Page 9

ARATON

I shouldn't be here.

The thought circles my mind like a black pitter as I land on the outskirts of this miserable little village—the one I'd visited a dozen times before, each time for the same reason. Each time for her .

My wings fold against my back with an irritated snap as I take in the familiar cluster of stone buildings and thatched roofs.

Nothing has changed in the month since I discovered Ronnie was gone.

The same crooked sign swings outside the tavern.

The same three children chase each other through the dusty streets.

The same acrid smell of human fear rises in the air as they catch sight of me.

They should be afraid. My mood hasn't improved since my last visit.

"Told you he'd be back," someone mutters as I stride down the main road toward Ronnie's shop. I'm not shocked to see Tomas, watching me, his eyes tracking my progress with open hostility.

I ignore him. I ignore all of them. My focus narrows to the wooden building ahead, its windows still shuttered, door still locked. Just like last time. Just like she left it.

"She isn't there."

I turn to find Tomas has come up behind me, his eyes narrowed on me. Rage lines his body, and I'm not sure why the fucker keeps bothering me.

"I can see that," I reply, my voice carefully controlled. "I merely wished to verify it for myself."

"Verify?" He spits on the ground near my boots. "You mean you came to sniff around where you're not wanted. Again."

My jaw tightens. The urge to wrap my fingers around his scrawny throat flickers through me—a dangerous impulse I immediately suppress. Lord Ithuriel wouldn't appreciate his courier murdering village healers, no matter how satisfying it might be.

"I have business with Rosalind," I say instead, using her full name, the one she hates. "When she returns?—"

"She's not coming back." Tomas cuts me off, his voice sharp with certainty. "Not with you still turning up here like some cursed shadow."

Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest. "You don't know that."

"I do know that." His eyes narrow, something knowing in their depths. "She ran from this place. From you."

The twist in my chest becomes a stab. Ronnie ran from me? The fierce, unflinching woman who stood her ground against everything? Who faced me down that first day with fire in her eyes and a dagger in her hand?

"That's ridiculous," I scoff, though doubt creeps through me like poison. "She had no reason to?—"

"No reason?" Tomas barks a harsh laugh. "You xaphan truly are arrogant bastards. You think you can just swoop in, take what you want, and leave nothing broken behind?"

My wings flare slightly, an involuntary response to the insult. "I never took anything that wasn't freely given."

"And what did you give in return, hmm?" His voice drops lower, accusatory. "Besides a few pretty trinkets and empty promises?"

The bracelet I bought her in New Solas feels suddenly heavy in my pocket.

I've carried it with me for weeks now, unable to leave it behind, unable to give it to anyone else.

The delicate metalwork catches the sunlight as I pull it out, the amber and blue beads shifting color as they pass between my fingers.

"I never made her any promises," I say quietly, and it's the truth. We had an arrangement, nothing more. A moment of pleasure when my courier duties brought me to her village. A brief escape from the loneliness that clings to us both.

"That's exactly the problem." Tomas shakes his head, disgust evident in every line of his face. "Now get out of here before I call the village guard."

I almost laugh at that. What could their pathetic human guards do against me? But I swallow the bitter amusement, tucking the bracelet back into my pocket.

"Just tell me one thing," I say, and I hate how something like pleading has crept into my voice. "Did she say where she was going?" If anyone knows, it's him.

For a brief moment, something like pity flashes in his eyes. "No. She just packed what she could carry and left. Didn't say goodbye to anyone."

The information settles like a stone in my stomach. That sounds like Ronnie—practical to a fault, cutting ties with surgical precision.

"I see."

A crowd has gathered now, villagers watching our exchange with wary fascination. Among them, a burly man with a smith's apron steps forward, a heavy hammer clutched in his fist. Behind him, two others—farmers by the look of them—grasp pitchforks with white-knuckled intensity.

"You heard the boy," the smith growls. "We don't want your kind here."

I let my gaze sweep over them, slow and deliberate. These humans with their pathetic weapons, thinking they could stand against me. I could call the wind to scatter them like leaves, whisper words that would turn them against each other, snap their necks before they could blink.

But what would be the point?

"My kind ," I repeat softly, letting cold disdain drip from the words. "And what kind is that, exactly? The kind your Rosalind invited into her bed month after month? The kind she?—"

The smith lunges forward, hammer raised. I sidestep easily, the weapon whistling past my ear.

"Don't you dare speak about her that way," he snarls.

I laugh, the sound hollow and sharp as broken glass. "What way? Truthfully?"

"Get out!" A woman shouts from the back of the crowd. Others take up the call, their voices rising in an ugly chorus. "Get out! Get out!"

Something ugly and heated rises in my chest—a mixture of frustration, anger, and beneath it all, a desperate confusion I refuse to acknowledge.

