Chapter 32
Guilt.
It is impossible to feel anything else as I soar through the trees, heart panging like lead in my hollow chest, frustration threatening to seep from my dry eyes.
Shame. It is the one thing I know well. The inability to act on my intentions, not when the royal blood connecting me to my oath forces me to do whatever a Faundor tells me to do.
For a few moments of soreness while my wings stretch, I think about where I’m going. How long will I stay airborne?
I quickly realize I’m headed for the Perri Duchy.
The place I visited when I’d last flown.
After Xavelor’s death, my father told me not to come home, especially not when I have another prince to protect.
But my thoughts won’t quiet. There is too much I do not know, too much at stake.
I have to know. I don’t think that ancient soldier would lie to us about what happened during the war. If he’s telling the truth, it would mean our people have been fighting over a manifestation of hatred rather than the real thing. Years of slaughter, all because of a misinterpretation.
One I had foolishly believed.
You should never believe something simply because it is what you’ve been told to believe. Always ask questions , my mother taught me. But it seems I haven’t asked enough.
What would Ramiel think of me now? Knowing I’ve deceived him this entire time, what trust is left between us?
I’ve been selfish. So absorbed in my self-preservation, in the taste of freedom without the bondage of the oath I’d sworn when I joined Xavelor in battle. I’d only been ten at the time. Thirteen years later, and I’ve only just started feeling like I can breathe without having to ask for permission.
My wings are still recovering from Ether’s blunt strike. Thankfully, she hadn’t broken the bone. If she had, it wouldn’t have healed so quickly, and I wouldn’t be traveling so efficiently.
The sky is darkening rapidly, the colors dimming from orange to royal purple.
What kinds of conversations could they be passing around the fire now? Will Ether use smooth words as she paints me as a villain? Will Ramiel ask her what she knows, since we are known for being notorious enemies even across kingdoms?
It doesn’t matter what they speak of. Not when I have the entire bloated history between my people and Ether’s to sort out. About who abandoned whom (if there was any abandonment to begin with) or if the entire war had been fabricated to suppress our people and turn us against one another.
My wager is on the latter.
I know fairies, and I know a thing or two about elves. Neither take loyalties lightly. Humans are often quick to betray at a moment’s notice. Something is not lining up.
My wings arc more confidently, fwipping tight against my back to launch me forward as I ride the breeze. As I organize my thoughts, determination takes the place of the frustration feeding on my adrenaline.
My father will be able to answer my questions.
After he scolds me, that is.
Since serving Xavelor, I returned to the Perri Duchy only once, after the prince discovered my fairy identity. We’d been kids when he spotted the inky dye on my hands, and as a child, I didn’t know lying was the right choice when he accused me of my heritage.
My father made sure I wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
And yet, here we are.
The air thins as I soar over the castle. None of the townsfolk below look into the sky; since the “extinction” of flying beasts, humans don’t have to worry about anything above them. And I don’t have to worry about being struck down either.
My father’s estate is nestled in the land just to the north of Arioch’s castle. Kept close because of our oath and the obvious lack of trust the human royals have in our people, disguised as them or not.
Coldness spreads across the bones of my wings, and they twitch in protest. It’s like they don’t want to be here, don’t want to face my father’s wrath once more.
They fail me a little too early, the energy to them abruptly closed off. I shut my eyes to the biting wind as my wings flip back, pinning to my shoulder blades as I fall to the soft earth.
My limbs stiffen, momentarily unable to move.
I welcome the numbness, its familiar ache a balm.
A long time ago, I learned physical pain often shields us from the deeper wounds that cut at our hearts and minds. Every scratch and scar has become my armor, covering the brokenness inside.
The pain I feel now will always be more welcome than the abuse I’m sure to face when my father finds out his son has failed him. Again.
Like vultures circling prey, the duke’s maidservants flock to me, recognizing my silvery-gray skin and gold eyes—the features of a gargoyle, and also that of our noble fairy family.
I wish I’d been born with slightly pink or blue or green skin like other fairies. Instead, I look like the risen dead.
