A Firm Foothold

Stiffness gives way. A low rumble catches in my throat. I lower my raised wings slightly, feeling the soft ridges beneath my claws. The ground here is not stone—it yields under my weight. Cautiously, I press one clawed foot deeper into the embroidered swirl stitched onto the fabric. It depresses with a gentle rustle, holding steady. I sink into a lower stance, observing the curving lines around me.