THE OMEN GIRL | Wattys 2020 Winner

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The boy with the too long neck and too large ears has a name: Naqi.

He's an acolyte of the Temple of Celestial Ichor, the holy temple in the heart of the city of Tall Titan. The city gets its name from the temple, I think, because the temple looms tall like a titan, because in the center of the temple is the eye of one.

I don't know if the eye really exists. Titans aren't real, after all.

Moving before us near the training pit, Naqi is preparing for his demonstration. He was sent here to show us what flying a true anchor will be like. He is to show us a star-bonding.

According to his self-introduction, he likes birds and sunflower seeds and long walks by the artificial sea sector. According to the gossip around the school, he's one of the best fliers in the temple. A true contender, they say, for winning the race. He knows all the starsongs by heart. He flies so fast, so sure, the whistle of his flying can cut.

He smiles a lot, that's all I know. His black eyes curve into crescents with his smile, and his skin is sun-kissed. He's still smiling as he says, "I'll blow through the basics since everyone is familiar."

He nudges the silver anchor by his feet, a real one, not like the training ones we use. It's in the shape of a surfboard like most anchors are, but curved up at the head where the metal globe of the engine lock is – a kind of woven cage where the star is held. Above the lock is a metal railing, to grip for balance.

He points to the lock and says, "Engine, where the star goes, so that its blood – its ichor – can be pumped out, enabling flight."

In his hand is a whistle-sling. In its pouch is a star. The misshapen pearl of its body is dim, and like glass. It is asleep.

It blurs out of view because the boy is swinging his sling round and around. The sling whistles. The whistle thickens into a hum. The gathered crowd are oohing and aahing, and pressing closer to see, and so the boy smiles ever wider. He swings his sling in a figure eight, then passes it from hand to hand all spin and flair. He's showing off. He's laughing while he does.

I had no idea boys could be so annoying. Khab, is what we would call him on the streets. A fool.

"Rotating force wakes the star and activates its fire. Like this. Stay back."

Naqi quickens his pace. With four firm swings, the star bursts into light and life, the sound like a flare being struck. Liquid fire sloshes white, then ebbs away. The skin of the star swirls with a metal iridescence.

It is beautiful. Otherworldly. The people around me have broken into applause, and I want to. My heart aches to. But admitting to beauty is something like a weakness; I've never been allowed weaknesses.

"Once the star is on, whip it into the lock, like so."

The boy twists his torso and hip and slams the pouch of his sling into the lock. The metal teeth of the lock clangs open then shut over the star. The cord of the sling, still connected to the star, is left exposed outside the lock.

"Don't be afraid to use the full force of your body. The star can handle it. And never touch the lock once a lit-star is in there, unless you fancy yourself a hand-barbecue." He smiles again. The crowd laughs.

"Step onto the anchor, like so." Naqi steps onto the glider, facing the side and slightly crouched, like one would with a longboard. Then slowly, slowly, ichor bleeds gold through the cord.

It shifts and moves, and laces itself around Naqi's leg. It winds there, and tightens. With a sigh, with a blooming like the coming dawn, Naqi becomes like the sun. Light spills through him and swallows him whole. It brightens and dims with his breath, in and out, blinding, then only almost-blinding.