Chapter Seven

Cyrus was going to be a husband.

A bloody husband.

He sat in his plush chair by the window, one arm tucked under his chin, looking out at the outside world. Every fiber of his being longed to escape. Cyrus thought, for a very brief moment, that he wished he were some vagabond but then chided himself for not being more grateful for his bedroom. The third floor’s walls were lined with glass windows, a luxury few could afford. Now, to his utter dismay, the luxury worked against him. The glass was sealed to the cobblestone with wood, leaving no way to open it and no way to escape. He pressed both hands against the frigid glass and gave it a firm shove. Nothing happened.

“Fie,” he mumbled to himself.

This was going to be a long couple of weeks. He was even missing the Taking Day. He never missed the Taking Day. He was so curious as to which bloke was going to be the lucky (or rather unlucky) sacrificial lamb for the year. And there was a brief week or so that the Dragonpriests wouldn’t be present to be utterly annoying and egregious.

He stood up, pacing the room to organize his thoughts. He couldn’t defenestrate himself—He wasn’t that hopeless yet. Maybe if he tied his bedsheets together...? No. He buried his face in his hands. This was useless. He was going to be wed with Dahrian Brown. The Dahrian Brown. The soddy aetherin girl.

He knew he hadn’t always felt this way about her. The thought almost unsettled him. It was uncomfortable enough to stir something older, a memory that he hadn’t dwelled on in years.

Warmhaven’s gates had been open that day—A ragged carriage jostled straight to the heart of the hold, where Earl Grenwood, his father, waited in the main hall or the “map room,” as he and his brothers dubbed it. Though there wasn’t even a map in it, the trio figured it at least looked like the large room should house one. Young Cyrus had lingered along the upper balcony, watching and listening behind the railing, unsure if he was even allowed to do so.

The diplomats argued with his father, their voices held the edge of something sharp and foreign, something Cyrus had not heard before.

Earl Grenwood didn’t react immediately. “And what prevents you from returning her to Zephyrus? Surely there are others willing to ‘take responsibility.’”

“We do not claim this half-breed,” the other guard cut in, almost growling. This was the first time Cyrus had ever seen an aetherin. They were pale—almost like the paper of a book. Their white hair was long and eloquently braided, and even though they were male, they appeared to completely lack facial hair or were at least just very clean-shaven. Their robes were dark purple and spun with golden thread, a luxury few could afford in Oclen. But the part that surprised Cyrus the most were the feathered wings on the side of their heads. They were a warm yellow, more of a golden color. He, of course, read all about aetherins in books, but still he somehow expected them to appear different.

Their winged ears flared, their teeth bared in a way that didn’t look quite human. It frightened Cyrus enough that he ended up having nightmares about their pale snarls for months.

For a people blessed by Zephyr thousands of years ago, they certainly didn’t look blessed.

One dumped a pouch onto the table. Gold pieces spilled across the wood, clattering loudly in the tense silence.

“This is all the Vehlarkyn House can give for now. Do you accept our offer?”

His father glanced down at the gold, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “What happens if we don’t?” he asked after some time.

The aetherin’s expression didn’t change. “Then we would have to have her executed. She committed no sin, but we cannot have her among our people. We already have too much blood on our hands because of this whole…” he waved one hand around to emphasize his point. “…Ordeal. We just want to forget that this ever happened,” he said, yellow eyes cold and emotionless.

The second diplomat finally pushed a small girl forward. Her head was low and shoulders hunched as if she was trying to make herself smaller. She shared their pale skin and winged ears, but her black hair marked her as the outlier. In a very strange way, she almost looked more human than aetherin.

“Or, you can call it what it is. A product of betrayal between our kinds—something that should not exist. You can get rid of her yourself if you wish,” the first aetherin continued. He looked at the child with the most disdain that Cyrus had ever seen on a person’s face.

“And this Amahra you speak of. She is…?” Earl Grenwood said trailing off, almost not even wanting to finish the question.

“Yes,” The first diplomat said. “We disposed of her this morning.”

Now that Cyrus could see what all the yelling was about, his attention fixed on the small aetherin. She was covered in dirt; a splatter of blood stippled her face and clothes. Her eyes were blank and staring at the floor, as if she hoped it might open up and swallow her whole.

She couldn’t have been more than six years old. Cyrus remembered, even being around nine or ten years old, being absolutely puzzled as to why anyone would want to kill someone as small as her.

His father looked at this little girl and lowered himself to her height. “What is your name, child?” he asked calmly. Her gaze briefly lifted from his shoes to his face, meeting his gentle eyes. She still said nothing.

“Dahrian Vehlark—,” one of the aetherin began, but stopped himself. “Dahrian,” he corrected, clearing his throat. “She is no longer one of us.”

“Then she’ll stay with us,” his father said plainly. The two aetherins seemed to relax, wings settling against the sides of their heads.

“Then we have a deal.”

“Good. Now be gone. Tell your precious council that your kind is not allowed on Oclen soil.”

Lord Grenwood stood rigid for a moment, watching the two diplomats leave. The doors shut behind them with an echo, leaving a silence that felt too large for the room. His father glanced down at the young girl again, clenching his jaw.

“Cyrus,” his father called in a deep voice.

