Page 6

6

ADELLUM

I stand at my easel, dragging ochre-stained fingers across the canvas when the door to my studio bursts open. The delicate thread of creative focus snaps, and I don't need to turn to know it's Sior. His presence fills the room like smoke—unpleasant but familiar.

"Three days, Adellum. Three days you've been locked in here." Sior's voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Are you deliberately avoiding me?"

I continue working, adding a stroke of amber to catch imaginary sunlight. "I'm meeting a deadline. You're the one who insisted on the Praetor's commission, remember?"

"The Praetor can wait." He stalks across the room, wings tight against his back—never a good sign. When Sior feels truly agitated, his wings pull in like a predator preparing to strike.

I sigh, setting down my brush. "What's so urgent it couldn't wait until tomorrow's meeting?"

Sior circles me, his dark eyes assessing. His fingers steeple together, ink-stained at the tips from contracts and ledgers. "We need to discuss your future. Your real future."

"My real future is right here." I gesture to the half-finished canvas. "Creating."

"No." He slams his palm on my workbench, sending jars of pigment trembling. "You need to understand—it's not just about art anymore. It's about legacy."

The word hangs between us. Legacy. As if I haven't heard this sermon before.

"Your talent has elevated you beyond mere entertainment, Adellum. You represent something now." His voice softens, the way it did years ago when he found me—hungry and desperate for someone to see my worth. "The Council is watching. The Praexa are watching."

I cross my arms. "Let them watch. My work speaks for itself."

"This isn't about your work!" Sior's wings flutter in agitation, displacing air that sends my sketches scattering. He doesn't bother to help me collect them. "It's about who you are. What you represent. A xaphan of your stature who refuses to bind? It looks... rebellious. Unstable."

My stomach tightens. "Since when is my personal life anyone's business?"

"Since you became the face of New Solas artistry." Sior paces now, gesturing wildly. "You think the upper circles care about your paintings? They care about what you symbolize. Tradition. Continuity. Proper bloodlines."

The word 'bloodlines' makes me flinch. I turn back to my canvas, trying to recapture my earlier focus. "I'm not interested."

"You don't have the luxury of not being interested." His voice drops to that silky tone that means he's already made arrangements. "I've found the perfect match. Lilleth Novar."

The name stops me cold. "The sculptor?"

"Ambitious. Beautiful. Impeccable lineage." Sior's thin lips curve into a smile. "Her flight feathers are pure silver, Adellum. Silver. Do you know how rare that is?"

I feel sick, imagining some stranger's wings entwined with mine in a binding ceremony. All I can think of is Harmony's face, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs at my terrible jokes. The way she looks at me like I'm just a man, not a symbol or an investment.

"Her family is connected to the Third Praexa," Sior continues, oblivious to my revulsion. "The announcement of your bonding would be political gold. Think of the doors it would open."

"I don't want doors opened." My voice comes out harsher than intended. I don't like pushing back against Sior—or disappointing him. But it's all I seem to do anymore. "I want to be left alone to create."

Sior's expression hardens. "That's not an option anymore. You outgrew that luxury when you accepted my guidance."

"When I was a starving child with no other options," I snap, turning to face him fully. "I'm not that desperate boy anymore."

"No, you're not." His eyes narrow. "You're successful because I made you successful. Because I understood what your talent needed—structure, discipline, connections."

The worst part is he's not entirely wrong. I owe Sior for pulling me from obscurity, for teaching me how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of New Solas. But I'll be damned if I'll let him arrange my life like it's another one of his contracts.

"I'm not binding with Lilleth Novar. Or anyone else you've picked out."

Sior's wings twitch—a tiny tell that he's preparing for confrontation. "At least meet her. One dinner."

"To what end? So I can disappoint her too?"

"To show respect for the process." His voice drops low. "The Council is watching, Adellum. The whispers about your... peculiar habits... are growing louder. Your isolation. Your refusal to participate in flight ceremonies."

