Page 29 of Court of Twisted Angels (Cruel Beautiful Angels of Aerasak #1)

29

KYRIE

T he cobblestones beneath my feet have worn smoother since I left, or perhaps my stride has changed. Lantern flames dance in brass fixtures along the narrow street, their magical glow casting long shadows across weathered buildings. The vial of medicine weighs heavy in my pocket, its contents gleaming with an iridescent sheen.

Aerasak's outer district stretches before me, a maze of crooked buildings with clay-tiled roofs that lean into each other like tired old men. Wooden beams creak overhead where laundry lines stretch between windows, sheets and tunics swaying in the evening breeze. The scent of fresh bread from Madame Loire's bakery mingles with woodsmoke and the ever-present tang of iron from the forges.

A group of children dash past, their bare feet pattering against stone as they chase a glowing orb - a simple magic toy crafted from spare conduit fragments. Their laughter echoes off the walls, reminding me of easier days.

"Kyrie? By the gods, is that you?"

Old man Thaddeus peers out from his workshop, his leather apron stained with dyes from the fabrics he mends. The conduit bracelet on his wrist glows faintly as he works, threading magic through torn garments.

"Can't stay to chat, Thaddeus. Mother needs her medicine."

"Of course, of course. But child, you look..." His voice trails off as I pass.

I know what he sees - the wings at my back. It must be a lot for the people of my small village.

I wish Azrael was here, but he'll be here in a few days. I insisted that I come see my family first, to heal my mother. She won't want to be on death's doorstep when she meets him. It took a lot of convincing for him to agree.

Our family home comes into view at the end of Thistle Lane. It's smaller than I remember, the stone walls weathered and the wooden shutters hanging crooked. Herbs still grow in mother's window boxes, though they're wilting now without her care. The protection ward above our door pulses with a weak blue light, nearly spent from lack of maintenance.

My hand trembles as I reach for the iron door handle. The box of medicine is clutched in my hand, a reminder of everything I endured to obtain it. Home feels different now - like a childhood dress that no longer fits quite right.

I push open the door, ducking beneath the low wooden beam. The scent of meadowmint tea wafts from the kitchen, along with hushed voices that fall silent at my entrance.

"I'm home," I call out, my voice rougher than it used to be.

Footsteps shuffle across creaking floorboards. My younger sister Mira appears first, a cup of steaming tea slipping from her fingers to shatter on the floor. Her green eyes - so like mine once were - go wide as saucers.

"Kyrie?" she whispers.

The wings at my back shift, iridescent feathers catching the lamplight in shades of blue and lilac. They're still new, still tender where they emerged from my shoulder blades. I have to angle them carefully to fit through the narrow doorway.

My father appears next, his weathered face pale beneath his beard. The conduit band on his wrist flickers erratically, responding to his shock. He reaches for the doorframe to steady himself.

"Sweet gods above," he breathes.

"Where's Mother?" I ask, pulling out the vial of medicine. The crystalline liquid inside catches the light, throwing rainbow patterns across the wall.

"Here, my love." Her voice comes weak from the bedroom. I move toward it, my wings folding tight against my back, but my father steps between us.

"What happened to you?" His eyes trace the silvery scars that spiral up my arms, the strange metallic sheen that now ripples through my auburn hair. "Your eyes..."

I catch my reflection in the tarnished mirror by the door - eyes that now swirl with threads of gold, mixing with forest green they once were. The transformation had been gradual during the trials, each challenge leaving its mark.

"Let me pass," I say softly. "Mother needs her medicine."

Mira reaches out to touch my wing but pulls back at the last moment, as if afraid they might burn her. The fear in her eyes cuts deeper than any trial wound.

"I'm still me," I tell them, but even I hear the change in my voice - the echo of power that now threads through every word.

I kneel beside Mother's bed, my wings carefully tucked against my back to avoid knocking over the collection of herb-filled clay pots on the bedside table. The sheets rustle as she turns toward me, her face gaunt and pale in the glow of the enchanted crystals Father keeps lit day and night.

"The medicine," I whisper, uncorking the vial. The liquid inside ripples with swirls of silver and blue, casting strange patterns across Mother's sunken cheeks. My hands shake as I slip an arm beneath her shoulders, helping her sit up against the worn pillows.

"Your wings..." She reaches out with trembling fingers.

"Later. Drink first."

The glass is cool against her cracked lips as I tip it carefully. Each precious drop gleams as it falls, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. The medicine from New Solas carries its own magic - I can feel it humming against my palm through the vial, resonating with my conduit band.

