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My fingers brush absentmindedly against the page. The letters, cramped and uneven, are unmistakable. It’s the same handwriting as the list I found.

Flipping forward, I scan the most recent pages, my pulse quickening as I search. When I find it, my breath catches. My name and Aella’s are there, written in ink that looks fresher than the rest. The handwriting is different—still small, but with more flourish.

The Eagle had written our names in the book that day. But whoever wrote his name in, and whoever penned that list, is still out there, working in the shadows. The thought sends a chill through me, the pieces of the puzzle shifting but refusing to come together.

“Who is he, then?” Kallias asks.

I hadn’t even noticed him approach.

“I don’t know. But it’s not about who he is. It’s about what he’s planning to become, and who is helping him.”

Chapter 21

Aella

Each dawn heralds a new test of my theïkós, and the days blur together in a ceaseless tide of trials and training.

After the flame, Lyxander led me again to the top of the tower. With a flick of his wrist, he released a scrap of parchment into the air, commanding me to hold it steady, suspended against the pull of the aether and the subtle currents swirling around us. He timed me with a clepsydra, the steady drip of water mocking the trembling strain in my focus. Each time the parchment faltered and slipped, he reset the water clock, and I began again. Yet with each attempt, I endured a little longer. When I held it stable for the full stretch of the clepsydra’s half-hour measure, he nodded once, then handed me a stone.

The stone demanded more of me. I fought to keep it aloft, every breath a battle against its weight. And when I succeeded, he brought a rock as large as both his fists, and the cycle started again.

Later came the ash—a nearly invisible plume that danced to the whims of the wind, a thousand tiny particles defying control. He drew labyrinthine paths of chalk on the tower floor and told me to guide the ash through its curves and corners without a single speck spilling over. It was maddening, the ash too light, too mercurial. My focus frayed, but I persisted, until I finally shifted the entire pile from one end of the maze to the other.

Then there were the chimes. He hung them from the ceiling of the open-air chamber, delicate instruments of sound, and demanded silence. I had to still the air around them, to quiet them entirely as they dangled, taunting me.

Countless others followed, and on the surface, they seemed trivial—child’s play to a casual observer. But I could feel them shaping me, carving out a deeper connection to the currents of the world around me.

When the sun sets, I sometimes climb to the tower’s apex, where the wind sings to me, conjuring up the image I’ve crafted of my source until it’s second nature to draw from it. I sit in meditative stillness, listening, learning. Breathing. But most nights, I find solace in the library, curling up on the window-seat nest, where I bury myself in ancient stories of heroes, mythic quests, and epic loves. It’s easier to lose myself in their worlds than to face my own.

I haven’t asked Lyxander more about the Harpaurai. I should have by now, but the words never come. And I haven’t allowed my mind to drift toward prophecies either. The idea of being bound to something larger than myself—another label, another cage—makes my chest tighten.

Each night, though, there’s been a pile of old books placed on the table where I faced my first test. The first night I glimpsed their titles and suspected what they contained, I left them untouched. I wasn’t ready to face what truths I might find.

Yet tonight, my attention keeps drifting back to them.

With a sigh, I set aside the book I’ve been aimlessly trying to focus on and close my eyes. My thoughts spiral, unbidden, back to the words I threw at Lyxander not so long ago.

You should have let me fall. It would have hurt less.

The memory makes my stomach twist. At the time, I’d meant it. I felt it in every fiber of my being, the raw ache of betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. But now, in the quiet of the library, I can’t help but feel ashamed. Cowardly, even. I’d been so consumed by my own pain that I wished for an end rather than to face it.

I open my eyes and glance at the pile of books again. My gaze lingers on the title that’s been haunting me all night. The First Flight of the Harpaurai.

I strain to summon an image of my mother, piecing together the few details I know of her, trying to tether them to what Lyxander has told me. I have no memory of her, but of course, that’s not surprising: When I took my first breath, she exhaled her last.

And maybe that’s why I’ve avoided the books. Because she didn’t want this life for me. And if I take even one step toward it, I’ll have to accept that I’m walking a road she never would have chosen for me.

But she’s not here. And tonight, I feel strong enough to want more.

I start to rise, but Lyxander’s voice cuts through the stillness.

“Stop.”

I freeze. He’s standing in the wide doorway, two steaming clay cups in his hands.

“You know the rule, little bird. Use your theïkós.”

I sink back into the cushions. Of course. If something can be achieved with magic, do it with magic.