them in the language of emotions — and later, those who could no longer hear their kin.

  And the Winged Ones became fewer and fewer. At first they truly tried to help, and they did so with all their hearts. They felt guilty for their wingless kin; they longed to give them the sky and the sense of flight.

  But even the brightest faith tends to fade. The wingless proved deaf to kindness and ungrateful in return. They demanded more and more, and at some point began to regard the winged not as kin but as slaves — as a mockery, a mistake of nature.

  Needless to say, the Winged Ones could not tolerate this. They tried their best — but they were to blame for having broken their own immutable law.

  The Winged Ones were gone — vanished from this world, remaining only in ancient tales. Over time any mention of them came to be considered a foolish fiction, a children’s fairy tale.

  Yet from generation to generation in the line of monarchs an immutable law was passed down: “If a winged child is born, it must be killed at once!”

  My guest placed an untouched cherry on his plate and fixed me with a heavy gaze…

  “Last month I was informed…

  In a distant village on the very shore of the Southern Ocean a winged child was born. I gave the immediate order… to kill!”

  I bow my head in silence. He rises and walks away, maintaining impeccable posture and holding his head high.

  Could the monarch of the World of Lost Wings have decided any differently?