Fifteen years ago the whole world feared the Black Seven. Mothers would whisper into their son’s ears, “Behave or the Black Wings will come on the night winds and take you.” We would descend from the tops of the tallest trees in the carroway forests in the dead of night, but only on nights when the winds blew strongest. We could travel for miles on a storm front in search of our prey and ride the currents back home when our job was completed. We were called the Black Seven, the Wings of the Carroway, the Black Atani, and a dozen other names. To each other, we were simply the forest that we lived in. I was the Wrath of Maroa, one of the great Atani assassins.