Chapter Two – Altair
Chapter Two
Altair
I walk down the long corridor toward the north wing, my wings folded against my back and my tail swishing behind me with each step.
The palace sprawls across the mountain like a golden beast. I could shift and fly there in moments, but I choose to walk today.
Every balcony is designed for landing and takeoff, with wide platforms that catch the wind.
Polished floors stretch ahead of me, gleaming in the noon light.
Sunlight pours through tall windows to catch on the tapestries that line the walls.
They depict the history of Aurumveil in golden thread and rich colors, showing dragons in flight and wyverns locked in ancient battles.
My ancestors stare down from painted frames, with cold eyes and proud wings, their expressions frozen in eternal judgment of those who walk these halls.
I pause at a balcony where fluted columns frame the view beyond, and watch dragons soar through the sky, their scales flashing in the sun like scattered jewels. The mountains rise in the distance, covered in dense forest.
I hate that my mother never flies anymore, and that she’s locked herself away in the north wing, like a prisoner who has forgotten she holds the key.
She used to take to the sky every morning when I was a child, her white wings catching the light as she circled the towers, and I would watch her from the nursery window in awe.
Now she stays in those closed rooms and tends to my father like it’s her penance.
I’ve told her a hundred times that she doesn’t need to do it, that she could leave him to the servants and reclaim her life.
But she won’t listen. She never does, and I’ve learned that some prisons are built from the inside.
The north wing feels different from the rest of the palace. It has nothing to do with architecture, and everything to do with the weight of misery that hangs in the air. I reach the doors and knock twice.
An old servant opens as if she’s been waiting on the other side. Her skin is covered in dull scales that have lost their shine with age. Klara is a lesser dragon shifter who has served my family since before I was born. She bows her head and steps aside.
“Lord Altair,” she says.
“Is my mother receiving visitors?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
My mother always receives me, always ready to pour tea and pretend that everything is fine.
“Of course, my lord. Lady Helena will be pleased to see you.”
I follow her through the entrance hall and into my mother’s sitting room.
The ceiling soars high above us, but the windows are shut tight against the spring air.
The room smells like lavender and old paper.
Books are stacked on tables, while shelves line the walls with leather-bound volumes that I suspect she never reads.
An embroidery frame sits near my mother’s chair, with half-finished flowers stretched across the fabric.
I wonder if she actually enjoys the work, or if it’s just something to do with her hands while the hours crawl past.
My mother rises when she sees me. Her golden hair falls past her shoulders, with gray threads running through it at her temples. She’s thin and frail, wrinkles have settled around her eyes, and her white wings are tucked close to her back as if she’s forgotten how to spread them.
“Altair,” she welcomes me. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Mother.”
I cross the room and take her hand. She squeezes my fingers once before releasing me, as if even that small touch requires too much energy.
“Sit, please. Will you have tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Klara pours from a silver pot while my mother settles back into her chair. I take the seat across from her and accept the delicate cup with its painted dragons curling around the rim. The tea is too sweet, but I drink it anyway. Refusing would only prolong this ritual.
“How is Father today?” I ask, though I care less about his wellbeing than I do about the weather or the price of grain in the market.
Her face softens, as if she’s grateful that I’m asking the right questions and playing my part in this performance we’ve rehearsed a thousand times.
“He’s having a better day. Though he’s still not strong enough to leave his bed. But he ate some breakfast, and he’s been more alert than usual.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say.
She nods and smooths her skirts with trembling fingers.
“He’ll be happy to see you.”
I doubt that very much. I don’t say so, because there’s no point in shattering the illusions that keep my mother functioning from one day to the next. Instead, I lean forward and study her pale face.
“It pains me to see you isolated in this wing, Mother. You barely go out anymore. You don’t fly, you don’t visit the gardens…”
“I have everything I need here,” she says.
“You’re wasting away. I wish you’d come with me for a walk in the rose garden. The blooms are beautiful this time of year.”
She shakes her head, and her smile turns sad, tinged with resignation and a weariness that goes bone deep.
“I’m feeling frail today, and the spring air is too strong for me.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.” She reaches across and touches my arm. “You worry too much, Altair. I’m fine.”
I want to argue and tell her that nothing about this situation is fine. But I know it won’t change anything. She’s made her choice, and she’ll defend it until the end.
So, I drink my tea and let silence settle between us.
I wonder if she was always like this, or if my father broke something in her that can never be repaired.
I wonder if she might have been different before she married him, brighter and full of life.
I will never know. That woman is gone, if she ever existed at all.
“Do you want to see your father?”
“I do. I have something to tell him.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t ask what it is. She rises, and I follow her through a carved wooden door into the adjacent bedroom. The change in atmosphere is immediate and oppressive.
The room is a monument to wealth, which only serves to make my father’s decline more pathetic by contrast. Tapestries hang on the walls, and a chandelier drips with crystal teardrops that scatter rainbow light across the floor.
The rugs are thick and soft, woven with gold thread that catches the light, and the furniture is dark wood polished to a shine that reflects our faces like black water.
In the center of it all is my father’s bed, massive and draped with silk that pools on the floor.
His skin is sickly pale, his body shriveled, and his eyes are glassy.
His hands tremble on top of the blankets with a constant, involuntary motion that never stops.
I know it drives him mad. He was always so controlled and precise in his movements.
He doesn’t have his wings out because he can’t even half-shift, and I know it eats at him.
Wyverns keep their wings and tails visible even in human form as a declaration of our nature. But my father is too weak, and his body won’t obey him anymore. The loss of that basic dignity is perhaps the cruelest part of his illness.
