A Steady Grip

Stillness broke. My wings shifted, slight and crisp. Beneath my claws, the dark wood felt solid. Ahead stood a tall white bottle, cool and towering like a cliffside. I stepped forward, measured and calm, and pressed my wingtip against its smooth plastic wall. A dull hollow tap echoed softly. I lowered my stance, surveyed the glossy plain of the tabletop, and held my ground.