Chapter 1: The Queen Who Wouldn’t Change

When I was born, something wild happened in the sky—folks here still swear the clouds twisted into a crown, and rumor spread like wildfire. Some say it was just Mrs. Jenkins running her mouth, but you know how stories grow in a small town. Anyway, Professor Simmons—half-blind but sharp as a tack—was on his porch waving his cane and declared the future Queen of the Skies had just been born in Pineville.

People still love to gab about that day: how the sun broke through the clouds in a way you’d never forget, and Mrs. Jenkins swore up and down her rooster crowed three times at midnight. Professor Simmons, with his wild Einstein hair and that coffee-stained sweater he always wore, made his big prophecy right there on the City Hall steps. Every year, without fail, my mom would nudge me at my birthday party and say, “Remember, you’re destined for greatness, honey.” Like I could ever forget.

We waited. And waited. Years rolled by, and I was still just me—all fluff and no feathers, as awkward as a chick who missed the memo on growing up.

Year after year, my folks would throw these over-the-top birthday parties, hoping maybe this time I’d finally shed my fuzz and turn into something jaw-dropping. But all I ever did was trip over my own feet and inhale way too much sheet cake. I could tell everyone was waiting for me to pull off something magical, but nope—I just kept on being me. Still, at least the cake was good.

Those boys who tried to use me to climb the social ladder? Yeah, they were disappointed. One by one, they came looking for a fight, like it was my fault their plan fizzled.

They’d swagger up to me at the Fourth of July picnic, all fake smiles and “Hey, Riley!”—acting like we were best pals. Then, when I didn’t live up to their wild expectations, they’d get all huffy. I swear, some even challenged me to races around the block, like winning would make me suddenly special. It was almost funny, if it hadn’t been so exhausting.

But what they never got was, I was the town’s little darling—spoiled absolutely rotten.

See, those boys never figured out that I was everyone’s favorite. My family spoiled me silly, the neighbors dropped off cookies just because, and even cranky old Mrs. Jenkins let me nap in her hammock. No matter what the boys thought, I was still Pineville’s sweetheart.

There I was, out back, flapping my wings and stretching, trying to soak up some sun and maybe, just maybe, catch a little magic in the air.

The grass was cool under my feet, and the sunlight felt like honey drizzling down my feathers. I stretched, flapped, and squinted up at the sky, hoping today might finally be the day I’d feel something different—something magical. A girl can dream, right?

Ugh, failed again.

I let out a big, dramatic sigh, my wings drooping. There was always this little buzz inside me, but it fizzled out before anything ever happened. It was like trying to start up Dad’s old pickup—just a lot of noise and no engine.

I slumped down, feeling like my insides were a bag of loose marbles, wondering why transformation always seemed to slip further away the harder I tried.

I plopped myself down on the porch steps, picking at the loose boards with my claw. Why did it feel like the more I reached for that big moment, the farther it got? Maybe I was just meant to be plain old me. Maybe that was it. Ha.

"Bad news! The boys from uptown are here!" My friend Quinn burst in, looking like she’d seen a ghost—white as a sheet, hair flying, and she nearly wedged herself through the sliding door, losing a sneaker in the process.

She barreled through the kitchen, almost sent the cookie jar flying, and skidded to a stop in front of me—one socked foot and all. “They’re coming up the driveway right now!” she squeaked, eyes wide as saucers.

Honestly, I didn’t see the big deal. Why get so worked up just because the boys showed up?

I shrugged, catching my reflection in the window and giving myself a little eye roll. “What’s the big deal? Maybe they’re here to bring me more birthday cards.”

"What, are my cousins here with presents again?" I asked, with a smirk.

Quinn was practically sweating bullets, stammering so bad she couldn’t get a word out.

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water... then finally managed, “No, Riley, it’s not that, I—”

I smoothed my feathers, lifted my head, gave myself a little pep talk, then raised my wings and strutted out, trying to look like I owned the place.

With as much dignity as I could scrape together, I puffed up and marched toward the living room. No way was I letting anyone see me rattled—not today.

"I’ll go see for myself," I tossed over my shoulder.

Quinn grabbed my wing, eyes darting to the window, whispering, “Your mom said you’re supposed to stay put. Seriously, Riley, they look mad. Like, really mad.”

Listening to her, it finally clicked: this time, they were here for trouble.

I finally got it, seeing the worry in her eyes. My heart thudded a little faster. This wasn’t about gifts or another family spat—something was really off.

