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ARATON

T he mountain roads on the way to New Solas are rugged and unforgiving, even to those with the advantage of wings.

I've been forced to land three times already because of sudden wind gusts powerful enough to snap a xaphan's wing if they're not careful.

The satchel full of Lord Ithuriel's correspondence weighs heavy against my hip, the brass clasp digging uncomfortably through my tunic.

A particularly important parcel sits nestled inside, wrapped in gold-leaf paper that costs more than most humans make in a year.

Soimur disappears behind me as I soar past the last ridge of The Ridge, the silver spires of the city's noble district gleaming in the afternoon light.

I'm anxious to reach New Solas before nightfall, when the lamps turn the city into a sea of gold light.

The trip normally takes a single day of flying, but the winds have not been kind, and my supplies are running dangerously low.

I scan the horizon, wings beating steadily against the currents.

There—nestled in the valley below, a small human settlement.

Not much to look at—a cluster of stone buildings with thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, the kind of place most xaphan wouldn't bother with.

My lip curls slightly at the thought of mingling with humans, but my canteen is nearly empty, and I'd rather not arrive in New Solas looking haggard and thirsty.

I tuck my wings close and dive, controlling my descent with practiced ease. I land at the edge of the settlement, straightening my tunic and running a hand through my windblown hair. No sense looking disheveled, even if it's just humans who'll see me.

The village is quiet but not deserted. I notice immediately how human gazes drop or slide away as I pass. A child stares openly until his mother snatches him inside with a harsh whisper. The tension is palpable but familiar—many human settlements beyond New Solas hold little love for our kind.

A weathered sign reading "Supplies & Sundries" catches my eye. Perfect. I roll my shoulders back and stride toward it, ignoring the whispers that follow. The shop door creaks as I push it open, a small bell announcing my arrival.

The interior is dim but well-stocked—shelves lined with preserved foods, tools, fabrics, and an impressive array of goods for such a modest establishment. No shopkeeper in sight, though. I flex my wings slightly, the dusky gray feathers catching what little light filters through the dusty windows.

"Be right with you," calls a female voice from the back room.

"Take your time," I answer, my voice carrying the natural resonance all xaphan possess. I trail my fingers along a shelf of jarred preserves, examining the neat handwritten labels.

The sound of something heavy being dropped echoes from the back room, followed by hurried footsteps. A moment later, a woman emerges through the curtained doorway. She stops dead, her gray eyes widening before narrowing to slits.

Her hair is the color of autumn leaves, deep auburn pulled back in a practical braid that doesn't quite contain the wild strands framing her face.

She's striking in a way I wasn't expecting—all sharp angles and tension, like a bow drawn tight.

Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing toned forearms dusted with freckles.

She sees me, and something in her posture changes—becomes tighter, more dangerous.

"Get out." Her voice is cold as mountain water.

I raise an eyebrow, amused rather than offended. "I've barely arrived."

"And now you can leave." She's coming around the counter now, moving with a purpose that's almost predatory. Closer, I can see a faint scar across her collarbone, peeking out from her simple linen shirt. "We don't serve your kind here."

"My kind?" I place a hand to my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, truly. And here I was, ready to pay double what your goods are worth."

"I don't want your money." She's only feet away now, close enough that I catch her scent—something earthy with hints of woodsmoke. "There's another village ten miles east. Try there."

A smile plays at my lips. Most humans stammer and bow in my presence, cowed by centuries of conditioning. This one looks ready to throw me out personally. "Does this hostile welcome extend to all travelers, or am I special?"

"Only to winged messengers of false gods who think gold buys them passage anywhere." Her eyes flash, and for a moment, I see something beyond anger—grief, perhaps, or a deeper hurt.

I lean forward slightly, enjoying how she stands her ground even as I breach her space. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"I know enough." She crosses her arms. "I know you work for someone important enough to afford those fancy clothes and that polished manner. I know you think you're doing this backwater village a favor by gracing us with your presence."

"Actually," I step closer still, "I'm just thirsty." I let my gaze drift deliberately to her mouth before returning to her eyes, injecting the word with double meaning.

A flush creeps up her neck, anger and something else sparking in her eyes. "You can die of thirst for all I care."

"That seems extreme for someone you've just met." I reach out, quick as lightning, and catch a loose strand of her hair between my fingers. "What's your name, fierce one?"

She slaps my hand away, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. "None of your business. Now get out of my shop before I throw you out."

I laugh, genuinely entertained. "I'd like to see you try."

"Ronnie!" A voice calls from outside. "Everything all right in there?"

Ah, Ronnie. It suits her—sharp and quick, like her tongue.

