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Beneath my hand, his breath rises and falls, a rhythm tethering me to the present.

Inhale. The air is cool, laced with his scent of leather, pine, and petrichor.

Exhale. The warmth of his exhalation brushes against my skin, a fleeting whisper of life itself.

Slow. Measured. Each beat coaxing my own breath from its restless cadence into something calmer, something whole.

“What do you need?” His voice is quiet, careful.

And for all the uncertainty swirling inside me, my answer comes easier than I expect, as though it had been waiting quietly all along.

“Take me to the harps.”

He closes the final distance between us.

His arm slides beneath my knees, the other wrapping firmly across my shoulders, and I fold into him without resistance. His solid presence grounds me, and the exhaustion in my limbs presses me deeper into his hold.

With one powerful beat of his wings, we rise.

I exhale, the sound shuddering, and close my eyes.

I don’t open them again until his feet touch the ground, and he sets me down with a carefulness that makes my heart strain. A shaky breath leaves my lips as my gaze falls to the wind harps lining the ridge, their curved frames pale and weathered, etched with ancient patterns. The quiet hum of the breeze barely teasing at their strings, coaxing me toward them.

I step closer.

My theïkós rises, and with little more than a whisper of intent, the wind bends to my will.

The harps awaken, strings vibrating with the breath of the gale that flows through them. The air quivers with the resonance, and I press my hands tighter against my ribs, trying to push everything back inside before it spills over.

But it’s too late.

Each note feels like a thread drawn taut and pulled, and with every pull, something inside me tears open. The grief I buried for years, the loneliness I accepted, the endless ache that has been with me since my first breath…all of it rises and pours into the wind.

Pull back, Daughter.

The words slice through the storm, familiar in the way dreams linger—sharp-edged and half forgotten.

The same voice from the fever. Deep and resounding and inevitable.

I ignore it and step closer, drawing deeper from the source of power within me, and the wind answers. Its currents whip past the harps with ferocity, and the music climbs higher and shriller, nearing a scream.

One of the harp’s strings snaps, lashing outward like a whip before dangling silently.

The wind falters, and I fall where I stand, staring down at the snow as a shuddering sob wrenches from my throat.

Feathers brush the edge of my vision, and I look up as Lyxander kneels before me. His wings are spread, their white expanse cutting the sky in half as they curl forward, shielding me from the wind.

“It’s broken,” I choke out.

Lyxander brushes the tears from my cheeks. “It can be repaired,” he says softly. “Stormwind…”

“How did you know about the prophecy?”

“The Oracle summoned me one day, out of nowhere, like she does. She showed me a vision…fragments of what could be. Pieces of you, of this.” He gestures vaguely to the mountains, his wings still wrapped protectively around me. “I never saw your face, and it didn’t make sense at first. But she said the Harpaurai had no hope unless you were found.”

“Did you know about my theïkós?” I ask, my mind casting back to all the moments when he should have been shocked but wasn’t. How hadn’t I seen it?

“Yes.”