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“Yes.” I release a soft breath, then add, “No.”

“Speak plainly, Aella,” she says, a small smirk curving her lips as she echoes words I once spoke to her. The memory feels distant now, even though it wasn’t all that long ago we were standing in the gilded halls of the Vilean Court and she was passing me veiled warnings.

I turn on the stool to face her as she perches on my bed.

“I used to think safety meant hiding parts of myself,” I say slowly. “Suppressing my magic with a ring, or breathing so carefully I didn’t move the air.”

Titaia’s mouth tilts. “Survival.”

“It’s terrible how quickly you start calling that survival, but that’s exactly what I told myself too. I was fighting with that part of myself for so long, and it’s a gods-damned relief not to be fighting anymore.”

“But?” she asks.

“I thought I knew all there was worth knowing about myself, and now I’ve been handed a piece I didn’t know was missing, and it fits so cleanly it aches. But before I can grasp it, it’s going to be ripped away.” I huff a laugh. “If Nyssa were here, she’d say I’m being poetic to avoid admitting how much I want this.”

Titaia’s eyes warm. “Do you?”

“Maybe I do,” I say, and the words fall heavily between us. “Not a throne, or a prophecy, but somewhere I can stop running and start flying instead.”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Yes, but I can’t see a way to bring all the pieces of myself together. I’m afraid that if I choose belonging, I’ll fail the people I need to protect. And if I choose to protect what’s important to me, I’ll carve away the parts of myself that might finally belong.”

“What if belonging is the thing that makes protecting those you care for easier?” Titaia reaches for my hand. “I know you said you don’t want it, but there’s an empty throne in that palace with your family’s name on it, Aella. The power that could give you—”

“Doesn’t outweigh the responsibility,” I say firmly. “And these people don’t know me, Titaia. What am I supposed to do? Step onto that throne without my wings and declare myself their queen?”

She studies me, a slight tightness building in her shoulders. Then her gaze slips from my face and settles on the window instead.

A heartbeat passes, then another.

Her fingers toy with a loose thread at her cuff, smoothing it flat, letting it lift again. When she finally speaks, it’s slower. “I’m not certain anywhere will feel safe with Keres prowling the borders of our lives.”

My spine stiffens, not because of her words but because of the tone beneath them. “What do you mean?”

“He sent a missive to Kosmos before we came here,” she says, voice flat as slate. “Demanding my return with threats dressed as law. I don’t even know how he found out I was there.”

The Sorrows had received a similar letter after I returned from Eretria. Claims and demands etched in ink. Threats and promises sharpened in quill strokes. “He wouldn’t—”

“He is not well, Aella. And he’s very possessive of what he considers his. The borders on maps are lies, and the Sarathros can be crossed in a single night. I don’t know if Aerilos, or Kosmos, or any corner of the Empyrieos will provide safety for either of us. Not with men like Keres alive to decide what belongs to them.” Her red-brown gaze locks onto mine, and the ache under my ribs shifts, becoming sharper. “Maybe safe isn’t something we wait to feel. Maybe it’s something we claim, even if our hands shake.”

A soft knock punctuates her words.

Titaia brushes past me with a light touch on my arm and crosses the room with a promise to talk more soon, but my mind remains lost in our conversation.

Footsteps cut through the haze, and I look up as Rhaya stops in front of me.

A fine golden chain threads between her fingers, exactly like the ones I’ve seen worn by so many other Harpaurai.

“May I?” she says, her voice almost too light.

I dip my chin and stand, raising my arms slightly as she winds the chain around my waist.

“There,” she says, stepping back to scan me from head to toe. “Now you’re perfect.”

My gaze drops to the chain, running a finger over the delicate clasps that run along its length. Each clasp is engraved with a tiny goiteía. “What does it mean?”

Rhaya smooths the fabric of her pearlescent tunic, her own chain shimmering with golden feathers. “It’s a custom. Each Aethernight, we gift one feather. Smaller ones are for well-wishes,” she says warmly. “Larger feathers express a romantic intent.”