A pair of feet dangled over the edge of a cliff dozens of meters high, shaped like an eagle's beak. They swung back and forth, now and then.
Tufts of frayed fibers stuck out unevenly around the edges of brown leather boots. Rough but sturdy training pants and a shirt hung loosely on Warren Worthington.
His feathered wings, wrapped tightly in layers of bandages, were strapped to his back like two enormous cocoons. The morning sun fell on Warren's face and illuminated a hawk soaring in the distance, which he gazed at.
Warren casually plucked a blade of grass from beside him and stuck it between his teeth. Gone were the daily, meticulous grooming and care; now there was only the scorching sun, gravel, and the wear and tear of fists and feet. His fair, handsome face had changed beyond recognition.
The wind on the mountain was strong. Sitting on the cliff's edge with the breeze in his face gave him a faint sense of what flying had once felt like. But a voice that suddenly emerged amid the fine threads of wind startled Warren so badly he nearly slid off the cliff.
"Do you remember how you felt the first time you flew?"
James's calm, measured words made the question sound like an ordinary statement. Without making a sound, he sat down on the cliff's edge too. This was the best lookout in the mountains around the old estate, a place James had loved coming to since he was very young.
"Mr. Howlett—pff—Mr. Howlett!"
Warren hurriedly spat out the blade of grass. Then, acting on instinct, he ran a hand through his unruly, newly grown golden hair and tried to push himself to his feet.
"Sit. Let's talk."
James waved a hand casually. Sitting beside Warren, he seemed like