Father paces by the window, his footsteps creaking on the ancient floorboards. Mira hovers in the doorway, clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders. The protection ward above Mother's bed flickers weakly, its blue light pulsing in time with her labored breathing.

Mother's eyes drift closed as the last drops pass her lips. I set the empty vial aside, watching intently for any change. The silence in the room feels heavy enough to touch.

Seconds stretch into minutes. The herb bundles hanging from the ceiling beams cast strange shadows in the crystal light. Mother's breathing remains shallow, her skin still carrying that sickly grey pallor. My wings twitch with nervous energy, sending ripples through the air that make the crystal lights dance.

"How long?" Father's voice barely carries across the room.

"The apothecary said..." I swallow hard, remembering the xaphan's cold smile as he handed over the medicine. "He said we would know within days if it worked."

Mother's fingers tighten around mine. We wait.

The next morning, Mother's skin feels cooler under my touch as I change her compress. The fever that's plagued her for months has begun to retreat. Tiny sparks of magic dance between her fingers as her natural connection to the elements starts flowing again.

"The tea," she whispers, pointing to the ceramic pot steeping on the windowsill. Meadowmint leaves swirl in the golden liquid, releasing their healing properties into the water. I pour her a cup, supporting her head as she drinks.

"Your wings catch the light so beautifully," she murmurs between sips. "Like moonbeams on water."

I flex them unconsciously, sending ripples of silver light across the bedroom walls. The motion dislodges a dried lavender bundle hanging from the ceiling beam. Its purple blossoms scatter across the quilt, filling the air with their soothing scent.

By the third day, Mother sits up on her own. She stays awake for hours, talking to us, and the whole family sits to hear me recount the trials.

"Help me to the garden," she says on the fourth morning. I steady her as she walks, her steps growing stronger with each passing hour. The protection ward above our door pulses brighter as we pass beneath it, responding to her renewed energy.

In the small courtyard behind our house, Mother's herb garden has started to revive. The withered plants straighten and unfurl their leaves as she approaches, responding to her presence like flowers turning toward the sun. She kneels carefully in the soil, pressing her palms against the earth. Magic flows from her fingers into the roots, and fresh green shoots push through the dirt.

"The plants remember," she says, smiling as mint and thyme spread new tendrils across the garden bed. "They just needed a reminder to grow."

I watch her work, my wings curved protectively around us both. The weight of worry that's sat heavy in my chest for so long finally begins to lift, like morning mist burning away in sunlight.

By the fifth day, she is up each morning and more than eager to meet my soul bound today. I am all too eager to see him, starting to feel sick from being away from him for so long. The thought almost makes me laugh, but it's true.

I smooth my dress nervously as Azrael ducks through our low doorway, his magnificent white wings folding tight against his back. The golden threads in his formal xaphan attire catch the light from our humble crystal lamps, making him seem to glow.

"Mother, Father... this is Azrael." My voice wavers slightly. "He helped me through the trials." I swallow hard. "Now, we are soul bound."

Father's brow furrows as he takes Azrael in. Mother sets down her cup of meadowmint tea, her keen eyes taking in every detail of the imposing xaphan who fills our small sitting room.

"You're the one who trained my daughter?" Father's voice carries an edge.

Azrael inclines his head, somehow managing to look regal even in our cramped space. "I saw her potential. Her determination to save you," he nods to Mother, "impressed me."

"And what do you want in return?" Father's hand strays to the protection ward carved into our doorframe.

"Father-" I start, but Azrael's cool voice cuts through.

"Nothing." His ice-blue eyes meet Father's steadily. "I fell in love with Kyrie. Now, all I want is to see her safe and happy."

Mother rises slowly from her chair, still regaining her strength. She approaches Azrael without fear, studying his wings, then mine. "They match," she observes softly. "Like moonlight and starlight."

"A rare occurrence," Azrael admits. "When a human earns their wings, they usually take on common colors. But Kyrie..." His voice softens when he says my name. "She proved exceptional in many ways."

Mira emerges from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea, nearly dropping it when she sees how Azrael's wings brush our ceiling. But she recovers quickly, pouring him a cup with trembling hands.

"Thank you." His formal manner gentles as he accepts the cup. Mira's eyes go wide at being addressed directly by a xaphan.

"So, Azrael?" Mother asks, settling back in her chair. "Tell us about you. I want to hear all about your family and how you met Kyrie."

I tense, but Azrael's hand finds mine, his touch steady and grounding. His wing shifts to brush against mine - a gesture of support that sends tingles down my spine.

And with him, I remember I never have to do anything alone again.