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He shifts in his seat, his playfulness dimming as he exchanges a quiet glance with Rhaya.

I don’t need to wonder why the situation felt so desperate—the Eagle implied that Eretria had held “the weapon” for years.

“How did you all meet?” I ask, hoping to shift the mood.

“We grew up together,” Rhaya says. “Not here, though. Farther down the mountain in a much smaller settlement.”

Kato picks up the thread. “It was a place built by those who wanted more freedom. Apparently, we hadn’t learned enough from our own history, because it wasn’t long before someone stumbled upon us. It didn’t end well, and we had to burn it to the ground.”

I caught a glimpse of ruins in the Thalkans when I stood on the deck of The Nightingale with Nyssa and its captain, Nikolas. He described them as a remnant of the Empyrieos, a relic from before the God War. Perhaps the crumbling structures I saw were the ruined settlement where Kato and Rhaya once lived.

“Xan and his mother would visit often before,” Kato continues. “We’re lucky she had a penchant for taking in strays.”

Rhaya nods, her gaze fixed on me. “She saved our lives. Gave us a home when we had none. And Xan…” Her voice softens. “He’s the one who made us feel like it might actually be okay again.”

I glance toward Lyxander, but he doesn’t look at me. His gaze is distant.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I say.

“Not as sorry as us.” Kato smirks, the gloom melting away as quickly as it had come. “You’ve only spent, what, just over half a quarter with Xan? Imagine your whole life.”

“And yet you’ve turned out so well.” Lyxander casts a sidelong glance at his friend.

“I can’t argue with that,” Kato says, taking another sip of wine.

Rhaya mutters something under her breath that causes Kato to elbow her.

Their story feels like a fragment of a life I’ve always known, a life where bonds were forged not by blood but by choice. Exactly like my friendship with Nyssa, which is more sisterhood than anything else. It’s a strange, bittersweet thing to witness—comforting but filling me with longing all at once.

The room grows quiet until the trio begins to relish in shared memories. I want to let them linger in it a little longer, but pieces of the conversation keep repeating in my mind, and my familiar curiosity stirs.

“Is that why you live in this tower rather than the city?” I ask, gesturing around the room. “For more freedom?”

“This is Xan’s brooding tower,” Kato says.

Lyxander is leaning forward now, one elbow resting on the table, his jaw propped against his palm. His hand partially obscures his mouth, but I can’t shake the sense that he’s holding back a smile.

Rhaya swats Kato, rolling her eyes as she turns back to face me. “This was an old watchtower. There were a few of them between Aerilos and the old settlement, but the others were destroyed. Aunt Lina—Xan’s mother—took this one over when his theïkós manifested, since this was the safest place for him to be.”

“Though it does have the added benefit of a little more freedom,” Kato says dryly before downing the rest of his wine.

“Couldn’t you hide your wings and live among the tycheroi and nymphai?” I say.

Rhaya hesitates, her gaze dropping to her cup. “Queen Khione won’t allow it.”

“Harpaurai aren’t allowed beyond the wards,” Lyxander says. “Khione’s vision for the Harpaurai is one of survival, and she believes staying hidden is the only way to ensure our kind doesn’t vanish entirely.”

“And you don’t agree?” I ask hesitantly. “Even after…”

His eyes snap to mine. “No. I don’t.”

“It’s not just him. Most of us feel the same.” Rhaya shifts in her seat. “Hiding might keep us alive, but it’s not living. It’s…stagnation.”

“What Rhaya’s too polite to say,” Kato drawls, “is that it’s hard to make Harpaurai babies when your only option is to bed someone who shares a great-great-grandparent and an awkward family dinner.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Because beneath Kato’s easy grin and irreverent tone lies a harsh truth: If things stay as they are, the Harpaurai will vanish. Not in battle or from others trying to claim their power. But quietly, generation by generation, until they truly fade into myth.