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It’s clearly been designed with wings in mind. The doorways and stairwell are wide enough for feathers not to brush against stone, and the hallways are spacious enough for two or three Harpaurai to walk abreast. Even the seating throughout is all low-backed or backless.
The fourth floor is where I’ve been staying, my room tucked alongside Lyxander’s and the library. Below, the third and second floors mirror each other, each with four bedrooms spaced evenly around the curve of the hall. Then there’s the ground floor, which opens into the shared dining and living area, and a kitchen and bathing chamber behind the stairwell.
I haven’t seen or heard the other two Harpaurai who were here, but when I peeked into the other bedrooms, it was clear at least four of them had regular occupants. But it seems they have made themselves scarce.
The stone above cracks open, and we step into the upper chamber. It’s vast and empty, a perfect circle carved from ancient stone. The winter air bites into me.
“How is it not cold within the tower?” I ask as goosebumps race along my arms.
“The walls are imbued with goiteía to keep the cold out.”
Gray clouds swirl and boil over the distant sea, heavy with a storm not yet unleashed.
Lyxander steps toward the ledge and gestures outward with one hand.
“Pick one,” he says.
“Pick…what?”
“One of the rocks.” His head tilts toward the ocean below.
I step up to his side and look down. Jutting out of the frothing waves are several large shards of stone, their tops uneven and sharp like the teeth of some ancient beast.
I regard the rocks. The walk up here has dulled the edge of my frustration, and now I’m torn between uncertainty and the desire to hide it. With no better option, I raise my hand and gesture toward the one in the center.
A moment of stillness follows.
And then the sky splits open.
Lightning tears the air in two, and the water below erupts as thunder echoes across the sea.
When the smoke and sea spray finally clear, my gaze locks on the rock I pointed to. It’s untouched, standing defiant amid the chaos. But the others—every single one surrounding it—are transformed. Their rugged surfaces are molded into intricate, branching patterns, like lightning frozen in stone.
I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears as the air crackles with residual energy.
He wields his theïkós with nothing more than a flicker of intent. It’s neither effortful nor wild, not like the power buried deep inside me. His doesn’t seem to fight him.
“You treat it like breathing,” I say, the words slipping out small and sharp. “Like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he says. “It’s a part of me.”
“How do you control it? How are you not afraid it could…”
The words falter, slipping from my tongue as he turns toward me. His eyes are glowing with an intensity that cuts through the day’s light. The scorch marks on his throat are lit up too, as if the power within him is straining against its confines.
“Hurt someone?”
I nod, still robbed of speech as the lightning fades from his gaze and skin.
“It’s always a possibility, which is why understanding it is necessary. Precision and control are essential, yes, but theïkós is tied to more than will alone.” He tilts his head to the side, considering. “How many times have you used yours?”
“Before our bargain? Three.”
“And those three times, how did you feel?”
I try to recall the moments. On the docks with Hali, the Eagle and his men closing in. In the Eretrian forest, when one of Keres’s guards taunted me and I stole his breath. Then, in the Aviary’s dungeons, when I did the same to the guards on duty. “Scared,” I say finally. “Desperate.”
He nods. “Exactly. Theïkós responds to emotion. Fear, desperation, anger—those are strong emotions, and they call to it. But using it in such a way is not the same as wielding it. Instead, the power is wielding you. And if it’s the power itself you’re afraid of, that will only make it harder to control.”
