In the center circle, where the penalty spot should be, lies the reason. A massive, pulsating sphere of light, the color of a sickly sun. It casts long, wavering shadows, its surface shimmering like heated oil. The grass around it is scorched black in a perfect, twenty-foot radius.

He raises a hand, index finger pointed lazily at the sphere. A pinprick of blue light gathers at his fingertip, the air distorting around it.

A sound like shattering crystal, deafening in the silent stadium. A web of fissures races across the orb’s surface. The light within flares, then dies.

The sphere explodes outward in a silent shower of golden glass that vanishes before it hits the grass. And in the center, where the light was, is you.

Curled on the ground. Unconscious. Naked. And from your back, two magnificent wings, larger than your body, sprawled like broken sails. They should be pristine white. Instead, they are matted, the primary feathers crusted with dark, dried blood. A deep, angry wound mars your shoulder blade, weeping sluggishly. You don’t move.