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He doesn’t turn, but his head dips in another subtle nod.

I brush my fingers along a patch of pale skin between the black marks, the warmth of him radiating.

He inhales sharply, his body going utterly still beneath my touch.

“I’m sorry,” I say, already pulling my hand away.

“No.” The word is quiet, but final. It holds me in place, my fingers hovering between us. “It’s fine.”

I tilt my gaze to his profile, his expression unreadable in the dim light, and then back to the expanse of his back. I hesitate, then let my fingers move, tentatively at first, over the curve of his shoulder, then down the valley of his spine, between the two scars. His muscles tense, as though he’s bracing himself. But he doesn’t pull away.

Like he said, it’s as though his wings have merged with him. There’s no sign of where they fold, where they tuck. Just skin and scar and space.

I frown as I trace one of the scars, lingering at the edge. “Why are these here?”

A shiver trembles through him, and he stands, pulling his tunic back on. He looks back, eyes flicking to my hand, and the lightning in his gaze flares.

“That’s enough lessons for tonight.” His teeth flash as he speaks, and my eyes linger on the now-blunt canines. “Get some sleep, Aella.”

Before I can respond, he’s already moving, his presence retreating like the tide. The soft click of the door behind him reverberates in the stillness left behind, an empty silence settling over the room in his absence.

I sit and stare at the space he once occupied, my thoughts scattered like fallen feathers in the wind and the warmth of his skin lingering on my fingertips.

Chapter 22

Aella

“You couldn’t wait to drag me out into this cold, could you?” I say.

“You’re the one who asked for a challenge.” Lyxander’s wings flex, their white feathers catching the pale morning light, almost glowing against the snow-laden landscape.

When I saw him this morning, he had already shifted back. He didn’t mention what happened in the library last night—the fleeting vulnerability that passed between us—and I kept my silence too.

I’ve learned that some moments are better left untouched. I know what it’s like to carry scars you’d rather keep hidden, to bury memories more painful than the wounds that caused them. It’s hard not to recognize the same guardedness in him that I’ve spent years perfecting in myself.

The wind picks up, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression is calm, unreadable, but there’s a tension in the set of his jaw, a flicker of something unspoken in his gaze as he scans the horizon.

The mountain trail narrows as we crest the ridge, and I stumble to a stop as a pale gleam of stone catches the sunlight like a beacon.

My heart skips a beat, then picks up a racing rhythm.

A city is cradled within the valley below. Buildings shimmer with frost, glistening wherever the soft rays of the rising sun touch them. Arches and pillars reach skyward, framing the frozen river that snakes between them.

“That’s not a village. You called it a village,” I say.

“I suppose it’s a city,” he says, stepping up to my side. “But it acts more like a village.”

“Calling this a village is like calling the Sorrows an island.”

“It’s likely the size of one of your isles. It only seems larger because the buildings rise taller.”

I glance back at what is clearly far more than a village, with its sprawling clusters of buildings, narrow winding streets, and the silhouettes of Harpaurai moving through it all.

“What’s your not-village called?”

“Aerilos.”

The name is a strong wind straining against a sealed door, seeking a way inside. One that carries weight like a funeral dirge and wonder like a forgotten prayer, meant to be whispered, not said aloud.