Back when I was born, thanks to Professor Simmons’s wild prophecy, I became the talk of the town—everybody and their grandma wanted a peek.

People brought over casseroles, the mayor sent a card, and the local paper ran a headline: “Sky Queen Born in Pineville?” My baby photos came out every Thanksgiving, like clockwork.

A bunch of uptown boys scrambled to befriend me, promising to look out for me forever and ever.

They’d show up with comic books and shiny rocks, bragging about how we’d be best friends for life. Their parents nudged them along, hoping some of my supposed luck would rub off.

Even though I wasn’t much to look at (and I knew it), everyone just pretended not to notice, waiting for the day I’d magically transform and finally grow up.

Nobody cared about my scruffy feathers or the way I tripped over my own feet. They just kept hoping I’d become something special—and maybe bring them a little luck, too.

But, surprise surprise, decades went by... and all the other chicks my age grew into stunners, while I stayed the same awkward little bird.

It was like everybody else got the memo on how to grow up, and I was stuck in rewind—just me, watching everyone else turn into swans.

So, naturally, the boys stormed off to Professor Simmons, demanding an explanation.

I heard they even cornered him at the diner over pancakes, and he just shrugged, “Prophecies aren’t an exact science, boys.”

Who would’ve thought they got the prophecy wrong? Turns out, there was another chick born down the street, and she ended up being the real deal. Talk about awkward.

Now that the title was gone, the boys felt cheated—and came to stir up trouble.

They showed up at my house, all puffed up and acting like they’d just missed out on a winning lottery ticket.

I shot them my iciest glare.

No way was I letting them stomp all over me—not in my own house.

Did they really think our family was powerless? Seriously?

Our family might not have been the richest on the block, but we had a reputation for standing our ground—nobody pushed us around in Pineville.

Dragging Quinn along, I hustled to the front room, just in time to catch the oldest, usually the quiet one, talking big now.

He stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, voice echoing off the walls. Even the family dog slunk out of the room—couldn’t blame him.

"I thought Riley was our lucky charm. I put in all that effort, and now you’re saying it was all a mistake? Someone better explain—today!"

He tossed his jacket onto the armchair, trying to look intimidating—but it slid off and landed in a heap. Nice try, buddy.

The oldest boy snorted, flicking his jacket when he saw me come in, like that would impress anyone.

He shot me a look that screamed, “You owe me,” as if I’d been the one writing prophecies all these years.

The second boy piped up, "Yeah, Riley still looks the same, and after all these years she barely has any feathers. We’ve put up with her forever. You owe us."

He leaned forward, voice dripping with entitlement, eyes roaming the room like he was already picking out which treasures to snatch.

I swear, I could see dollar signs in his eyes. If he thought he was getting anything out of us, he was dreaming.

For a second, I just stood there, stunned. Were these really the cousins who used to sneak me extra cookies and pick me up when I fell?

It felt like a punch in the gut. I remembered them helping me chase fireflies and patch up scraped knees, and now they looked at me like a bad investment.

Now their true colors were out. Guess they’d been biting their tongues for years—now it all came spilling out. Honestly, part of me was glad to finally know.

I stared at their faces, looking them over again and again, trying to see a glimmer of the boys I once knew.

I tried to see the boys I remembered, but all I saw were strangers in their place.

I remembered the laughter, muddy shoes, and chasing fireflies with them on summer nights—it all felt like a memory from someone else’s life.

My mom frowned at the second boy’s words, and as soon as she saw me walk in, she told him to zip it.

She shot him a glare that could freeze water, then gave me a reassuring wink—her “I got you, kiddo” face.

I gave my mom a little smile, trying to tell her with my eyes that I was okay. I could handle this.

I decided right then—those boys who used to care for me? They were gone. The ones standing here were just spoiled uptown brats.

I drew a line in my heart—these guys were just guests in my house now, nothing more.

I dropped my gaze, thinking about the second boy’s dig about my feathers.

It stung, but I swallowed it down. He didn’t know what he was talking about anyway.

I looked down at my own feathers, running a wing over them. He was talking nonsense.

I ran my wing over them, feeling their softness—not exactly peacock material, but they were mine.

I took care of them. They were full, sure, just not flashy or colorful—maybe a bit dull, but they were me.

They had a gentle sheen, more subtle than showy, and I’d always liked them that way—quiet, but reliable.

"So, according to you guys, how should we compensate you?" I strutted past them, hopped into Dad’s old recliner, and sat down with a thud.