"Where is she?" I demand, my voice rising over theirs. "Someone here must know. I just want to talk to her."

"Talk to her?" Tomas scoffs. "After what you did?"

"I did nothing ," I snarl, my control slipping. The wind around us picks up, responding to my agitation. Dust swirls at my feet, loose thatch rustling ominously on nearby roofs. "Nothing she didn't want."

The villagers fall silent, eyeing the unnatural wind with growing terror. The smith backs up a step, but keeps his hammer raised.

"Leave our village," he says, his voice steadier than his hands. "And don't come back. Whatever was between you and Ronnie is over."

Over . The word echoes through me, hollow and final.

Why does it hurt? This was nothing—she was nothing—just a pleasant diversion on my regular travels. A fierce, beautiful human with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue who happened to be exceptional in bed. Nothing more.

So why am I standing here, surrounded by hostile villagers, with something like desperation clawing at my insides?

I take to the air in a rush of wings, leaving the village behind me.

The wind streams through my hair as I soar upward, my fury propelling me higher until the cluster of buildings shrinks to insignificance below.

Just like the humans who live there—insignificant, small-minded creatures with their pitchforks and their judgments.

My hands clench into fists as I bank toward the east, following the familiar route to New Solas.

The mountain peaks shimmer on the horizon, their snow-capped summits catching the afternoon light.

I've made this journey so many times I could fly it blindfolded.

Each month, my lord sends me to carry messages, to charm information from reluctant sources, to be the handsome face of his house.

And each month, I've found myself drifting east first, making that small detour to a village that held no importance except for one particular shop with its particular owner.

"Fuck," I mutter to the empty sky, the word lost in the rush of air around me.

Why am I so bothered by this? Humans come and go. They're ephemeral creatures—here today, gone tomorrow. It shouldn't matter that she's disappeared. It shouldn't sting like rejection. It shouldn't feel like loss.

I drop lower, skimming over a dense forest where the trees blur into a carpet of green beneath me. My wings adjust automatically, riding the thermals that rise from the sun-warmed earth. The physical sensation grounds me, reminds me who—what—I am.

Xaphan. Messenger of Solas. Not some lovesick fool pining after a sharp-tongued human woman.

Yet her absence gnaws at me, a persistent ache I can't seem to shake.

It's been a month since I found her shop shuttered, her small apartment above it cleared of her belongings.

A month of telling myself I don't care, that I'm merely curious.

A month of carrying that damn bracelet in my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of my own foolishness.

I'd bought it on impulse in New Solas, passing a jeweler's stall in the market.

The delicate metalwork had caught my eye, the amber and blue beads reminding me of how sunlight filtered through her windows, catching in her auburn hair.

I'd imagined how it would look against her pale skin, how her lips would purse as she pretended not to be pleased.

"Pathetic," I growl, pushing myself faster, higher, as if I could outfly these thoughts.

I haven't been with anyone else since I met her. Not for lack of opportunity—there are plenty in New Solas who would welcome a night with me, xaphan or not. Something about the thought turns my stomach, though. The idea of another's hands, another's lips, another's body beneath mine feels... wrong.

I catch myself mid-thought, shocked by my own sentimentality. This isn't me. I don't get attached. I don't yearn. I certainly don't miss humans who clearly want nothing to do with me.

Yet here I am, carrying her bracelet like a token, returning to her empty shop like a ghost haunting its own grave.

The Ridge looms ahead, the mountain range that marks the border between the human territories and New Solas.

I adjust my course, angling upward to clear the highest peaks.

The air grows colder, thinner, but my wings are strong enough to handle the altitude.

Unlike human wings—flimsy, delicate things that snap at the slightest pressure—my gray-blue wings are built for power, for endurance.

I catch an updraft and rise sharply, the sudden acceleration sending a rush of adrenaline through me.

This is what I should be focusing on. The freedom of flight, the mission ahead, the favor of my lord.

Not the emptiness in a human village, not the silence of a shop that once held argumentative banter and breathless sighs.

Not the memory of her gray eyes, sharp and knowing, watching me from across her small bed.

I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge the images. What is wrong with me? I've never been this fixated before. It was just sex—incredible, mind-blowing sex, but still just physical pleasure. Nothing more.

Then why am I carrying her bracelet? Why do I keep returning to that village? Why does the thought of another woman's touch repel me?

The questions circle like predators, waiting for weakness, waiting for admission. I refuse to give it to them. Instead, I focus on the landscape passing beneath me, the glitter of New Solas appearing on the horizon, its golden spires catching the sunlight like beacons.

I need to get her out of my system, that's all. Find someone else. Move on.

My stomach twists at the thought, a visceral rejection that surprises me with its intensity. But I ignore that, too.