“I saw him briefly this afternoon. They’ve all been in and out of briefings since they returned, but…” She pauses, frown deepeningbefore she shakes her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about. Lark will tell me if it is.”
“Of course he will,” I agree, shoving off the unease that has been lingering since this evening. I trail my fingers over the soft fabric of the dress Nyssa picked out, smiling at the silken texture beneath my fingertips.
Over the years, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for pants while training with the order, but I miss having a reason to dress up. To be soft and feminine.
The Aviary is no place for soft things.
Being soft leads to a watery grave at the bottom of the Solorai Sea.
“Lark is coming tonight,” Nyssa says behind me, and the back of my neck prickles at her hesitant tone.
“Oh?” I drop the towel on the end of my bed and pick up the dress, but her next words freeze me mid-motion.
“Raven might be there too.”
I brace myself against the memories and the ache they so often bring, fighting to keep them from flooding my mind. Yet, despite my efforts, one slips through the cracks of my defenses.
Callused fingers trace softly along my cheekbones, their touch igniting a spark as a smoldering gaze ensnares me in molten amber.
“We’d be breaking the rules.”
My skin pebbles from the spectral touch—throat tightening as the remembered words clang through my mind, landing in the hollowed-out space in my chest. They remain, settling into a tight knot of lingering pain and unresolved anger.
The rules.
Don’t ask questions. Obey your orders. Respect your masters. But most of all, love no one.
The Aviary drills them into us the moment our feet first pass the threshold. To ask questions is to question the Aviary itself. To disobey orders shows a lack of duty. To disrespect your masters is insubordination.
But to love someone is worst of all. It is a shift in allegiance, altering priorities and eclipsing purpose. If you loved someone, you could never put the needs of the Aviary before them. You would move the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the night sky to ensure they were safe.
Or, at least, I would.
I take a deep breath, my eyes narrowing as I fix Nyssa with a sharp glare, debating whether to give her the evil eye. Apparently, it’s nowhere near as threatening as it feels, since the only response it elicits is a laugh.
“Notos, save me from annoying brats and their meddlesome ways,” I mutter, pulling the dress over my head. The silk glides against my skin as it slides down my body, the pleated fabric falling to my ankles. I pick up the embroidered navy-and-gold girdle belt and tie it around my waist, cinching the fabric so only a glimpse of my legs will show when I walk. Two matching golden cuffs sit on the end of my bed, and I slip them on my wrists as Nyssa undoes my thick braid and brushes out my hair.
“My work here is done!” she announces, throwing her arms wide and flinging my brush across the room in the same motion. It hits the wall and lands on the wooden floor with a clatter. I eye it with an arched eyebrow, but then shrug. I’m used to her antics. Sometimes, it’s hard to reconcile that she’s actually three months older than me—a full quarter, as she likes to remind me with smug delight. But everyone wears armor, and Nyssa’s has always been her irreverence.
I turn to face her but pause, caught by the reflection in the mirror leaning against the wall.
Ashen hair falls in glossy waves past my waist. The olive brown of my skin deepens the contrast, making it shimmer like pale silver in the moonlight that streams through the window. It’s rare to see tycheroi with such light hair in the Sorrows—shades of brown and black being most common. When I first came to the Aviary, I thought they would make me color it with dye to keep my identity hidden. But the Eagle gave me an earring engraved withgoiteíainstead and instructed me to wear it whenever I wasn’t alone.
Pure relief had filled that moment.
I inherited my hair from my mother—a foreigner from the winter kingdom, Arkhadia—and it’s always felt like one of my only connections to her. My stormy blue eyes are hers, too—another trait uncommon in the south.
Sometimes I wonder how much I resemble her. Perhaps that’s the reason my father couldn’t stand to keep me around. He never spoke ofher when I was young, and all I know is her name—Nephelle—and where she came from.
After my birth, my father forbade everyone from speaking of her, as though he could wipe her memory from existence. But I will never forget it.
I blink away the stinging in my eyes as Nyssa appears in the reflection behind me. Her rosebud lips purse as she hands me the small golden earring.
Exhaling through my nose, I fasten it on my right ear among the collection of hoops and other jewelry. I turn back to the mirror, watching as my reflection transforms. Pale hair darkens to rich brown, and my eyes deepen to the color of wet clay.
“It might help if you try not to glare so much.” She says the words like she’s attempting to placate a wild animal. I scowl at her, then wipe the expression from my face when I realize I’m only proving her right.
I stride over to my nightstand and pick up my dagger, pulling it free from the belt holster. I stroke my thumb over the intricate blade, like a large feather dipped in molten metal before being honed to lethal sharpness at the point. The handle is just as unique, carved from a shimmering ivory stone and adorned with a silver scale etched in foreign markings.