I planted myself in Dad’s old chair, chin up, daring them to answer. Let’s see what they came up with.

I looked at them with utter boredom, even stretching out my wings for effect.

I even yawned, just to drive the point home. Let them see I wasn’t rattled in the slightest.

"I heard the family’s safe is filled with rare treasures. Why not let us go in and pick a few?"

The nerve of these guys... I mean, really? They thought we’d just hand over the keys?

Wow, these guys were really shameless. I had to bite back a laugh. Unbelievable.

How did I not see how thick-skinned they were before? Some people just don’t quit.

I made a mental note—never underestimate greed again.

My mom and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Even Quinn snorted behind her hand. The whole thing was ridiculous.

"Pfft, then tell me, what do you want?" I said, stretching out on the recliner, as casual as could be.

Mom’s eyes twinkled with mischief. She was having as much fun as I was.

Quinn gently fanned me with a magazine, and I fussed with my feathers, pretending to be bored.

She whispered, “You’ve got this, Riley,” and I grinned, feeling a little boost.

The boys’ eyes lit up at my words, thinking I’d finally caved. As if.

They looked at each other, practically drooling. If only they knew.

The oldest pressed eagerly, "Why not let us take a look before deciding? I didn’t expect Riley to be so reasonable."

He leaned forward, trying to sound sweet, but all it did was make my skin crawl.

I chuckled and nodded my bird head, cursing him inwardly. Not a chance, pal.

I flashed him my best fake smile, holding it just long enough to let him know I was onto him.

Looking at his fake smile, I rolled my eyes—big and dramatic. Let him stew on that.

Want to enter our family’s safe? Dream on.

That safe was legendary—nobody but Dad had the code, not even Mom.

Even I’m not allowed in, and they think they can just waltz in?

I almost laughed out loud at the thought. The delusion.

"Maybe when I’m in a good mood. Today’s not it," I said, stretching out on the recliner.

I sprawled out, looking as bored as humanly possible. Good luck waiting, boys.

Hmph, I’m never in a good mood, so if they want to get in, maybe in their next life. Good luck with that.

I shot Quinn a look, and she barely held in her giggles. It was all I could do not to crack up myself.

The oldest, bless his heart, was about to ask when I’d be in a good mood, but the second one beat him to it, going red and flying into a rage: "You messing with us?"

He stomped his foot, face red as a tomato. I just shrugged. Not my problem.

I flicked my tail. Of course, I’m playing you. What did you expect?

I gave him a look that said, “What did you expect?” and waited for the meltdown.

The boys’ faces turned ashen, and my mom secretly gave me a thumbs-up from where they couldn’t see. Nice one, Mom.

She mouthed, “Nice one,” and I winked back, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

I shot her a look: no big deal. Just another day.

This was just another day in the life. Drama? Please, I was born for it.

But the second boy actually tried something in our own house, suddenly throwing a punch right at me. Bold move.

He lunged across the room, fist flying—like he thought he was in a movie or something.

My mom reacted fast and blocked it, flicking her hand and sending the second boy flying. He landed on the carpet, coughing and gasping.

She moved like lightning, catching his arm and twisting him aside. He hit the floor with a thud, groaning.

"How dare you hurt Riley even a little!" she thundered, voice echoing through the whole house.

When I was little, my cries sounded like "ree ree ree ree," so my mom gave me that nickname, which is a little embarrassing for no reason—but she still calls me that when she’s feeling mushy. I always cringe, but deep down, it’s kind of sweet.

But seeing my mom standing tall and fierce in front of me now, she seemed to glow. Ten feet tall, easy.

She looked ten feet tall, like a superhero straight out of a comic book.

I patted my chest, heart still racing, and shot the second boy a look as he struggled to get up.

He groaned, rolling over on the carpet. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Oh yeah, Mom is mighty. Second boy, you’d better be scared! Mess with me and you answer to her.

I flashed him a grin, just to rub it in. Serves him right.

Serves him right, that brainless fool. Maybe next time he’ll think twice.

He should’ve known better than to mess with my mom. Rookie mistake.

Doesn’t he know how much my mom dotes on me? It’s basically the first rule of the house.

It’s basically the first rule of the house: don’t mess with Riley unless you want the full wrath of Mom. Simple as that.

"What’s going on?" My dad strolled in with his hands behind his back, looking like he’d just come from the garage, flannel shirt and all.

He looked like he’d just come from the garage, still wearing his favorite old flannel, raising an eyebrow as he took in the scene.