The nausea in my stomach intensifies. My hands clench around the edge of the canvas. "One afternoon. Here. That's all."

Sior's posture relaxes slightly, mistaking my words for capitulation. "You'll like her. She's intelligent, creative?—"

"I said one afternoon." My silver eyes meet his dark ones. "I'll meet her. Have some tea. But I'm not binding anyone. That's all this is."

It should at least buy me some time. I know it'll go nowhere, though, because there's only one girl for me. And that's Harmony.

I pace the riverbank like a caged animal. The smooth river stones slide and click beneath my boots, wet from the tide that rises steadily against the shore. This is where I first kissed her. Where I first felt the world crack open and realign around something softer, warmer than ambition.

My wings drag behind me, tips brushing the damp earth. I don't care if they get dirty. Let the pristine feathers gather mud. Let them become as tarnished as I feel.

Three nights ago, I laid Harmony down right here, under these same stars. They seem colder tonight, more distant. The memory of her skin against mine burns through me—her fingers tangling in my hair, her breath catching when I touched her. The way she looked at me like I was something precious, not just valuable.

"Fuck," I mutter, kicking a stone into the water. It hits with a pathetic plop that doesn't match the storm inside me.

I drop to a boulder at the water's edge, head in my hands. The conversation with Sior replays in my mind, each word a new wound. The Praexa are watching. The Council is watching. Silver wings. Legacy. Bloodlines. Every word a chain tightening around my throat.

How did I let him gain so much power over me? When did my art become secondary to what I represent?

A night bird calls out across the water, and for an instant, I imagine Harmony's voice. Little bird, I call her, teasing her about her small, quick movements. She'd thrown a fistful of dirt at me the first time I said it, laughing.

"Would you still laugh if you knew what they want from me?" I ask the empty night. "If you knew they were trying to take me from you?"

I've seen the sideways glances, the whispers behind delicate hands when we walk together. A human girl. A servant. How quaint, they think. How rebellious of the great artist. A phase, nothing more.

But it's her face I see when I close my eyes at night. Her voice that cuts through the noise in my head. When did that happen? When did this soft-spoken gardener with dirt under her fingernails become more essential to me than breathing?

I stand again, unable to stay still. My wings flex and shudder with restless energy.

"They'll destroy you," I whisper, and it's unclear even to me if I mean Sior will destroy her, or if New Solas society will. Or if I will, eventually, with all my sharp edges and impossible ambitions.

I stop at the exact spot where we made love. The ground looks the same as anywhere else along the bank, but I know this patch of earth. I could find it blindfolded. I kneel, pressing my palm to the cool dirt.

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask no one. "What if I can't protect you from them?"

The darkness that's been coiling in my stomach all evening tightens, cold and heavy. Not just anger at Sior's manipulations, but fear. Real, bone-deep fear that makes my wings tremble.

I close my eyes, seeing again the barely concealed disgust on the faces of the upper circles when I walk with Harmony in public. The veiled threats in their polite questions. How curious, that a xaphan of your standing would spend time with... staff.

"They would eat you alive," I murmur, opening my eyes to watch the river flow, implacable and constant despite my inner turmoil. "And I'd have to watch."

What if I'm selfish for keeping her? What if her life would be simpler, safer without me in it? The thought comes unbidden, and once there, refuses to leave. It plants itself like a poisoned seed.

"They'll never accept you," I say to Harmony's ghost. "You'll always be less to them. And they'll punish you for it."

Is loving her worth what it would cost her? That's the question I can't answer, the one that keeps me pacing this riverbank like a man possessed.

I drag my hands through my short white-blond hair, gripping it at the roots as though physical pain might distract from the emotional. It doesn't.

"What if letting you go is the only way to keep you safe?"

The words taste like ash on my tongue. But the seed is there now, taking root in fertile ground—doubt, fear, and the terrible knowledge of what New Solas does to those who defy its invisible rules.