“Two days, maybe three. They need Council approval.”
Plenty of time.
“Thank you.” I press a coin into his palm. “Not a word of this to anyone. Understood?”
His eyes go wide, but he nods. Smart boy.
The moment he’s gone, I’m moving. Back to my quarters—I’ll need supplies, but nothing that screams military threat. A single diplomat traveling light. No weapons. No backup. Just me and whatever words I can summon to convince a civilization that wants nothing to do with the surface world to open a dialogue.
It’s insane. I know it’s insane.
I’m going to do it anyway.
Packing takes less than an hour.A small satchel with dried provisions, a waterskin, basic medical supplies. Diplomatic tokens from the Integration Alliance—worthless if the Deep Runners don’t recognize our authority, but protocol is protocol.
What takes longer is the letter.
I sit at my desk, quill hovering over parchment, trying to find words that won’t make Kael lose his mind with worry. Or worse, come after me.
Brother—by the time you read this, I’ll be at the Silver River delta. Before you panic: I’ve prepared. And this needs to happen before the RRU turns a diplomatic crisis into a war. I know this is reckless. But I need this mission. I need to prove I can do something that matters—something that’s mine, not just an extension of your legacy. Give me three days before you send anyone after me. I love you. Tell Elena the same. —Zara
I fold the letter carefully and seal it with plain wax—no crest, nothing that might catch a messenger’s attention. I leave it on my pillow where it won’t be found until someone comes looking for me. By then, I’ll be too far gone to stop.
The launch platform is empty when I return. Dawn has faded into morning. The wind has shifted, carrying the scent of approaching weather from the south. Perfect flying conditions.
I close my eyes and let the shift take me.
It’s like shedding a skin I didn’t know was too tight. The transformation ripples through my body—bones hollowing, muscles reorganizing, feathers erupting in a cascade of tawny gold. My vision sharpens until I can see individual leaves on trees miles away. The satchel shrinks with me, enchanted to accommodate the shift.
For one perfect moment, I’m not Zara Stormwright, diplomat and shadow. I’m a Storm Eagle in full flight form, and the sky belongs to me.
I spread my wings—eight feet of golden-brown power—and launch myself into the void.
The air catches me like a lover’s embrace. I climb on a thermal, spiraling higher until the Aerie shrinks to toy buildings beneath me. Higher still, until the patchwork of forests and fields blurs into abstract patterns of green and gold. The wind screams past my feathers, cold and clean, stripping away months of frustration with every wingbeat.
This. This is what I was made for. Not council chambers and compromise. Not smiling at people who can’t remember my name. Flight and freedom and the electric thrill of the unknown.
Lightning crackles through my flight feathers—not anger this time, but joy. I let it arc between my wingtips, painting streaks of gold against the endless blue. My magic sings in my blood, responding to the open sky like a plant finally getting sunlight.
I angle south and fly.
The Silver Riverappears by midafternoon—a ribbon of mercury threading through increasingly marshy terrain. I’ve been following its tributaries for hours, watching the landscape shift from rolling farmland to dense forest to this: a vast delta where the great river fractures into a thousand smaller channels, each one disappearing into tangles of reed and sedge.
It’s beautiful. Haunting. The kind of place that swallows sound and secrets in equal measure.
I descend gradually, shifting my flight pattern to something non-threatening. Wide, lazy circles. Wings angled to showvulnerability rather than speed. Every Deep Runner study I’ve ever read emphasized their suspicion of aerial creatures—too many generations of watching birds of prey hunt their waterways. I need to approach like a diplomat, not a predator.
The water below flashes silver in the afternoon light. Something moves beneath the surface—a shadow too large and purposeful to be a fish. My heart kicks against my ribs.
Contact.
I tip my wings into a diplomatic signaling dive. Slow descent. Talons spread open to show I carry no weapons. Throat exposed in a gesture of submission that every aerial shifter understands. Making myself as vulnerable as possible—an act of trust, or stupidity, depending on your perspective.
In my head, I rehearse my opening words.
I come in peace, representing the Integration Alliance. We seek only dialogue. Your waters are sacred; we wish only to understand?—
I’m not ready for what happens next.
