She waggles her parchment tail, and all the breath shoves from my lungs as prickly relief packs me full.
I shake my head, rubbing my sternum. “This is called rewarding bad behavior,” I grouse, gently unfolding her crushed beak, head, tail, wings, then body, baring her message that’s more than five phases old:
Three small words I’m certain were never meant for me—not that it’s stopped me reading them again and again.
I devour the delicate sweep of each tailored letter, brushing the pad of my thumb across them like a Nee belly scratch as I recall the moment she came to me.
She must’ve gotten lost on her journey to whoever she was intended for, instead nuzzling into the crook of my neck like she was seeking comfort from a storm. I’d opened her, read her message, and realized how important she was—come from somebody who was not okay, though they perhaps didn’t know how to say it aloud.
I’d folded her up and blown her back to the sky, asking Clode to carry her high into the currents so she could recalibrate and head in the right direction.
Find the one she was intended for.
The next rise, I’d woken to her resting in my palm, a tear in her wing and a very squished nose, like she’d battled against Clode’s currents … and won.
Hard to part with her after that.
I sweep my thumb over those three words again, then gently fold her back up, flattening her beak crimp and checking that her rip hasn’t gotten any bigger. She bursts from my hand in a flutter of motion and bats about the room like she’s burning off a furnace full of energy.
“If you’re not more careful, I’ll pack the room with down feathers,” I warn, and she flips through the air, swooping toward me in a wobbly glide, dipping into the crook of my neck where she nuzzles in. I settle my hand atop her and rock until she stops wiggling, my thoughts drifting back to Essi. To the jarring way she looked at me through those big eyes glazed with … too much.
Sighing, I make for my pallet, then cast my stare to the sky outside.
Fallon once told me that as a youngling, she used to lie on her back and wish upon the moons—wishes that would sometimes come true.
Magic, she called it.
I’ve never believed in things that make no sense to me—aside from Essi’s magnificence. But perhaps I should start wishing on the moon I love so much. Ask it to find a way to replace my heart with a soft and squishy one so I never have to see Essi’s eyes flood with sadness again.
Creators, I’m an asshole.
I curl up on my side, snuggling Nee, looking at Hae’s Perch while humming the gentle tune that always clears my mind no matter how loud the world seems.
Haedeon found me in his sleigh just before the aurora set.
I thought he’d be happy to see me. Instead, he said he was going to take me straight home to Arithia in a big growly voice I’ve never heard him use before. But when the aurora rose, he boiled me tea, packed our things, and then we kept going in the same direction.
I think he forgave me a little bit because he gave me a butterberry chew this slumber after we ate some felt-ringed fungus soup. Haedeon didn’t finish his bowl or eat his chew, but he did spend time shaping a dragonscale blade.
He told me we’ll be there in three aurora cycles. That we’ll spend one slumber in the hatching hut on the outskirts of Netheryn before he leaves at aurora rise right when the mahmi Moonplumes go off to hunt. That I’m not to leave the hatching hut until he returns or three slumbers have passed without him.
Seems a bit silly to me since I didn’t hide in his sleigh to sit in a hut and eat butterberry chews …
I came to get my own Moonplume egg.
Seated in the back of a gloomy booth, I keep my hood up despite the velvet curtains pulled shut so nobody can see in. My only companion is a heavy mug of mead I bring to my mouth, drawing a frothy glug of the thick, bitter-tasting liquid. Hissing through my teeth, I bang it back on the table, scowling.
The mead in this city tastes like it’s been distilled in a muddy barrel, but I prefer it over the murky water that’s twice as dirty and leaves grit in your teeth.
The quenching warmth takes only the sharpest edge off this feeling in my chest—like I’ve been rattled so hard my bones split and stabbed me through.
I know it wasn’t her. That it’s impossible. That I’m going mad—and have been for phases.
Still.
Those eyes.
That scent.
That voice—
Growling, I lift the mug to my lips again.
The curtain parts.
A hooded female with a proud but delicate stature steps into the confines of my booth, chased by a parchment lark that nudges her shoulder, urging her to snatch it up.
She does, sighing.
Forging myself into a vision of false composure, I draw another muddy sip, swallowing as she settles in the seat opposite me, face hidden within the cowl of her cloak.
“Surprised to see my brother let you out of his sight again,” I rumble, setting the mug back on the table, “Princess.”
Kyzari pushes back her hood, brows raised as she regards me through haunting azure eyes. Her white hair hangs well past her waist, bound in a braid almost thicker than my wrist, her complexion so pale I can see the web of veins beneath the skin of her hands.
My gaze lifts to the diadem clinging to her forehead, the black Aether Stone sitting central amongst the curls of silver metal she’s been crowned with since the dae she took her first breath.
It’s been a while since I saw her last. Since Veya and I went to Mah’s special place and found her there. Realized she’d been there for a while—holed up.
Hiding.
Not the first time she’d run away. Obviously not the last.
She reaches toward the sconce protruding from the wall like a gnarled claw and dangles the still-fluttering, unread parchment lark over the flame. Fire gobbles it up, her fingers pinching the thing until it’s almost gone before she drops it to the stone table and watches it turn to ash.
I frown.
“I’m devoted to the Creators now,” she announces, brushing off her hands, reaching over the lark’s corpse to steal my mug. “I took the Oath of Chastity—”
“You’re my niece. The last thing I want to talk about is your chastity—”
“—I can do whatever I want now that Pah’s no longer afraid of losing me.”
“Lie,” I growl, low enough my voice won’t carry beyond the curtain to where a lone fiddle player is carving a tune in the common area beyond. “Your Moonplume isn’t in the imperial hutch I purposely inspected before meeting you here, and we both know you wouldn’t trust her with some loose-lipped city wrangler.”
She rolls her eyes, finally thieving a sip of my mead, face scrunching as her eyes narrow on the offending drink.
“You came via a carter,” I declare, and she thumps the mug back on the table. “You smuggled yourself out of Arithia after your unveiling ceremony while the skies were busy, figuring it would take your pah longer to notice.”
“How very astute of you. Your drink tastes like mud.”
“It’s an acquired taste you’ll have to get used to if you intend to spend the rest of your long existence as a fugitive, carving out a life for yourself in a broken kingdom that’s no place for a sheltered princess with no wits about the world.”
She arches a brow. “Who shat in your stew?”
“Who taught you to speak like that?”
The smallest smile pulls at her lips. “Guess I’m not as sheltered as you think.”
I grunt.
Doubtful.
Silence reigns long enough that she clears her throat, her gaze dropping to the drink still clutched in her hand. “I, ahh … appreciate you agreeing to meet with me. You saved me from a very long trip across the Boltanic Plains.”
She was on her way to Dhomm, then.
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” I say, crossing my arms, head tipped as I regard her in the firelight. “Your lark was firmly worded. I’m not used to being ordered around. Not sure I’d take it from anyone else.”