Patrol came early tonight, but I carried more than courage—I carried garland. Twisted gold and pine-scented rope, strong enough to hold even against the wind.

I flew from cliff to cliff, tying loops along the ridge. Each knot felt like a promise: to protect, to celebrate, to remember. When the garland caught the moonlight, it shimmered like a quiet parade just for the stars.

The wind saluted as I passed. I saluted back. Some battles are fought with strength, but the best victories come from keeping traditions alive.

Tomorrow, the Peaks will wake to color across the sky. That’s my kind of flight plan.

The Heights feel heavier now that winter waits below. Each breath works a bit harder, so each one matters. I stretch my wings and taste the cold air—it tastes like promise.

I patrol the ridge, claws clicking on rock, listening for trouble that never comes. Being ready is my way to say thanks. The Peaks trust me to keep them safe, and that trust warms more than any fire.

Down in the valley, lanterns flicker like little stars that forgot to rise. I guard them from afar, a quiet flame keeping watch over smaller ones.

Gratitude isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s the steady feeling that you did your job—and even the wind knows it.

I chose a high ledge where the wind speaks plainly. No beacon tonight—just stones, dry tinder, and a promise I made to the Peaks. Readiness is its own kind of light.

Clouds gathered and tried their tricks, pushing and tugging at my feathers. I adjusted my stance, breathed, and let the gust pass through me. Courage isn’t noise. It’s the steady part that stays when the noise leaves.

I walked the ridge, eyes on the passes and the long road below. No danger, only distance. That’s when the work feels biggest: when you stand guard and nothing happens because you stood guard.

Dawn touched the cliff and turned one feather edge to gold. Not a blaze—just proof. Oath kept. Heights safe. On we go.

The Heights never stop moving. The air tumbles and twists like it wants to test me, but I’ve learned to answer with steady wings. Courage isn’t about pretending the wind can’t push you—it’s about leaning into it until it becomes your partner.

This morning a storm tried to chase me down the ridge. Lightning flashed below, showing the valley’s teeth. I tucked my claws, folded my wings, and dove right through the gray. For a heartbeat, I was nothing but sound and feather. When I burst into sunlight again, the clouds applauded with thunder. Show-offs.

I landed on a cliff ledge slick with rain and laughed until my chest hurt. The world smelled sharp and clean. I whispered a promise to the wind: “You test me, I’ll keep learning.”

Every day brings a new gust trying to prove it’s stronger. That’s fine. So am I.