There weren't any words to describe what he was seeing. Human faces twisted in agony as their screams ricocheted along the field, bloodied arms and severed legs floating on the runny gunk of blood and mud that had become the ground, and worst of all...bird feathers dropping from the sky like falling stars.

Mory choked on the hysterical tears building up on his throat, his own wings aching and battered from the constant assault of arrows and spears he did his best to avoid.

He saw another friend fall, trailing fears all throughout the descent. By the looks of the arrow on her wing, she would be lucky to be able to move it in the future, never mind flapping with the strength needed to keep her afloat.
She would never fly again.

For his people,

losing the ability to fly was a fate worse than death. He turned away before seeing her reach the ground.

It was then that he was the insect-man soldier sneak up on his father's unprotected back. Time stopped.

He saw the soldier's twisted face of disdain, the red tattoo he had carved on his wasp wings, the glinting knife he held in his hand. He saw his father turn—too slowly, much too slowly—as the wasp soldier plunged the knife into his back.

Mory saw his father drop to his knees and fall limp on the ground.

The wasp soldier then turned, and smiled at him evilly. It was then that Mory saw the emblem on his uniform: Chief Commander of the 59th insect battalion.

Mory screamed in rage.
He was still screaming when he woke up.