Page 4

ARATON

T he 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 as naturally 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 alcove where 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.

I deflect them all with smiles and compliments that leave the impression of possibilities without ever promising fulfillment. It's a skill I've honed over years of diplomatic service, this ability to make people believe they have a chance at possessing me.

All except one stubborn shopkeeper who looks at me like I'm something stuck to the bottom of her boot—right until she's pulling me into her bed.

"Araton!" Lord Kassian booms, breaking into my thoughts. "Just the xaphan I've been waiting for. Come, share a drink and tell me this proposal of Ithuriel's isn't as outrageous as I've heard."

I straighten, directing my full attention to the matter at hand. This is why I'm here, after all. Not to think about auburn hair tangled in my fingers or the surprising softness of lips that speak such sharp words.

"Lord Kassian." I bow precisely, measuring my smile to exactly the warmth required. "I believe you'll find the proposal less outrageous than inspired, once you understand the full scope."

And just like that, I'm back in the game I play so well, crafting phrases that will carry Lord Ithuriel's ambitions forward on wings of my making.

I leave Lord Valterian's estate as the twin moons begin their climb into the night sky, bathing New Solas in silver-blue light that makes the crystal spires gleam like massive ice formations.

My wings unfurl with a satisfying stretch after hours of the formal half-fold required in noble company.

A few quick beats lift me above the sprawling garden walls, giving me a momentary bird's eye view of the city I traverse each month.

From this height, New Solas is a gleaming jewel—all elegance and order in concentric circles radiating outward from the central temple.

The human districts in the west look like smudges of charcoal against the pristine architecture of the xaphan quarters.

Even from here, I can sense the invisible boundaries separating those worlds.

I drop down to street level near the merchant quarter, preferring to walk rather than fly through the narrow, bustling alleyways.

Unlike the sterile perfection of the noble district, this part of New Solas pulses with life—a cacophony of voices haggling over prices, exotic scents wafting from food stalls, street performers drawing crowds with displays of minor elemental magic.

The shop owners recognize me, some calling out greetings while others simply nod in acknowledgment of my regular passage.

I've maintained these relationships carefully over the years, knowing that information from common merchants often proves more valuable than whatever secrets the nobility thinks they're keeping.

"Lord Velrien!" A shopkeeper waves enthusiastically from her stall of imported fabrics. "The silks from Vesnios arrived yesterday. The exact shade of blue you inquired about."

I'm halfway to her stall before I catch myself. Blue—the precise color of storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The color that reminded me of?—

Ronnie's eyes.

I'd asked about the fabric weeks ago, thinking... what? That I might have something made for her? A ridiculous notion. She'd probably use the silk to clean her shop windows.

"Another time, Merial," I call, changing course with a forced smile.

What in Solas' name is wrong with me? This is the third time today my thoughts have circled back to that prickly shopkeeper. Her face keeps appearing in my mind—not soft with pleasure as it is in our encounters, but sharp with that stubborn defiance that both irks and fascinates me.

A glint of color catches my eye, drawing me to a stall I've never patronized before. The vendor, an older xaphan with dappled gray wings that speak of mixed bloodlines, arranges delicate jewelry on a velvet cloth.

"Something caught your interest, sir?" she asks, eyes darting to my wings—assessing my status—before settling on my face.

My fingers hover over a bracelet of intricately woven metal threads interspersed with tiny beads in shades of amber and deep blue. It reminds me of sunlight filtering through Ronnie's windows, catching the highlights in her auburn hair.

"This piece," I say, surprising myself. "The craftsmanship is exceptional."

The vendor beams. "Handwoven in the style of the old kingdoms. Those beads are carved from mountain crystals—they change color slightly depending on the wearer's mood."

I pick up the bracelet, testing its weight. It's substantial without being heavy, delicate without being fragile. Like her.

"She must be special," the vendor says with a knowing smile.

"She's... not what you're thinking." My denial comes too quickly, but it's true. Ronnie isn't a lover in any romantic sense of the word. She's an arrangement. A diversion. A physical compatibility that happens to exceed any I've experienced before.

And yet here I stand, contemplating jewelry for a woman who would sooner spit in my face than accept a gift from me.

"She'd hate this," I murmur, yet I don't set it down. Instead, I find myself imagining the bracelet against her pale wrist, a flash of color as she moves through her shop, restocking shelves with that efficient grace I've spent too many hours watching.

When did I start noticing these things? The way she turns pages in her ledger with a quick flick of her fingers. How she always smells faintly of meadowmint tea. The small crease between her eyebrows when she's calculating numbers.

"If she hates pretty things, she might appreciate their value instead," the vendor suggests, misreading my hesitation. "These beads fetch a good price in western markets."

I almost laugh. Ronnie would see right through that approach. She has an uncanny ability to discern my intentions, stripping away my carefully constructed charm to see the calculations beneath.

It's... refreshing, in a way I hadn't realized I needed.

"I'll take it," I decide, reaching for my coin purse. "And I'd like it wrapped, if you would."

As the vendor carefully packages the bracelet, I force myself to examine this strange impulse. In the year I've been visiting Ronnie's village, I've never brought her anything besides my company and the pleasure we take from each other's bodies. Why start now?

I haven't bedded another since our arrangement began—not from any sense of commitment, but simply because no one else has interested me enough to pursue. The courtiers and nobles with their coy games and transparent manipulations seem tedious after Ronnie's blunt honesty.

Is that it? Have I simply grown fond of having one person in my life who doesn't want anything from me beyond the physical?

Friend isn't the right word for what she is to me. Friends don't slam doors in each other's faces half the time. Friends don't pretend the other doesn't exist until clothes start coming off.

And yet, there's something there—something beyond mere physical compatibility that keeps drawing me back to her shop each month with increasing anticipation.

Whatever it is, I know better than to name it. Ronnie has made it abundantly clear she despises what I am, even as she desires what I can do. That contradiction is part of her appeal—the fire in her eyes when she tells me to leave, even as her body arches toward mine.