He stepped disdainfully over the second boy on the ground and walked over to my mom and me, not even breaking stride.

He barely glanced at the groaning boy, like he was just another piece of furniture. Classic Dad.

My mom instantly switched from fierce to gentle, snuggling up to my dad, voice suddenly soft and sweet. Her signature move.

She slipped her hand into his, voice sugary sweet. "The second boy was rude, said our Riley was ugly, and even hurt me."

She showed him a tiny scratch on her arm, pouting for extra effect. She knew how to play it up.

My mom showed my dad a barely healed scratch, looking pitiful next to the second boy’s bruises. Dad frowned, inspecting her arm like it was a national emergency.

My dad, looking distressed, blew on my mom’s wound and spared a glance at the second boy, his face hardening.

He made a show of comforting Mom, then turned to the boy with a steely glare. “You better apologize to my wife,” he said, voice low.

"My wife’s delicate. She doesn’t take kindly to being hurt. Take the hint, Second Boy," he said, nodding solemnly, like a judge passing down a verdict.

The second boy was so angry he spat out another curse, but nobody paid him any mind.

He muttered something under his breath, but nobody cared. He was invisible now.

Seeing my dad’s calm, collected way of handling things, I felt a little small. Impressive, truly impressive.

Dad always did know how to keep his cool. I wished I could pull that off half as well.

Enjoying the drama, I piped up, "Dad, the boys also want to go into your safe and pick treasures." Couldn’t help myself.

I couldn’t help myself—I wanted to see their faces when Dad shut them down.

As soon as I finished, the rest of the boys just collapsed to the floor, like their strings had been cut.

One of them actually slid down the wall, clutching his chest. I almost lost it laughing.

Half an hour later, Uncle Henry and Aunt Victoria finally came barreling in, out of breath and looking like they’d run all the way from uptown.

They burst through the door, faces red, scanning the room for me.

Uncle Henry ignored his sons and rushed over with Aunt Victoria to check if I was hurt. Priorities, you know?

He knelt in front of me, eyes full of worry, while Aunt Victoria fussed over my feathers, smoothing them down with shaking hands.

After confirming I hadn’t lost a single feather, they both breathed a big sigh of relief.

Aunt Victoria hugged me tight, and Uncle Henry wiped his brow. “Thank goodness, Riley’s safe,” he said, looking like he’d just dodged a tornado.

Uncle Henry kicked the second boy, who had just gotten up, and yelled, "What’s wrong with your head?! How dare you lay a hand on Riley?"

He didn’t hold back—second boy yelped and scrambled away, tail between his legs.

I looked away, but I won’t lie—the memory of what he’d said earlier took the edge off my pity.

It was almost pitiful, but hey, karma’s a thing. He had it coming.

The boys had lost all their swagger, lying on the ground like scolded puppies, heads down, not daring to speak.

They looked like scolded puppies, heads down, not a peep out of them.

"Uncle Henry, I believe my cousins didn’t mean to call me ugly," I said, letting my voice wobble, blinking fast for effect. Aunt Victoria would be proud.

That’s right, here’s the truth: Uncle Henry is my uncle, and my mom is his biological sister. We’re thick as thieves in this family.

Our families were always close—holidays, birthdays, backyard barbecues, you name it. I was basically their daughter, too.

I grew up running between their house and mine, always underfoot somewhere.

Their kitchen always smelled like cinnamon rolls, and I had my own seat at their table. It was home away from home.

Uncle Henry and Aunt Victoria had no daughters, just a crew of boys.

I was the closest thing they had to a little girl, and they spoiled me rotten. No complaints here.

Since daughters are rare, they treated me like their own, and I lapped it up.

Aunt Victoria would buy me pretty hair ribbons and let me pick out my own birthday cake every year. I was living the dream.

Sure enough, Uncle Henry got even angrier, puffing up like a bullfrog, glaring at his sons.

"You dare call Riley ugly? Look at yourself, you look like a bruised squash!" he barked, jabbing a finger at the second boy, who shrank back.

The second boy pointed at me in disbelief, "Riley, ugly people cause trouble! You ugly bird, you framed me!" He sputtered, voice cracking. If he thought that would help, he was sorely mistaken.

"Good, say it to our faces now! You ungrateful brat!" Uncle Henry’s mustache twitched like it had a mind of its own.

Itching to smack him but at a loss, I helpfully handed him a wooden spoon from the kitchen counter, trying not to grin.