Cyrus froze. How did he know…? He backed away from the balcony, startled, and then rushed down the nearby stairs. He peered around the corner, praying that he was not in trouble for snooping. But rather than the anger he expected, all little Cyrus could see was how tired his father was.

“Cyrus, come here.” His father’s voice sounded almost defeated.

He reluctantly stepped forward towards his father, still bracing for punishment.

“I need you to help get this poor lass cleaned up. Just—” His father sighed, his gaze looking at something in the distance. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Bring her to Mara. Don’t leave her alone. Keep her company until we get this sorted out.”

Cyrus opened his mouth and then closed it, wanting to argue with the order. Why couldn’t one of his brothers do it? He looked back at the girl—Dahrian, he remembered. What a strange name. She trembled slightly, even under the warmth of the hearth. Standing much closer to her now, he could see how truly frightened she was. All disobedience left his mind. He held out his hand towards her, putting on a friendly face.

“Hello,” he said quietly. She looked up at him with large blue eyes and began to cry.

As the youngest of the Grenwood boys, Cyrus has never dealt with a younger crying child, much less a girl. Unsure, he just gave her a smile.

“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll take you to Mara—She’s ancient but she’s a good one.”

“Okay,” she replied in a voice that was too broken to be coming from a six-year-old.

He led her down the long hallways and down the stairs to the servants’ corridors. A small wooden door faced them, lit by two torches perched on either side. Dahrian squeezed his hand slightly. Her body bumped into his, and he almost tripped over her feet. Cyrus glanced at her in puzzlement. Her gaze was fixed on the dark shadows that swallowed the corners of the halls. He forgot how dark the first floor of the Manor must be to guests.

“Do you not like the dark?” he asked, stopping.

She shook her head. “There isn’t much darkness in Zephyrus. It’s always day there,” she said. Cyrus tried to imagine what it was like to never see the stars.

“Just your hair?” he suggested, glancing at the stray black strands that stuck to her face. He offered her a small grin.

Her eyes dropped to her feet.

“I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”

“No. It’s ok. I know it’s hideous,” she said miserably.

“Well, I don’t think so. I think it’s pretty bloody cool.”

Cyrus scoffed at the memory. It was strange how different things looked through the eyes of a child.

What a fool he had been. Back then, he hadn't known what she truly was.

The manor faded, taking the frightened little girl with it. He was no longer a child tasked with looking after Dahrian. He was a man being forced to marry her.

“Aetherins…”he said out loud.

It’s their fault that the humans have to pay debts to the Dragons.

And his future wife was probably a spy for Thumagraw himself.

He thought back to the girl he ran into on the forest’s road. Oh, how he wished she were to be his bride. But he never got the charming maiden’s name. He glanced out of the window once more, wistfully wondering what she was up to. Probably planning a wedding that she also didn’t want. If only he had just swept her off her feet and ran away with her. He could practically imagine taking her delicate hand once more, guiding her through the woods, entering a new town with new identities. They would purchase a tiny house on the edge of the village where he would farm and toil to support her. He would have had a normal, human wife and normal, human children.

He heard a small noise from the floor below him. He crouched to the floor and knocked on the wood.

“Crispin!” He called, his nose nearly touching the floorboards. “Crispin! Are you there?” He was fairly certain it was his older brother downstairs.

Crispin still lived at the manor due to his blatant degeneracy. He almost wasn’t even allowed on the streets of the hold due to his knack for fiendishness. and had actually helped sixteen-year-old Cyrus escape his first betrothal.

A loud thud answered him—likely his older brother hitting the ceiling in response. Cyrus pictured him standing on his bed below, lanky frame stretched upward, fist thumping irritably against the boards.

“What the hell do you want, Cyrus?” Crispin’s voice came muffled through the wood.

“I need to get out of here,” Cyrus whispered, trying not to let the edge of desperation seep through his voice.

“No kidding,” his brother remarked. “Honestly, I think you need to drop another honey badger into a courtroom. Might as well commit to the lifestyle—and then, hey! You’ll end up just like me.”

“A lazy imbecile?”

“No. A bachelor.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against the floorboards. “Can you just call for a servant or something? I think I have a plan.”

“And why would I do something like that?”

“Because we’re family?” he tried.

“Not good enough.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“With father’s money?” Crispin sneered.

Cyrus gritted his teeth. “Then what do you want?” he snapped.

A long beat of silence followed. Below, something shifted—Crispin, likely adjusting on his bed, dragging out the moment on purpose.

“I want a map.”

Cyrus groaned inwardly, looking at the walls covered in his own work. Hours of scrawling, ink-stained hands, torn parchment, and failed drafts pinned beside finished ones.

Of course he did.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Could you call for a servant now?”

“Map first.”

Cyrus exhaled sharply. “Damn you.”

He stood up, grumbling a bit and walked over to his desk. He yanked the drawer way too hard and pulled it out entirely, scrolls and sheets of paper spilling out onto the floor. He fumbled with the drawer, and it promptly hit him in the knee.

“Damn it!” He hissed, dropping the drawer with a thud. The rest of the papers fluttered on the floor, further adding to the chaos. He picked up the drawer and slammed back into his desk. He yelled in fury, unleashing all the pent up rage and frustration he had been feeling these past weeks.

Now empty, he slumped into his chair and laid his head on the desk.