Page 69

I focus on the book. Narrowing my eyes, I command the silver wisps in the air to wrap around the book, which then wobbles on top of the stack. With a final push of will, the air lifts it up and carries it toward me, dropping it in front of me with a thud.

I look toward Lyxander, daring him to criticize my effort.

“Good.” He smirks, stepping into the room and closing the distance between us. He extends one of the cups, the steam curling lazily from the dark liquid within. As I reach for it, my fingers brush his, and my breath hitches.

He pauses, then tilts his head toward the cushions beside me. “May I?”

I nod, and he lowers himself onto the nest of pillows.

The pungent scent of valerian root and chamomile rises from the cup, but the first sip is smooth, the bitterness balanced by a subtle sweetness.

He often joins me at this time of night, and though he never asks what terrors keep me from my bed, he never fails to come armed with a cup of tea. I’d assumed this concoction would be too weak, but I haven’t reached for the somniseed stashed in my nightstand since we arrived.

“Finally tired of your love stories?” Lyxander teases.

“Your tower, your library.” I nudge the book toward him with my foot. “Your love stories.”

He chuckles, placing his cup off to the side as he picks up the book and scans the title. “Rhaya’s, actually,” he says, then frowns. “Or maybe Kato’s.”

“Those are the two who were here when I woke? They live here with you?”

“Yes, on both counts,” he says, then grimaces. “And I’m sorry they startled you. My kin are frustratingly curious. Which is no doubt why they’ve insisted on coming back home, though I’d asked them to give us some space.” He pauses, and then adds, “Would you join us for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Your kin, as in your family?” I’m not sure why I fixate on the word, but there was an inflection in the way he said it, as though it holds a slightly different meaning here.

He leans back against the wall, feathers rustling as his wings settle. “In a sense. Harpaurai are born into families—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “You mean you don’t hatch from eggs?”

“Very amusing,” he says dryly. “But no, we do not hatch from eggs.”

I let my hand fall. “Understood. Go on.”

“Harpaurai may be born into families, but after we go through our first shift, it’s rare we remain with them. Instead, we create new bonds—groups forged through connections deeper than blood. This is kin.”

“Do they know about me?” I ask, then add, “About my magic, I mean. And my mother.”

“They know that you’re one of us. I haven’t told them anything else, that’s for you to decide. But I can’t guarantee they won’t put together your lineage on their own.”

I weigh the cost of them knowing against the pull of curiosity at meeting more Harpaurai. I’m not ready to share my magic—I’m not certain I ever will be—and if they suspect who my mother is, I don’t have to confirm it outright.

“All right,” I say at last, placing my cup aside. “I’ll join you for dinner.”

“Then I’ll warn them to be on their best behavior.” He sets the book aside, and his gaze flicks to the other one that still sits before me, The First Flight of the Harpaurai.

I tilt my head, picking up the book and running a finger down the spine. The brown leather is worn, the title embossed in faded gold. “You mentioned the ‘first shift.’ Is that what this is about?”

“We call it the emergence. Harpaurai aren’t born with wings. Shifting is a latent ability, something that’s always within us but…dormant. Controlling it is a rite of passage for our kind, typically during adolescence, between thirteen and twenty. The first time we shift, it’s normally triggered by a strong surge of emotion: grief, rage, fear, even joy. Though many believe it’s Boreas himself who grants us our wings.”

I glance up at him. “Which was it for you?”

His gaze wavers. “Grief.”

The single word lands heavily in the pit of my stomach, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue.

“It was the day my mother died,” he says finally. “I was seventeen, and it felt like the world was being ripped apart. One moment, I was drowning in that feeling, and the next, I was in the sky.”

“What was her name?” It’s not my place to pry, but this feels too important to move on from.