Use this, it’s handy, I mouthed, and Uncle Henry looked torn between scolding and laughing.

The second boy glared daggers at me, but I just smiled sweetly, shooting him a look and mouthing: Stand up if you can.

He tried, but Aunt Victoria pushed him right back down. No luck, buddy.

Aunt Victoria worried their words would cut me and kept comforting me, stroking my hair and whispering, “Don’t listen to them, honey. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

I kicked back and let her pop a grape into my mouth, savoring the sweet taste of victory as the boys got chewed out.

Honestly, what did that fancy title ever matter? I never cared. It was just something grown-ups talked about over coffee.

I’d always thought it was just a story, something the adults joked about at the diner.

With or without that title, I’m still the princess of the family, the darling of the neighborhood.

No prophecy could change that. I was loved, and that was enough for me.

But the boys’ motives? Couldn’t be clearer.

They wanted a shortcut to the top, and I was supposed to be their golden ticket. Too bad for them.

All that rushing to befriend me—wasn’t it just to keep anyone else from getting close first?

I remembered how they’d hover around me at every school dance, glaring at any boy who got too close. Talk about overprotective.

If I were the destined Queen of the Skies, my husband would be king by default. Small-town logic.

The town gossips loved to speculate. “Whoever marries Riley will rule the roost!” they’d say, winking over their pie.

In other words, whoever got me got the whole kingdom. Not a bad deal.

It was like I was the prize at the end of a carnival game. Step right up!

The boys went to great lengths but ended up with nothing, so now they hold a grudge. Can’t say I blame them.

I could see it in their eyes—all those years of trying, wasted.

I never cared about that prophecy; I truly have no desire to be Queen of the Skies. Never did.

I just wanted to be me, to live my own life and find my own happiness. Simple as that.

Looking at Aunt Victoria with her heavy makeup and jewelry, I patted her hand with my wing, feeling grateful for her kindness.

Her rings sparkled in the sunlight, and I squeezed her hand gently. She’d always been there for me.

I couldn’t help but sigh at how hard it is to be the Queen. It looked exhausting, not glamorous.

She always looked tired, juggling family events and community meetings. Not my idea of fun.

My mom said Aunt Victoria only sleeps three and a half hours a night before handling all the estate affairs. No thanks.

She’d be up before dawn, making calls and organizing bake sales. I admired her, but I never wanted her life.

I used to worry about how I could sleep more if I inherited the position. Now? Not my problem.

I’d much rather sleep in and let someone else handle the drama. I’m good.

I’m completely free. For once, I could breathe easy.

For the first time, I felt a real sense of relief. Let someone else wear the crown.

The exhausted Uncle Henry slumped in a chair, drinking coffee with my dad, occasionally stroking my feathers like it calmed him down.

He absentmindedly petted my head, lost in thought, while Dad refilled his mug and offered him a donut.

"How old is Riley now?" Uncle Henry squinted at my still-untransformed body, frowning deeply.

"Over thirty," I replied, trying to sound proud, but it came out a little sheepish.

Uncle Henry’s frown deepened, and he whispered a few words to my parents. I caught “late bloomer” and “Professor Simmons” in there.

After the three of them nodded slightly, Uncle Henry looked a bit relieved, straightening up like a weight had been lifted.

"The energy at Mr. Carter’s place is the strongest. It’ll help Riley transform, and Carter is knowledgeable and powerful. Riley can learn a lot from him," he said, like it was a done deal. Didn’t even ask me.

My dad stroked his beard in agreement, trusting Uncle Henry’s judgment, especially on family matters.

Ignored, I raised my bird head and thought, Gee, thanks for asking me.

Mr. Carter? The name alone made my feathers stand on end. He was a legend—mysterious, powerful, and, let’s be real, a little scary.

A pair of cold eyes flashed in my mind; looking into them felt like my soul was being seen through. I shivered, remembering the one time I’d crossed his path.

They said he’d single-handedly stopped a feud that had lasted generations—people still whispered about it at the diner.

His house was at the edge of town, surrounded by tall pines. Kids dared each other to run up to his porch and knock, but nobody ever did.

When I was young and mischievous, I wandered into Carter’s backyard by accident. With just one look, I was so scared I had a high fever for three days. My parents still tell that story at family gatherings.

His presence was overwhelming; it lingered for a long time. Even now, thinking about it made my feathers stand on end.

I was so frightened I knocked over Uncle Henry’s teacup. As a bird, could I refuse? Not a chance.