The light was draining from the pouring sky, rain hitting the glass windows of Gioden’s study at the top of the Fifth Tower. Alina set the scroll sealed with twin burning arrows on the desk in front of him.
Gioden lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“Your brother has sent you a letter.”
He didn’t rush. He took the scroll, rolled it between his fingers.
“I’ve been expecting it ever since I received Mother’s plea for intervention.” He almost scoffed. “I was waiting for the lightning to strike.”
“Considering that Eirran wrote to you, I’d say it has struck,” Alina said carefully. “The only question now is… how far has it charred the earth?”
Gioden shot her a short look from beneath his eyebrows, then broke the seal.
He read slowly, absorbing every word: the accusation of plague, the risk to the human population, the simple truth that the state leaned on those without wings.
There lay the key.
Eirran hadn’t wasted words on morality. He wrote like someone who knew exactly which strings to pull.
He reached the line about Antarrila, and the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. His gaze hardened into black ice.
He lifted the letter toward Alina without making eye contact. Tentatively, she took it and read.
Slowly, she raised her eyes. “He’s challenging you,” she breathed. “Backing you into a corner.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows. The flames in the lamps trembled, then stilled.
Gioden stood. The wood of his chair scraped the floor.
“He is reacting as a Prince,” he said. He took the parchment back from Alina’s hands and crumpled it in his fist. “As I would.” His throat bobbed. “I have erred in my judgment. I underestimated the full extent of Mother’s fervor and its vulnerabilities.”
“You’re talking about the V’Loraths.”
He nodded. “She let herself be swayed by them, exposed our House’s soft throat. Unacceptable.”
“Will you send for her?”
“No.” His voice was calm. “If she’s lost her measure, recalling her looks like an admission of guilt and turns familial disagreements into a public show. It’s a weakness we cannot afford. Instead, I’ll give her a task.”
Alina tilted her head, understanding dawning. “The monastery in Tretina.”
Gioden set the crumpled parchment on the table. “That way the House keeps its face, Eirran is relieved of her shadow, and most importantly – he becomes indebted to me.”
“What about the Antarrila?” Alina asked.
“I won’t simply approve it. I’ll be the one to order it,” Gioden said, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Pride warmed Alina’s dark eyes. “You won’t let anyone doubt your authority.”
Gioden took her hands between his, giving a single nod. “I will use this opportunity to remind the realm of the power of the sword of faith, and who is the one who truly wields it.”
Outside, the rain turned into a downpour. She leaned into him, ever so slightly, watching the tears of the sky wash Win’Tarra clean.
“Today I will give my brother the sky he claims he wants,” Gioden said after a while. “Tomorrow we’ll see who holds it.”
Down south, in Astochia, the sun hovered above the horizon, dressing the vast spread of ocean in luxurious tones of gold and copper.
Eirran stood by the window of Lily’s room, his gaze fixed on the southern courtyard, where Mirna was watering delicate herbs in her small garden. The muffled trickle of water trembled against the silence.
Lily sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. Her thin socks whispered against the soft cotton sheets whenever she shifted.
The silence between them rested like weights on their shoulders.
“You said you wanted to talk.” Lily’s soft voice broke the quiet.
Eirran took a deep breath, slowly turning to face her. “You know of Antarrila,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question.
Lily blinked and swallowed.
Voices of the villagers whispered: Death from the skies.
Only soldiers, her father had told her.
And between one heartbeat and the next, Fariah’s voice echoed beyond the colonnade: Divine.
“You said they are the Ilari army,” she said, suppressing a wince. Her voice came out quieter than she intended, yet steady. “And you were…” She paused as the magnificent, terrible statue from the Path of Glory rose in her memory. “A Seraph.”
The word sucked the air out of the room.
“I was. A long time ago. Before your mother. Before you.” He stopped, looking straight at her. “To be Seraph means giving orders others obey. To lead people into the sky without knowing whether they’ll land alive, but acting as if they will. It means seeing the battlefield as a tennat board and soldiers as pieces. It means everyone trusts you to do this without fail.” He paused. “It also means you’re alone. In victory, and in guilt.”
She looked at him for a while, then simply asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
Slowly, he walked over and sat beside her. The wood creaked.
“Because I have to go where everyone still sees me as that person. The one you don’t want me to be.”
Her lips trembled, but her voice stayed steady. “But you said…”
“I know what I said.” The words fell like stones. He closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, then looked at her again. “And I stand by it. That hasn’t changed.”
“Then why?” she asked, brow furrowing.
He looked back out the window, where gold seeped into gray, letting the room’s quiet beat like a countdown.
She waited. Something in her recognized the way his shoulders sagged, feathers rasping against the floor, and understood that some words couldn’t be rushed.
Finally, he turned back to her. “Because you were hurt,” he said, so quietly she barely heard him. “By our enemies. By…” He winced, as if the words themselves hurt. “My mother.”
Lily frowned. “Hurt? How?”
“Your illness.” The word scraped out of him. He watched her face tighten in confusion, then shift into an understanding that made her seem much older. Her hands clenched around her knees until her knuckles whitened.
“I see,” she said, cold as an extinguished candle.
His heart clenched. He had wanted to spare her this truth, torn between hiding it and knowing he couldn’t. Not for long, anyway. Some truths refused to stay behind the curtain.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, drawing breath to say more. But she grasped his wrist, fingers scrunching the embroidered hem of his sleeve. Her eyes were wide open, the abyss in them alight. In them he saw the same girl who had poured tar on Lioran.
“Don’t.” The word struck like an axe. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s theirs.” She released him. “Is that why you have to be Seraph again?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Because Antarrila stands above the Temple, above all of them. They claim they speak for Ellevath, but Antarrila is His blade. And I intend to remind everyone who wields it. So that they leave us alone. Because sometimes…” He hesitated. “Power is the only language some people understand.”
She turned her gaze to the horizon, where the sky kissed the sea.
“What you’ll see,” he said softly, “will be wind and wings. A dance. Remember it that way. Remember it’s for you. And remember too… I’ll come back. As your father.”
She pressed her chin tighter against her knees. She was silent for a long while. “All right,” she said at last. “Go if you have to. Be what you must. Just come back.”
The smile on his lips flickered. He rose and, as he passed her, brushed her shoulder gently with a wingtip.
“I always come back.”
The twinkle in her eyes warmed the room.
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