"Fine, Tomas," she calls back, never taking her eyes off me. "Our visitor was just leaving."

I make an elaborate show of looking around the shop one more time. "Pity. I was hoping to contribute to the clearly thriving local economy." I lean in, lowering my voice. "But perhaps I'll return when you're feeling more... hospitable."

"Don't hold your breath." She steps back and points to the door. "Out."

I move to the doorway, pausing with my hand on the frame. "Until we meet again, Ronnie."

"We won't." Her jaw is set, but there's a tremor in her voice that betrays her.

I spread my wings slightly, letting sunlight catch the silver flecks scattered among the gray. "The universe has a way of bringing together those who leave an impression on each other." I wink. "And you, fierce one, have definitely left an impression."

The sun dips behind the mountains as I wait outside Ronnie's shop, leaning against the weathered stone wall.

I've spent the afternoon familiarizing myself with this forgettable village, learning that the fiery shopkeeper is something of a local fixture—respected but solitary, known for her sharp tongue and sharper business sense.

Perfect. I do enjoy a challenge.

The shop door finally swings open as she steps out, locking it behind her.

She's changed from her work clothes into a simple dark tunic and pants, practical but doing nothing to hide the curves beneath.

Her hair falls loose now, a curtain of deep auburn catching the last golden rays of sunset. The sight stirs something primal in me.

When she turns and spots me, her expression hardens instantly. "You've got to be kidding me."

I push off the wall with languid grace, wings shifting slightly behind me. "Evening, fierce one."

"Do you make a habit of stalking women who've rejected you?" She clutches her key tighter, knuckles whitening.

"Rejected?" I laugh, the sound rolling through the empty street. "You can't reject what wasn't offered. I merely wanted water earlier. Now I want something else."

Her eyes narrow as I step closer. "Stay away from me, xaphan."

"My name is Araton." I move closer still, enjoying how she refuses to back away despite the tension radiating from her body. "And I'm not going anywhere until I get what I came for."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"You." The word hangs between us, blunt and unapologetic.

She actually laughs, a harsh sound without humor. "I hate everything you represent. Everything you are."

I reach her now, close enough to see the rapid pulse at her throat, to count the freckles scattered across her nose. "I'm not after your heart, Ronnie." My voice drops lower, edged with hunger. "You can hate me with every breath while I fuck you. In fact, I might prefer it that way."

Her breath catches, eyes widening as color floods her cheeks. "You're disgusting."

"And you're aroused." I reach up, tracing one finger along her jawline. "Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing's shallow. You haven't run, though you've had every chance."

"Don't touch me." But she doesn't move away.

Something shifts in me, patience giving way to a darker hunger. In one fluid movement, I crowd her against the wall of her shop, wings spreading slightly to block the view from the street. One hand braces beside her head while the other grips her hip, fingers digging into the flesh there.

"Tell me to leave," I growl, my face inches from hers. "Say the words like you mean them, and I'll go."

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, gray eyes blazing with conflict. "I hate you," she whispers instead.

"Not what I asked." My grip tightens and I press closer, letting her feel exactly what effect she's having on me. "Do you want me to leave, Ronnie?"

Her hands come up to my chest, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer. They just rest there, burning through the thin fabric of my tunic. I can feel her trembling, torn between desire and what sounds like years of learned resentment.

"I should," she breathes. "Any sane person would."

"Sanity's overrated." I lower my head until my lips hover just above hers. "Last chance to send me away."

Instead of answering, she surges forward, closing the final distance between us.

Her mouth crashes against mine, all fury and hunger and pent-up need.

The kiss is nothing like the practiced, elegant affairs I'm accustomed to with xaphan women.

This is raw, almost violent, her teeth catching my lower lip hard enough to sting.

I growl into her mouth, lifting her against the wall. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. She tastes like fire—wild and dangerous and impossibly addictive.

"Where?" I demand against her lips, already half-mad with wanting her.

"Upper floor," she gasps, breaking away long enough to gesture toward a side staircase. "Private entrance."

I carry her there, wings partially unfurled for balance as she clings to me, her mouth now working hungrily along my neck. The stairs creak beneath our combined weight, but I barely notice, too consumed by the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her skin.

She fumbles with a key when we reach her door, hands shaking. I press her against the wood, reclaiming her mouth while she struggles with the lock. When the door finally swings open, I carry her inside, kicking it shut behind us.

Her living quarters are sparse but clean—a single room with a bed against one wall, a small hearth, a table with two chairs. None of it matters. All I see is the bed and the woman in my arms looking at me with equal parts hatred and desire.

I am very glad I made this stop.