It’s a symbol of your nobility , my mother’s voice creeps in. I push it out. The last thing I want to hear is her sing-songy innocence. Not after all that’s happened. Not after all I’ve learned.
“Ronan!” A shrill voice brings me to the present. “It’s been years! What are you?—”
“Let me see him!” I recognize Nina, a scrawny fairy servant who once looked younger than I, pushing my greeter away.
Her thin frame swims in her off-white apron dress.
She begins to pull on my elbows and arms, and Patrice, an older maid with thick green hair, is quick to join her.
Several younger maids I’m unfamiliar with bustle around me, eyes alight with novelty and envy at my glistening, cursed skin.
Any nostalgia I feel is tamped down by the sickening looks of lust for the power that makes me look the way I do.
I sigh as their grabby hands pat my arms, legs, hollowed cheeks, and pointed ears.
It’s all an effort to make sure it’s the real me, but I’m not dumb.
Touching the heir to the Perri Duchy has become a superstition—one pat will bring good fortune to any who dares lay a hand on me.
So I prefer not to come into such contact with anyone, even though I know this is nonsense.
When they start greedily gliding their hands along my arms and legs again, I swat their hands away.
“Where is Viktor?” I huff, foregoing my father’s title.
The maids glance warily at one another, their shrunken foreheads wrinkling along with concerned eyebrows. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so many of my kind at once, and I’m reminded of how repulsive they are in numbers. Maybe I ought to rethink my desire to resemble them.
I am most comfortable when I’m in my human form, with yellow and pink-tinted skin.
Unused to hearing their master’s name without his honorific of “His Grace,” it takes them a while to understand I’m referring to my father. One of the younger ones with orange-blue eyes finally answers me as she wordlessly points a jagged finger behind her to the main estate.
Of course. Where else would he be, if not stuffing his nose in the ancient tomes he’s obsessed with? That’s all he’d done when I was younger, filling his brain with spells and curses to please the king. What would have changed from then to now?
“Thank you,” I say as I brush past the mix of ugly servants and saunter my way across stiff grass.
The main estate is tall and wide and castle-like, with stone statues of fanged wyverns guarding the entrance. War spikes line the path, and on the tip of each sits an impaled glass eye, iridescent with the colors of the rainbow. A ritual I never took part in, but one I also never disapproved of.
And I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if it weren’t for my meeting Ether and hearing the warrior’s story.
As I near the door, the mumbling behind me softens. They know to stay clear when a member of the family enters.
Gormless house rules.
Two short, armored guards stand squarely at the entrance.
They scrutinize me as I approach, but quickly change their postures and attitudes when they realize who I am.
Each guard clinks a hollow staff against the ground, and the doors scrape open, revealing a dim entryway filled with bowing maids, prepared to accept any guest.
Or maybe my father already knows I’m here. How could he not, with all the bustle and attention my arrival caused?
I ignore the admiring gazes of the maids around me, slinking past them and up the stairwell to my father’s study. I feel their eyes on me, even when I am well beyond their line of sight.
They’ll no doubt be waiting in their two lines until I leave.
The study is directly across from my room, where I’d spent ten stupendous years of my life before moving into the castle to attend Xavelor.
It’d been my mother’s dream to turn me into a well-studied heir to the estate, but I’d been born the same year as the crown prince, which, for better or for worse, changed her plans.
Even after all these years, the walls are still devoid of paintings or decorations.
Our family abhors portraits of any kind, but even the royal family has portraits, though they only appear once a generation, when a king is crowned.
Still, I find it strange that not even a candle or painting decorates the empty brick walls.
Before I can knock on the heavy wood door, my father’s voice calls out, kinder than I remember: “Come in Ro. I’m just finishing a batch of capsules.”
With a deep breath and a headache forming, I push the door.
Sparkling fairy dust zings around the room, dancing on the breeze from an open window.
My spectacled father whisks his short legs around the desk covered in iridescent red and blue dust, licking his lips to collect the magic spinning in the air.
His silver face scrunches at the bitterness as he plunks his hand into the accumulation of dust and swipes it off the table, catches it in his other hand, and carries it to a clamping device sitting on a bench against an unused armoire.