The fog in Tretina was not like Astochia’s fleeting mist. There, it rose and sank like the tide, breathing in long, slow pulses. Here, it stuck to the earth. Heavy. Unmoving. Thick. Swallowing air and smothering sounds.
Pines rose like dark spears through its pale shroud, their needles whispering in the damp air with a constant low hush.
On the cliff above the forest stood the Monastery of Lanterns, with its white, cold walls and silent, dark halls.
Fariah stood on the upper gallery, alone. The fog brushed her cheeks with moist, icy fingers. It crept through the fabric of her lliath, settling deep into her bones.
In the abyss below, the forest stretched out like a still, dark ocean. The world here did not speak in the rhythm of the waves. It breathed in a low, endless hum.
She remembered Gioden’s written words, speaking of her as the only one suitable to restore order to Tretina’s Lanterns. A voice of purity. A pillar of faith.
Punishment dressed as praise, a blade laced with honey. A sacred, honorable exile. That was a language their kind spoke well.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
In her mind’s eye she saw Eirran suspended above the deep blue sea. Wings spread, feathers ablaze with light as the Maestral spun into being around him. Columns of water rising like crystal towers. The city trembling beneath Heaven’s power. The people kneeling to this glory her son had turned to blasphemy.
She knew that Tretina was a prison. But even prisons had windows.
And doors.
Fariah opened her eyes. The gallery stretched empty to either side, lanterns dark, empty of flame. Only the faint murmur of sister novices danced in a rhythm of old, comforting prayers.
She turned away from the edge. Her footsteps whispered along the gallery and into the long corridor, her silhouette gliding past carved archways and stained-glass windows like an apparition.
Not all was lost.
Here, perhaps, she might find kindred souls. Ears willing to listen. Hearts open to forgiveness.
Her sons had cast her out.
But the Light was patient. And so was she.
In Astochia, days spilled into weeks, and weeks into months. Spring arrived with gentle steps, bringing the sun’s warmth, the scents of blooming flowers, and the buzzing of bees.
The house on the shore had finally settled into itself, once-empty space now filled with the smells of woodsmoke, fish stew and washed linen strung to dry in the yard.
On the terrace, Jereh sat at the rough-hewn table, pipe stem resting at the corner of his mouth. Smoke drifted upwards in lazy ribbons, scattered and dissolved by a stubborn seabreeze. Mirna sat by his side, fingers clasped around a slightly chipped mug, feeling the heat of the tea warm her palms.
In the yard that sloped down toward the sea, Eirran knelt on one knee. The late afternoon light caught along the curves of his folded wings and the unruly curl of his hair, spreading around him like a halo. In his hands lay a thing of wood and parchment, something faintly resembling a bird.
Lily crouched on one side of him, Evan on the other.
Neither spoke. Their eyes followed every precise movement of Eirran’s fingers as he tied the last string knot around the main frame, checked the balance once more, and inspected the little wings to feel how they caught the air.
“Almost,” he murmured, more to himself than to them.
He stood then, dusting soil from his lliath. The fabric bore wrinkles now, a small tear marked the seam at his waist, and a faint grass stain smudged one knee. A button at his collar hung by a single thread.
“Watch,” he said.
He held the toy by its small wooden body, stepped back, and waited. A moment later a gentle gust of wind rolled from the direction of the sea. Eirran leaned into it, arm sweeping up and forward in one smooth motion, sending the little bird into the air.
For a moment it dipped in a suspended breath, and then its paper wings snapped taut, caught the current, and lifted.
The bird rode the air in a narrow, circling arc, gliding cleanly above the yard.
Lily’s breath caught. Evan shouted, hand flying across his mouth in disbelief.
The toy lost height, wings shuddering as the brief gust died. It dipped toward the ground and fell into the grass without a sound. Eirran picked it up and handed it to Evan. “Now you try. Same wind. Same throw.”
Evan’s brow furrowed. He held the small bird too tightly at first, then loosened his grip, trying to imitate Eirran’s effortless sweep. His arm jerked instead of flowing. The bird plunged nose-first into the grass with a pathetic flop.
Lily clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle.
“Hey,” Evan protested.
“Try again,” Eirran said, returning the bird to his hands. “But don’t force it.”
“How do I not force it?” Evan frowned.
“Feel where the air wants to go,” Lily said suddenly. “Not where you want to throw it. Like when you toss a ball into a wave and let the swell carry it. You see the wave, feel where it is going. This is just the same.”
Evan considered that, squinting toward the sea.
“Show him,” pride bloomed in Eirran’s smile.
Lily stepped behind Evan, gently adjusting his elbow, the angle of his wrist, shifting his weight a half-step forward.
“Like this,” she said. “Wait until you feel the wind pull, not before.”
