Chapter 45
Xero
Momma Raven has sent me on many missions throughout the kingdoms. I watch. It is what I do—what I was born to do. Watch, learn, and report to Mom. My eyes see what others miss. My ears catch whispers meant for no one. My paws carry me through shadows where larger creatures cannot follow.
I am small. I am silent. I am everywhere and nowhere.
And I am very, very good at my job.
I move Iris and myself to the Eastern Isles in a blink—that folding of space that feels like stepping through cold water, a moment of pressure and darkness before the world reassembles around us.
The sensation is similar to what the Ziggy does, not much different from the Keir, though my method leaves a taste like copper and ozone on my tongue.
We materialize on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea. Salt wind buffets my fur, carrying the cry of gulls and the deep, rhythmic crash of waves against cliffs far below. The sky stretches endlessly above us, pale blue bleeding into gold where the sun begins its descent toward the horizon.
We fly the rest of the way to the castle.
My wings slice through the air, the membrane between my shoulder blades catching currents and thermals with practiced ease.
Iris glides beside me, her larger form cutting a more impressive silhouette against the clouds.
The castle rises from the island’s heart like a crown of white stone, its towers reaching toward the heavens, its walls gleaming in the fading light.
No banners fly from its parapets. No guards patrol its ramparts.
Strange. Very strange.
We land on a balcony of polished marble, our claws clicking against the smooth surface.
The stone is warm beneath my paw pads, holding the heat of the day.
Flowering vines climb the railings, their blossoms heavy with perfume—jasmine and honeysuckle and something sweeter I cannot name.
Through the open doors, I catch the scent of candle wax and old books and the faint musk of females.
Only female. No male scent anywhere.
I file the observation away for later.
“Queen?” I reach out with my mental voice, letting it drift through the chambers beyond like smoke through an open window.
A beautiful blonde-haired woman steps out onto the balcony.
Her gown flows white and gossamer around her form, catching the breeze like captured clouds.
Her eyes are the color of emeralds—deep and clear, and sharp with intelligence.
She moves with the grace of someone who has never known fear in her own home, and yet I catch something beneath the surface.
Wariness. Caution. The careful assessment of a ruler who has learned that even small creatures can carry large dangers.
“Well, hello, little ones.” Her voice is warm, musical, carrying the lilting accent of the Eastern Isles. “One of the other royals sent you?”
She opens the door wide behind her, an invitation into her domain. The gesture speaks of either tremendous confidence or tremendous foolishness. I suspect the former.
I follow Iris through the doorway, my paws silent on the thick carpet that cushions the floor.
The room beyond is a study—walls lined with books that smell of leather and age, a massive desk of dark wood polished to a mirror shine, chairs upholstered in velvet the color of deep wine.
Candles flicker in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across maps and scrolls scattered across every surface.
I land on the desk beside Iris, careful not to disturb the papers beneath my paws. Iris steps forward with the dignity befitting her station and drops the scroll she has been carrying—the message from Queen Mina, sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
“Iris is Queen Mina’s. Xero is Princess Raven’s.” Pride swells in my chest as I push the words into the queen’s mind. It is no small thing to serve the most powerful females on our continent. “Iris cannot speak like Xero can. She is silent, but she understands everything.”
Queen Giselle’s eyebrows rise slightly—the only indication that hearing a voice inside her head had surprised her. She recovers quickly, her composure smooth as glass.
“Well, thank you, Xero. You are a very good tressym.” She moves to the door and pokes her head into the corridor beyond. Her voice carries clearly as she issues orders—ground venison and water bowls for her guests, brought immediately.
She returns to her desk and breaks the seal on the scroll, her emerald eyes scanning the contents.
Her expression remains neutral, unreadable, but I watch the slight movements that betray her thoughts—the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers grip the parchment just a fraction harder.
Whatever Mina has written, it is significant.
The food arrives on a silver tray, carried by a serving woman with kind eyes and scarred hands. The scars catch my attention—old wounds, long healed, but extensive. Burns, perhaps. Or something worse.
I file this observation away as well.
The venison is fresh, finely ground, rich with the iron tang of blood. I eat with careful precision, savoring each bite. Iris is less restrained; her hunger is clear after our long journey. The water is cool and clean, tasting of mountain springs and morning frost.
We definitely need this after our journey. My muscles ache with the particular fatigue that comes from phasing long distances—a bone-deep exhaustion that food and rest will cure, given time.
While we eat, I flick my ears, rotating them independently to catch every sound around me. The scratch of the queen’s pen against parchment. The soft footsteps of servants in distant corridors. The whisper of wind through open windows. The call of birds in the gardens below.
No odd sounds. No alarming sounds.
But interestingly enough, I do not hear any males here. Not a single deep voice, not a heavy footstep, not a masculine cough or laugh.
I do not ask. It is not my place.
Iris catches my eye, and understanding passes between us. I need to look around. She will stay, keep the queen occupied, and maintain our cover as simple messenger creatures.
I am anything but simple.
