My whole life, I’ve never been able to fit in. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re a half-demon living with angels.

I should probably explain.

My name is Janardan. I was raised in an orphanage in Brecht, the kingdom of angels. The only reason I’m here is because the angels don’t know what to do with me. I’m half angel and half demon. The first of my kind, which means they don’t know what I’m capable of. And that scares them.

I’ve never actually left Brecht, so I know pretty much jack shit about the outside world. All I know is that angels rule pretty much everything.

But that changes tonight. After a long eighteen years of being the angels’ science project under the cover of the orphanage, I finally have a chance to escape.

I carefully retrieve my worn satchel from the loose floorboard under my bed, dumping its contents out onto the carpet. I gingerly run my fingers over a single gold earring. It’s probably the most beautiful thing I own. A spherical stud with two thin chains hanging from the center, one a bit longer than the other. The shorter one has a small star, and the longer one a moon. It’s all I have from my parents.

After a few more moments admiring the earring, I put it on and return to my small pile of junk strewn across the floor. I grab a simple white-gold ring and slip in on my finger, turning to look at myself in the mirror. No wings. Perfect. I shove the rest of the trinkets back into my bag and throw it over my shoulder, then pry back another floorboard. I take out a light, midnight blue cloak and fasten it around my neck, pulling the hood over my face. Before I put the floorboard back, I pull out a beautiful sheathed sword made of enchanted crystal that I stole from a palace guard a few years back. I tie it around my waist and then quietly let the board slip back into place.

I break the lock on the window with a satisfying crunch and climb onto the tiny decorative balcony, my bare feet balancing on the thin rails. The second I step out, an alarm blares throughout the building. I stare over the edge, down the cliff that supposedly leads to the ground. As always, though, all I see are the clouds, now faintly lit by the moon overhead. I stretch my now-hidden wings tenderly, and a ripple of pain shoots down my right side, nearly causing me to lose my balance. Every two weeks, they clip my right wing. It just so happened to be today.

Gritting my teeth, I push off from the railing and tuck my wings in, falling into a half dive. The wind against my wings and face is cold and sharp, but I’ve never felt anything that made me feel quite so alive. Clouds embrace me, and I can’t see anything except deep grey. Finally, I break out of the cloud and the sight before me nearly takes my breath away. As apposed to the rocky terrain of the mountain, the land before me is painted with hills, valleys, rivers, and forests as far as I can see.

I can hear muffled shouting coming from above, so I pull my wings closer and find myself falling much faster than a was before. Just as I’m about to hit the ground, I open my wings and catch myself abruptly, causing a bolt of pain in my wing that nearly causes me to faceplant. I manage to get my grip, though, and shakily glide across the open field. I turn back and see angels bursting through the clouds, and immediately regret my decision. At best, I have a minute before they catch up with me, so I need to get into the forest and find a good hiding place before then.

A few feet away from the first trees, I lower myself down and land in the grass. It feels amazing on my feet, but I ignore it and continue running as the forest around me gets thicker. I know for a fact that the angels won’t be able to fly with this many trees, but I don’t slow down. They’re faster than me on foot, too, without a doubt.

After a good five minutes of running, I come to a small, vine-covered gazebo in the middle of the woods. It’s stunning. The gazebo faces a small lake, maybe ten yards across, and on the other side is an old willow tree. I clear the lake in one bound, hurtling through the long leaves of the willow. Once inside, I slow to a stop, allowing myself time to look around.

The leaves graze the ground and are think enough to create decent cover. The trunk is gnarled and old, and the branches swirl around each other like smoke. I place a palm on the bark and close my eyes.

Please grant me shelter, I whisper into the breeze, and a few branches gently wrap around me and lift me into the upper canopy. They weave themselves together and create a hammock, which I fall into with a shaky sigh. The willow drapes more of her leaves around me, and I allow myself to drift off to sleep with the warm embrace of the willow tree and the flickering lights of fireflies to keep me company.