I sit in the armchair beside the bed and unfurl my wings wider than necessary, letting them stretch out behind me in a golden display that fills half the room. My tail curves along my thigh
My father’s gaze flicks to my wings. Something dark crosses his face.
“Father,” I say. “How are you feeling today?”
His voice comes out raspy and weak, barely above a whisper.
“Aching all over… every joint and every bone.”
I glance at my mother, and she meets my eyes. I can see the plea in them before I even speak. I ignore it.
“We could ask one of the human servants–”
“No,” he cuts me off. “Don’t even dare to mention it! Have you come here to ruin my day?”
I sit back and fold my hands in my lap. I feel a small spark of satisfaction at having provoked exactly the reaction I expected. I knew he would refuse. He always does.
It’s been known since ancient times that human blood cures dragon shifters of all kinds – a fact recorded in every medical text and proven through centuries of experience.
In the past, dragons sacrificed humans for their blood, but that practice is illegal now and has been for generations.
Still, some houses employ humans as servants, and no one cares if those humans are paid extra for a bit of blood to help with ailments.
It’s a transaction that benefits both parties and harms no one.
It happens all the time in noble houses across Aurumveil – a quiet exchange of coin for healing.
Everyone knows about it; no one discusses it.
But my father is a purist. He finds humans abhorrent.
He wouldn’t employ them at all if he didn’t have to.
Dragons rarely work for other dragons. We’re too proud and territorial to serve our own kind, so humans remain the most accessible servants.
My father would rather suffer and waste away than let human blood touch his lips.
I make the suggestion just to watch him squirm and rage against the only thing that could save him.
“As you wish,” I say with perfect politeness.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps that rattle in his lungs. His hands continue to tremble, and I watch them with detached interest, noting how the tremors have gotten worse since my last visit.
I let a moment pass before I speak again, giving him time to compose himself and settle back into his misery.
“Actually, I came to inform you of a decision I’ve made.”
His eyes open and fix on me, as if he’s hoping for good news to offset the disappointment I’ve already delivered.
“I’ve decided to marry,” I say, and I watch his face carefully to see how it lands. “It’s time.”
His expression shifts, for a brief moment reminding me about the man he once was.
“About time. You’ve been Lord of House Aurellion for two years now, and the other lords don’t take you seriously. Too young, unmarried…”
“I’m aware of their opinions,” I say dryly.
He pushes himself up against the pillows, and his voice gains a bit of strength.
“House Silvercrest has a daughter just of age,” he says.
“A beautiful girl with excellent bloodline and strong wings. Or, House Emberwing’s youngest is quite lovely, and the alliance would be strategically strong for both families.
House Storm would also be an excellent choice.
They have wealth and influence that would benefit our house, and their daughter has scales like rubies. ”
“I was never interested in wyvern women,” I interrupt before he can continue listing eligible females from every noble house in the kingdom. “You know that, Father.”
He stops, and his mouth hangs open before he snaps it shut. I can see his mind working to process what I’ve just said.
“What are you saying?”
I meet his gaze and hold it without flinching.
“I have decided to take a human bride.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then he sputters and tries to sit up fully, his whole body convulsing with the effort.
“You will not!”
My mother rushes to the other side of the bed and puts her hands on his shoulders, trying to push him back down with gentle pressure.
“Varrick, please. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He shoves her away with more strength than I thought he had left. She stumbles backward with a small cry of surprise.
He reaches for me, his hands clawing at the air as he tries to strike me, but his body betrays him, and he rolls off the bed. He lands at my feet in a heap of blankets and trembling limbs. The sound of his body hitting the floor is both pathetic and satisfying.
I look down at him and take in every detail of his humiliation – the way his nightshirt has twisted around his torso, how his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.
He’s broken – a great lord reduced to this writhing creature who can’t even get out of bed without falling.
I feel disgust curl in my stomach, but I keep my face neutral.
My mother is crying softly, and Klara rushes in and puts an arm around her shoulders to guide her away from the scene.
I stand and bend down to help my father back into bed. He’s lighter than he should be, all bones and loose skin under my hands. I settle him against the pillows and pull the blankets up to his chest with more care than he deserves.
“Mother,” I say without looking at her. I don’t want to see her tear-stained face. “Go and have another cup of tea. It will calm your nerves while I take care of Father.”
She hesitates, and I can feel her eyes on me. But the servant guides her toward the door.
“You will not,” my father rasps. “I forbid it. A human wife is a disgrace to our house and everything we stand for.”
“Drink this,” I say as I pour him a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. “You’re going to make yourself worse if you keep carrying on like this.”
He tries to push it away, but I’m stronger than him. I tip the glass, and the water runs into his mouth and down his throat. He drinks half of it.
“You will not... I forbid... a human wife... what disgrace...” His words come slower and more slurred.
His eyelids droop, and the tension drains from his body. Drool begins to leak from the corner of his mouth. His eyes roll back in his head until only the whites are showing. Within moments, he’s unconscious and breathing deeply.
I stand and walk to the window. I open it to let the spring air rush in and clear away the sickroom smell of sweat and medicine. Then I lift the glass and pour the rest of the water out. It splashes on the stones below.
I turn back to look at my father, and take in the sight of him lying there, so small and weak under the blankets. His body is so diminished now, nothing like the towering figure who used to fill every room with his presence and his rage.
“I am not like you,” I whisper. “I’ll go to the bride market and take a human wife, and prove to you and to myself that I am not like you.”