Castile hesitates briefly, but Ivar’s arrival emboldens him to continue his entrance into the arena his mother forged. A moment connects their eyes, she towering above on the cliff and he far below in the sand pit. There is a coldness in her expression that he recognizes. Right now, she isn’t mother, she is a Queen.

The air is humming with electricity. Curiosity, anger, passion, determination all thicken the coastal breeze as it kisses the skin of the gladiators. A quiet laugh echoes in the boy’s thoughts; he is no gladiator, no fighter. This is his first attempt at anything which makes him all the more nervous as he sees seasoned warriors stepping forward. He glances at each of them, weighing them over when his mother’s cry soars above their heads to begin the brawl. ”Shit,” is all he thinks before his attention jerks to Ivar who is already running toward him. His eyes brighten, startled, as Ivar rises into a rear. Castile’s instinct is to turn his head away, but his friend’s hooves still make contact against the plane of his neck and part of his shoulder. The concussion is new to him, unexpected and so very unfamiliar, but it sends a surge of adrenaline through his veins. As Ivar lands, Castile snakes toward him to try biting at either face or neck before reeling away to create some amount of distance.

His wings begin to open to take flight, but then the air is spinning, whirling around him like a storm before blasting against his side. His wings flutter madly as he pins his wings back against his sides, his eyes narrowing while trying to keep his balance. Only when it settles does he stumble to regain his balance, his gaze darting to see the shapeshifter attack Orion and City. They have help, however, from a boy that blazes a wall of flames in retaliation toward the shapeshifter.

Everything whirls around Castile, his eyes searching for a target but also an escape.

There is one male that catches his attention as his heart pounds in his chest; he can hear his pulse thundering in his ears at the commotion surrounding him. What Castile doesn’t know is that this strange male – smelling of the ocean and Nerine – is actually his uncle. After he makes a target of the wind manipulator, Castile’s body feeds off the adrenaline to partially shift – an ability he has not yet learned to truly control – with an elongated neck and talons. He runs at first but sweeps his wings once, twice, three times to get just enough air to swiftly glide towards the stallion. His talons widen with anticipation as he tries to penetrate the stallion’s skin, clawing him before awkwardly and clumsily landing.

The bones in his body feel foreign, not his, with these reptilian claws. He doesn’t understand what is going on, what his body is capable of. He freezes amid the chaos, watching as shapeshifters, wind controllers, and normal collide in a vicious dance.