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Eventually, Millie's yawns become too frequent to ignore. I gather her up, bundle her into her little cloak despite her sleepy protests that she's not tired, and we say our goodbyes.
"See you tomorrow?" Harmony asks, squeezing my hand.
"Of course."
Outside, the western sky bleeds orange and pink as Millie's weight grows heavier in my arms. Our little house waits at the edge of the village, smoke curling from the chimney where my stew simmers.
"Home, Mama," Millie mumbles against my neck, her wings twitching slightly beneath her cloak as she drifts toward sleep.
"Yes, my pretty girl," I whisper, my throat suddenly tight. "We're going home."
12
ARATON
The sky bleeds crimson as I finish securing the last of my belongings to the saddle. Years of accumulated life packed into leather saddlebags—pitiful, really. My zarryn shifts impatiently beneath the weight, pawing at the cobblestones with one silver hoof. The beast senses my mood, as they always do.
"Easy," I murmur, running a hand along its shaggy neck.
Behind me, Ithuriel's estate rises like a monument to everything I'm leaving behind. Gray stone walls, elegant spires, meticulously manicured gardens—a fortress of nobility that once represented opportunity. Now it's just stone and mortar, empty without the presence that gave it meaning.
Lord Ithuriel. Dead three weeks now. The illness took him quickly, at least. Small mercies.
"Lord Velrien."
I turn to find Saresh approaching, her slim figure elegantly draped in the dark blue mourning colors of House Ithuriel. As the late lord's personal secretary, she's been working tirelessly to manage the transition of power.
"Just Araton now," I correct her, adjusting a strap unnecessarily. "The 'lord' was always honorary anyway."
She reaches into the folds of her robe, withdrawing a small wooden box. "Lady Ithuriel insisted you take this."
I accept it with a nod, thumbing open the clasp. Inside rests a signet ring bearing House Ithuriel's crest—an eagle clutching a sword. My throat tightens.
"Tell her it's unnecessary."
"She said you'd say that." A rare smile flickers across Saresh's severe features. "She also said to remind you that Ithuriel considered you the son he never had. The ring isn't charity—it's recognition."
I close the box with a sharp snap, tucking it into my inner pocket before my face can betray me. Twenty-three years of carefully constructed charm, of never letting anyone see beneath the polished exterior, and here I am, undone by a piece of metal.
"The new Lord Ithuriel has asked me to remind you that his offer stands," Saresh continues. "Chief diplomatic advisor would suit your talents well."
"His nephew is capable." I secure the final strap. "He doesn't need me watching over his shoulder."
"The Houses of Evarith and Dornaal have also sent inquiries regarding your availability."
I can't resist a smile. "Those birds circle quickly."
"Your reputation precedes you."
And there's the crux of it. My reputation. The charming, silver-tongued negotiator who can talk his way through any diplomatic crisis. The man who secured three key trade agreements for Soimur through nothing but charisma and calculated risks. Lord Ithuriel's secret weapon.
That reputation feels like someone else's skin stretched over my bones now.
"My answer remains the same." I check the saddle one final time. "I appreciate the interest, but I need... space."
"Space," Saresh repeats, skepticism etched in the arch of her eyebrow. "You've never struck me as a man who enjoys solitude, Araton."
I spread my wings slightly, letting the dying sunlight catch the silver flecks scattered among the dusky gray feathers. They itch for flight, for open sky, for something I can't articulate.