He snorted. “I don’t feel any pulling.”
“Then you’re not paying attention,” she said.
He huffed, but his shoulders dropped. This time, when the wind brushed his cheek, he moved with it rather than against it. His arm moved through the air in a more elegant line.
The bird flew. Not as smoothly, not as long as when Eirran had thrown it, but enough to catch air and glide in a small, stubborn loop before tumbling down.
Lily darted, caught it again, and shoved it into his hands.
“See?” she said.
He grinned. “Yes, I think I do.”
Lily and Evan made another circuit down the slope, the bird swooping and stumbling between their hands. At last, Eirran dusted his palms, satisfied, and climbed back up to the terrace.
He dropped onto the bench beside Jereh and leaned back, exhaling. For a moment he simply let his wings sag, feathers ruffled, shoulders loose.
Mirna set her mug down.
“We spoke with the children,” she said, without preamble.
“Oh?” Eirran glanced at her, attentive.
“They both say they want to stay in the palace,” Mirna went on. “They say you’ve promised them music and horses.”
Jereh grunted a laugh. “Children are easily bought.”
Mirna shot him a look and nudged his leg under the table.
“But,” she added, “they also said they would like to come here. Often. To visit. Stay sometimes. Not forever in one place or the other. To have both places as homes.”
She paused, eyes searching his face. “Truth is,” she said more quietly, “we would like that too. That all of you come. Not just the children. All of you.”
Eirran’s eyes widened for a heartbeat. A world was born and died in that pause.
Then his shoulders loosened. The tension around his mouth eased. A small, genuine smile broke across his face.
“In that case,” he said, “I accept. But if I am to come, then I expect that famous fish stew of yours, Mirna.”
“Do not expect anything if my net comes up empty,” Jereh cut in with a grin.
“That is why I will bring you Evan,” Eirran replied.
Jereh barked a real laugh this time. “Alright. I’ll throw him in with the net. The fish will surrender as soon as they see him.”
They both laughed, shared humor running easier between them now, without barrier.
Down in the yard, the children hollered. The bird skimmed a little higher this time before dipping. Evan nearly tripped over his own feet trying to catch it. Lily reached for his shoulder, steadying him, her hand firm, her eyes never leaving the toy’s arc.
Eirran watched them.
He saw the way Lily’s gaze mapped the invisible currents at play. How she adjusted before the wind shifted. How she nudged Evan a half-step to his left without thinking, turning his missteps into chance catches. She did it as naturally as breathing.
He smiled and then let that thought fly away with the wind.
Today was for scraped knees and shouted dares and badly thrown toy birds.
“I’ll go get the wood,” Jereh said suddenly, rising. “For the stove.”
“And I’ll get the dinner started,” Mirna added, pushing to her feet, then turning to Eirran. “You’d better stay here and watch the children.”
Eirran answered with a smile.
The terrace slowly emptied, leaving him alone on the bench.
Later, when the sun had begun its slow descent, the house hummed with the small sounds of evening. The murmur of voices, the clattering in the kitchen, the muffled thud of small feet chasing across the floorboards.
Outside, the sky over the sea burned orange, then deepened into violet.
Eirran stepped out alone onto the terrace.
The wind had picked up, blowing straight in from the ocean. It tugged at his lliath, making the already crumpled fabric ripple. It ruffled his hair and teased the feathers of his wings into disarray. One button at his chest was now definitively gone, having lost its battle with rough play and small grabbing hands sometime that afternoon.
He did not fix any of it.
He braced his hands on the low stone wall and looked out. The sea stretched before him, its surface catching the last light like golden dust. The horizon was a sharp line now, the sun sinking below it like a coin slipping through a narrow crack.
Once, on a terrace of white marble high above Astochia, he had stood in perfect stillness. Lliath spotless. Hair in precise order. Wings folded like sculpture. A flawless prince carved in light, while everything inside him lay in ruins.
Now, his reflection would show another man entirely.
Worn lliath. Rumpled hair. Feathers bent at odd angles. The line of his mouth softened. The remnants of these ruins were in him. There would always be. But someone had moved into them. Gathered them and stacked them together into something warm and whole. A home.
Behind him, the door opened.
“Eirran?” Mirna’s voice called. “Dinner is ready. Are you coming?”
He let his gaze linger one last heartbeat on the line where the last slip of sun vanished beneath the sea. The colors bled and faded, leaving only the first stars pricking through the darkening sky.
Clouds would come again. From the mountains, from the sea, from places no one saw. The winds were already turning.
But whatever storm might roll from the mountains, he would not meet it alone.
His wings twitched once, then settled. He took in a breath, salt coating his tongue like a balm.
“I’m coming,” he called back, releasing the air into the coming night, and stepped inside.
Leave a Reply