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“Apollina. She had a laugh that could light up a room. And a temper that could burn it down as quickly.”

“She sounds remarkable.”

“She was,” he says. “She would have liked you, I think.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to meet her.”

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, little bird. That burden belongs to someone else.”

The way he says the words feels like the closing of a door—one I know better than to force open. I look down at the book in my hands, tracing the worn edges of the leather as my mind drifts to his earlier words.

Thirteen to twenty.

I’m almost four years past that threshold.

I sift through memories, searching for anything that might resemble what he described. But there are too many instances where I’ve been overwhelmed by emotion, and none of them brought on a shift of any kind.

“What does it mean that I haven’t emerged?”

“It means something has been suppressing your Harpaurai side. And if I had to guess…” His gaze drops. “It was the ring.”

I glance down at my hand, where the faint mark of the ring I once wore still lingers.

“Did you carve it yourself?” he asks.

“No. It was an old mentor of mine….” My words trail off as realization dawns upon me.

Calliope has the sight.

She told me barely a quarter ago, before my first mission with Alpha Flight, that she had a way of knowing things—that they came to her as impressions or feelings. Had she sensed this part of me? I wore that ring for years, clinging to it like a lifeline, never questioning what it might be doing to me. Never questioning what else it might be hiding.

“Did you notice anything else when you removed it? Other than your theïkós,” Lyxander asks.

I cast my mind back to each time I’ve removed the ring. Aside from my power and the memories, there was a shift. “I think I can see clearer. In more detail, I mean. Perhaps even smells seem stronger.”

Lyxander nods. “Harpaurai have a greater sense of sight and smell than tycheroi. They strengthen further after the emergence, and that’s when you’ll start to sense others as well. So, it may still be possible, if it’s something you want.”

My gaze drifts to his wings, the way they shift slightly with his breath, the rustle of feathers breaking the silence. They’re beautiful, powerful, and undeniably a part of him.

Is it something I want?

“When you shift, where do your wings go?”

“They don’t go anywhere exactly, it’s more like our essence changes. When we shift, our wings become part of us in a different way. They’re woven into our form, our power, but they’re always there, even if you can’t see them. The same goes for our teeth, and you can shift one and not the other.”

My eyes drift to his mouth before darting up again. “Will you show me?”

His gaze is steady on mine, searching. The silence stretches, until he finally nods. His wings fold tighter against his back, and he begins to remove his tunic, starting with the small buttons, then pulling the fabric over his head and letting it pool among the cushions.

The air in the room shifts, growing heavier, and a moment of stillness follows that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.

Then a brilliant flash forces my eyes shut.

When I open them, dark spots dance in my vision.

He’s turned away from me, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath. The black lightning scorch marks on his chest and arms wrap around his sides, curling over his ribs and shoulder, but my gaze lands on where his wings had once been, and the two silver scars that run vertically along his solid back.

I shuffle forward, my fingers twitching at my sides, the urge to reach out almost overwhelming. “May I?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.