I phase out of the room—that cold-water sensation again; the world going gray and insubstantial around me—and emerge in the rafters of the castle.
The beams are thick and ancient, dark wood worn smooth by centuries.
Dust motes dance in shafts of light from tall windows.
Cobwebs cluster in corners, their occupants long departed.
I walk the shadows, my paws silent as thought, my body a dark smear against the darkness above.
Room by room, I search. Bedchambers with rumpled sheets and personal effects scattered across dressers. Kitchens where cooks chop vegetables and stir bubbling pots. Libraries where scholars bend over ancient texts. Armories where weapons hang unused, their edges dulled by neglect.
Women everywhere. Old women and young women, human women and those who carry the subtle tells of other blood—fae touched, mer descended, shifted kin in human form.
Not a single male.
I fly into town as the sun sinks toward the sea, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson.
The streets are cobblestone, worn smooth by generations of feet.
Buildings cluster together like old friends; their walls whitewashed, their roofs tiled in terracotta.
Window boxes overflow with flowers, and the smell of baking bread drifts from open doorways.
Mostly females fill the streets—shopping, working, laughing, living. Children run between market stalls while their mothers haggle over prices. Old women sit on benches in the fading light, their voices raised in gossip and song.
The only males I see are... different. Smaller. Softer. They move through the crowds with downcast eyes and careful steps, clustering in groups, never alone. Omega males—I recognize the type from my travels, though I have never seen so many in one place.
Most omega males are slaughtered at birth. That is the way of things in most kingdoms—seen as weak, as useless, as mouths to feed that will never contribute to the hunt or the fight.
Yet here they walk freely. Here they live.
Interesting. Very interesting.
I fly farther, my wings carrying me over rolling hills and cultivated fields. Crops grow in neat rows—wheat and barley, and vegetables ripening in the autumn sun. Orchards heavy with fruit. Vineyards stretching toward the horizon.
But no defenses. No walls around the farms, no watchtowers on the hills, no soldiers drilling in formation. No preparation for war.
No signs of fighting or training anywhere on the island.
Odd. Very odd.
In a world where conflict is constant, where enemies mass and plot and strike without warning—how does an entire island exist without so much as a standing army?
I investigate the rest of the island as the stars emerge overhead. Fishing villages line the coast, their boats pulled up on pebbled beaches, their nets spread to dry in the moonlight. More women. More omega males. And now, as I look closer, I notice something else.
Scars.
So many scars.
The females here bear marks I have never seen before—burns that cover half a face, missing fingers and missing eyes, limbs that end too soon, skin mottled with the evidence of old cruelty.
These are not battle scars, earned in honorable combat.
These are the marks of abuse. Of torture. Of systematic destruction.
Understanding dawns, cold, and heavy in my chest.
This island is a refuge.
A place where the broken come to heal. Where the abused come to escape. Where females who have known nothing but pain can finally know peace.
No males allowed—because males were the ones who hurt them.
No army needed—because who would attack an island of survivors?
I sit on a rooftop and watch the moon rise over the sea, silver light spilling across the water like scattered coins.
The weight of what I have learned presses against me, heavier than my small body should be able to carry.
So much suffering. So many survivors.
And a queen who has built a kingdom from the wreckage of shattered lives.
After half a day of reconnaissance, I find Iris where I left her. The queen has finished her correspondence, and a new scroll waits in Iris’s carrying harness—the response to Mina’s message, sealed with emerald wax that matches Giselle’s eyes.
“Island is safe for females.” I whisper into the queen’s mind, letting her hear the truth behind my words. I have searched every corner of her domain, and I have found nothing to threaten my Raven or her mother.
Only healing. Only hope.
“Always safe for females.” Queen Giselle’s voice is gentle, but steel runs beneath it—the strength of a woman who has built something worth protecting. “We take any and all who have been abused or hurt. This island exists for them. It will always exist for them.”
Iris looks at me, her amber eyes bright with understanding. She is ready to go home. So am I.
“Xero thanks you for kindness.” I push the gratitude into Giselle’s mind, letting her feel the sincerity behind the words. “Iris, too.” Adding in my silent friend, who cannot speak but feels just as deeply.
“You are the perfect emissaries to come here.” The queen rises from her chair and crosses to the balcony doors, pulling them wide.
The night air rushes in, carrying salt and flowers and the distant sound of waves.
“You and your companions are welcome whenever you wish to return. Tell your queens—they will find no enemy here. Only sisters.”
We take flight from the balcony, rising on warm currents into the star-scattered sky. The castle falls away below us, then the town, then the island itself—a dark shape against the darker sea, growing smaller with distance until it could be held in my paw.
Once we are far away, safely out of sight from any watching eyes, I fly over Iris and lower myself down. My paws grip her scruff, careful and secure, and I feel her relax into my hold—trusting me completely, as she always has.
I phase us both, pulling the void around us like a cloak.
The world goes cold. The world goes dark.
Then we are home.
Much to tell Raven and the Mina. A refuge found. An ally discovered. A queen who builds hope from ashes.
Mission complete.
Year Three starts soon! Raven’s Fight