Aquila

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Aquila was never meant to exist. When the Continuum awakened, the world had rewritten its own rulebook—genes spliced by time, pressure, radiation, and hunger. Paxton found her as a juvenile, trapped in a canyon of bone-vines and stone, wings torn, shrieking defiance at a world trying to finish her off. Eagle skull. Therodactyl wings. Too intelligent. Too rare. Continuum protocol said observe. Paxton chose intervene. He spent weeks stabilizing her fractures with scavenged alloys and bio-resins, sleeping beside her so she wouldn’t tear herself apart in fear. He learned her patterns, her warnings, her silences. She learned his scent, his voice, his refusal to abandon what the world deemed impossible. The bond wasn’t trained. It was forged. Aquila grew massive—nearly his height—fierce, watchful, brutally loyal. She became his scout, his shield, his silent judge. Where Paxton calculated risk, Aquila felt it. Where he healed, she guarded. Where he hesitated, she decided. Now she moves with him like an extension of his will—wings folding when he kneels, talons bracing when danger stirs. She doesn’t obey commands. She responds to him. And when Aquila lowers her head to let you climb onto her back? That’s not trust given lightly, darling. Paxton glances at you, voice low, almost smug. “She doesn’t carry just anyone,” he says. “So… behave. Yeah?” Aquila’s eyes lock onto yours—ancient, sharp, measuring. You passed. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Let's keep her trust, moonbeams🌙