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Now my body harbors irrefutable evidence of connection—proof that no matter how high I build my walls, I'm not truly separate from the world around me.
4
ARATON
The sunlight filtering through New Solas' crystal spires transforms ordinary light into a kaleidoscope of color across the marble floor. I move through Lord Valterian's grand reception hall with practiced ease, weaving between clusters of Aerasak's elite like I was born to these circles. In many ways, I was—just never quite belonging to them.
"Velrien." Lord Valterian himself nods as I pass, his wings folded neatly against his back in the formal manner of old xaphan families. "Your message to House Davariel was well received."
I return the nod, offering the precise depth of bow required—enough to show respect without seeming subservient. "Lord Ithuriel will be pleased to hear it. The trade route expansion benefits us all, particularly with the new tariff arrangements."
"Indeed." His eyes flick over my shoulder, where his daughter hovers by the refreshment table, pretending not to watch our exchange. "Seraphina has been asking after you."
Of course she has. "Lady Seraphina honors me with her attention," I respond smoothly, the diplomatic words flowing asnaturally as breathing. What I don't say: that her attention is as unwanted as it is persistent.
Valterian's lips twitch, seeing through the polite deflection. "She's wearing new jewels tonight. Bloodstones from the far reaches of The Ridge. Perhaps you might compliment them."
The invitation—or rather, command—couldn't be clearer. I incline my head once more. "I would be remiss not to acknowledge such fine taste."
As Valterian strides away, satisfied with my acquiescence, I flex my wings slightly, the silver flecks catching light as I adjust their position against my back. The formal robes of New Solas nobility are designed to showcase our wings, with openings that frame them rather than conceal. My own attire, while rich enough to move comfortably among the elite, carries subtle markers of my lesser status—the embroidery stopping short of the shoulders, the slightly less vibrant blue of the fabric.
None of that matters when I speak. Words have always been my true currency, and in New Solas, they spend remarkably well.
I make my way to Seraphina, aware of the eyes tracking my movements. Three noblewomen near the eastern archway turn their heads in perfect unison as I pass, their whispers following like perfume. I've heard the things they say—how my voice alone can draw blood to the surface, how my smile promises pleasures undiscovered.
How everyone wants to bed me when I'm only thinking of one person.
I offer them a brief nod of acknowledgment, just enough to send a flush crawling up the youngest one's neck.
"Lord Velrien." Seraphina practically purrs the title I don't officially hold but everyone uses anyway. She extends her hand, a cascade of silver bracelets tinkling with the movement. "I feared you might miss tonight's gathering."
"And miss the opportunity to pay respects to your esteemed father? Never." I take her hand, brushing my lips over her knuckles with calculated brevity. Her wings flutter slightly—a response she can't control, and one that would mortify her if she realized how transparent it makes her desire.
"Your bloodstones are exquisite," I continue, releasing her hand before she can trap mine. "The craftsmanship rivals the best I've seen in Soimur."
She preens, deliberately angling her neck so the stones catch the light. "They're from a new source Lord Ithuriel may find interesting. The yield is remarkable."
Business and seduction, always hand in hand in New Solas. I tilt my head, allowing interest to show in my expression while keeping my posture neutral. "Tell me more."
This is the dance—give them enough rope to believe they're leading you where they want to go, while actually guiding them precisely where you intend. By the time Seraphina finishes describing the mining operation—valuable intelligence for Lord Ithuriel—she believes it was her idea to confide in me.
"You always understand the value of these things," she murmurs, stepping closer than propriety allows. "Others see only pretty trinkets."
"Beauty has many forms." I reach for a crystal goblet of amber liquid from a passing server, using the motion to create distance between us. "As does value."
Her wings extend slightly—an unconscious display meant to attract. "Perhaps we might discuss both in more private surroundings. Father has opened the eastern gardens for tonight's guests."
The invitation hangs between us, perfumed with intent. In her mind, I'm already accepting, already following her between the neatly trimmed nimond hedges to some secluded alcovewhere she'll press those bloodstone-adorned fingers against my chest.
Instead, I smile—the particular smile that suggests intimacy while promising nothing. "Another time, perhaps. Lord Ithuriel has tasked me with speaking to at least four houses tonight regarding the summit preparations."
Disappointment flashes across her features before she masks it with practiced indifference. "Duty first, as always. How admirable."
I salute her with my goblet. "The burden of service."
As I move away, I catch my reflection in one of the polished quartz columns. The golden eyes that stare back at me reveal nothing of my thoughts, nothing of the strange restlessness that's been weighing my steps through these gilded halls. Nothing of how, despite all the wings fluttering in my presence, my mind keeps drifting to a pair of defiant gray eyes in a village a day's flight from here.
Three more noblewomen attempt to corner me before I reach Lord Kassian of House Meriden. One "accidentally" brushes her wing against mine—an intimacy that would scandalize the older generation—while another simply states that her private quarters offer the finest view of the crystal falls, should I wish to see them.