It’s not that the statue is unfinished.
She’sdecapitated.
The artist must have spent an inordinate amount of time carving the details of her severed ligaments and spinal cord, capturing her life’s blood dripping from the wound. The statue is so realistic, it looks like a winged corpse sealed in stone.
“She’s calledThe Fallen.” Keres reaches out, stroking a finger down the broken tip of her sword before turning back to me. “Have you heard of the Harpaurai before?”
I frown at the familiar name, recalling the bedtime stories our nursemaid, Melita, would tell Kal and me whenever we were restless and fighting sleep.
The Harpaurai are a mythical race—winged beings like the Anemoi. In the stories Melita told us, Boreas, god of the North Wind and Winter, crafted the two original Harpaurai from the feathers of his wings. He made them like the tycheroi, with long life, enhanced hearing and eyesight, and remarkable physical abilities. But the extra gift he gave them are what made them truly special.
Feathered wings, just like the Anemoi.
I was so obsessed with tales of the legendary race that Kal once made me a pair of wings out of parchment feathers. I wore them for a full day, pretending to be one of the Harpaurai. Until my father saw. He was so furious he ripped the wings off my back and burned them in a fireplace.
I watched the parchment feathers burn until there was nothing left but ash.
Melita never arrived that night to tell us bedtime stories. Kal and I never saw her again.
A sharp pain slashes through my chest at the assault of memories, and air hisses through my clenched teeth. I twist the ring on my finger and avert my eyes from Keres’s curious stare. “My nursemaid told my brother and me some stories long ago.”
“The legends say the Harpaurai lived in harmony with tycheroi and nymphai alike,” Keres muses, his gaze drifting back toward the statue. “That is, until the God War, when their true nature was revealed. They were a vicious and bloodthirsty race, carving up the battlefield.”
“You speak as though you believe they were real,” I say, a frown creasing my forehead.
“Don’t all stories start with truth, Princess?” Keres looks at me, his red gaze piercing. “We have a vast private library here, documenting the God War. Many of the texts recount battles with the Harpaurai.”
“Then why do most consider them bedtime stories?” I ask, choosing not to acknowledge his question.
“A question I have asked many times before. The texts we have state that Eurus himself held them back. This statue here immortalizes the moment he took the head of their leader in the ultimate battle.” Keres runs a thoughtful finger back up the broken blade as he speaks, lost to questions that have remained unanswered. “After they were destroyed in the God War, they all but disappeared from our histories. Any scriptures or texts on their race vanished, like even the books couldn’t bear to maintain the memories of them.”
“Aside from yours.”
“When my ancestors heard of the texts going missing, they hid my family’s away. My grandfather would read them to me when he was stillalive.” He steps toward me. The same finger that stroked the broken blade runs along my jaw, tilting my chin until I’m forced to tear my gaze from the statue and look up at him. “You look quite sad, Princess. What’s troubling you?”
I take a steadying breath, letting the pause stretch longer than is comfortable. His closeness is unnerving, but I don’t step back. Instead, I tilt my head slightly, allowing vulnerability to edge into my features. “It seems like such a waste of life,” I say softly.
My eyes search his, not for comfort but for reaction. Would he dismiss this as weakness? Or would he reveal what lay behind the sharpness of his gaze?
Keres cocks his head, red eyes flashing in the light. The movement reminds me of the watchful eagles in the port back home, scoping out the morning haul.
Calculating.Predatory.
“You have such a sweet heart, Princess.”
The way he says it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Regardless, I smile like he’s offered me one. It doesn’t matter at this moment if it’s the cool breeze or the story or the cruel gaze of the prince that sends a chill down my spine. All that matters is the need to bring back a hint of the earlier warmth I witnessed in his eyes.
He drops his finger from my chin and clasps his hands behind his back. The shadow of a smile hovers at the edge of his mouth. “I was hoping you would join me for dinner tonight.”
“Won’t we already be dining together?” I ask. “With the other contestants, I mean.”
“I was thinking of something more private.”
I glance away, granting myself a moment of respite from his penetrating gaze. Unable to force a blush, I settle for coyness and peer back up at him through my lashes. “I would love to, Prince Keres.”
“I thought you might. We’ll have dinner served in my chambers. Bring a chaperone if you must—I know the Sorrows have customs you must follow.” He flashes me a wanton grin. “Until then, I hope you enjoy the court.”
I linger in the courtyard long after Keres departs, my hand stillitching from where it rested on his arm. A gentle breeze drifts by, laced with the sweet scent of wisteria, yet the aching discomfort within me feels far stronger, impossible to ignore.
