~ Frozen Heights, Asterhold, 9846 ~
The storm always tried to kill him. Every step across the rope bridge was a dare, the planks slick with ice, the wind tugging at his wings as if meant to rip him into the abyss below. The other Cliffwalkers walked these paths without fear. Calder felt the fear in his bones every time.
But it wasn't the Heights that frightened him; it was the eyes. If anyone looked too closely—if anyone noticed what he was—they would see everything wrong with him. The mark of his blood, diluted.
Calder's feathers gave him away. Not pure white nor light tan like the rest of the Cliffwalkers, but mixed—the wind's purity tainted by the shadows, giving it a medium grey tone. Worse still, his wings weren't the two of a commoner, like his mother, or the four of a guard. He bore six. Three full sets. Rank One. Tainted royal blood. An abomination dressed in the highest honor of any clan.
He did his best to hide his smaller pairs under his biggest, shoulders locked and tense, praying the storm would hide him.
Ahead, Asterhold's towers cut through the snow. Blue fire burned in the stone braziers, unmoving even in the gale, a beacon of the clan's strength. Calder hated the way it looked, almost too perfect, unyielding, eternal, as if the fire would never burn for someone like him.
The wind screamed, lashing his face. His hand glowed behind his cloak, the cloud of grey doing its best to tame the wind as it lashed around him. Calder lowered his head and pushed into the gale. He crossed the city line. He just had to buy a few herbs for his mother, then he could return to the safety of Glacial Grove.
~
He stared at the bundles of alpine herbs, blinking at them with subtle confusion.
"Which one would go well with tart?" he asked the vendor, his ice-blue eyes flicking up to meet hers.
The woman hummed thoughtfully, studying the selection. "I'd recommend wood or earthy herbs—thyme or rosemary—but floral herbs like lemon verbena or, my personal favorite, elderflower," she said, her voice warm. Then, with a smile, she gestured toward a pale cluster of blooms.
"I'll take them all," Calder said, a nervous chuckle slipping out as he pulled his coin bag from his belt.
The vendor's smile widened. "That'll be five silver wings," she began to gather each of the listed herbs, holding them out to Calder, her free hand outstretched for the payment.
Calder counted out the coins quickly, careful not to fumble, then placed them in her palm. He accepted the herbs, tucking them into the worn pouch at his side—his mother's pouch, patched at the seams from the years of use.
His shoulders tightened when her gaze flickered towards his back as his largest wings shifted downward, still draped over the smaller pairs at his back. Just for a breath too long, but she said nothing.
"G'day," he murmured, dipping his head politely. His wings twitched low, the feathered edges dragging faintly against the snow-damp cobblestone as he turned away. He kept them folded tight, covering the pairs he dared not show. Not here, not where the wrong eyes might see.
The crowd pressed thicker as Calder moved through the market square, braziers of blue fire spilling their glow across the stone and snow. He kept his head down, the largest set of wings drawn like a curtain over the smaller ones beneath. The motion looked casual to most—just another Cliffwalker against the cold—if they didn't stare too long, but his feathers burned with tension.
Further up the street, a Rank Two strode by with his chin high, feathers arched in a show of status. Calder crossed quickly into the lee of a fur seller's stall, holding his breath until the noble passed. His stomach knotted. One wrong glance, one wrong twitch of a feather, and everything could unravel.
The Rank Two passed, feathers ever high, too absorbed in his own walk to give Calder more than a passing glance. Calder exhaled slowly, the tension easing just a little. But the tightness in his chest didn't loosen.
His mother would be waiting for him; she'd worry if he didn't return.
Calder glanced around, noting the approaching dusk—the way the market was beginning to thin out, the last stragglers hurrying to finish their business before the night set in. He could feel the weight of the moment on his shoulders, but not the way he usually did in Asterhold's towering shadows. He felt it now, in the pit of his stomach.
He had to go. He had to leave before anything else caught his eyes, before someone saw too much. Taking one last look at the market—at the vendors packing up and the flickering blue flames—he turned, pushing through the crowd towards the edge of the square, where the stone road wound back up into the high cliffs and toward home.
Calder walked fast, trying to ignore the chill creeping into his bones as the shadows lengthened. The market was a distant hum now, swallowed by the mountain's edge.
He took a final glance behind him, heart skipping. No one had followed. No Rank Twos. No Rank Fours with their hungry eyes.
Once the mountain path curved and the last of the lanterns faded from view, Calder couldn't stop himself any longer. His pulse quickened.
He lifted his gaze to the sky, already just about dark above the snow-covered peaks. The wind that had once tugged at him now seemed almost welcoming, whispering freedom in the quiet evening.
Carefully, he lowered his shoulders, and the wings attached to his back fluttered slightly, testing the air. His largest pair shifted, spreading wide enough to catch the chilling wind.
And then he let go.
His wings snapped, pushing against the gusts as he leapt off the ground. Calder's heart pounded as the world blurred for a moment, and then he was airborne.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he was free.
The wind tore at him, cold and biting, but he didn't mind. His wings beat in a rhythm that was as natural as breathing, the gusts helping him glide higher and higher. His mind cleared, the weight of Asterhold and the market fading away like distant dreams.
A grin tugged at his lips, and without thinking, he tilted his body into a spin. The motion was smoothed, practiced—a dance in the air that left him dizzy with joy. He spun faster, faster, until the ground and the clouds were one.
He loved this—the rush, the freedom. It was the only time his wings didn't feel like a curse. He pushed higher, through the clouds, until the mountains slipped away.
And then, as the wind whipped his ears, he threw himself into a free fall, laughing to himself as the clouds ended and the mountain ground came up on him. For a heartbeat, there was no control, only the weightless thrill of the plunge. The world below seemed to stretch impossibly far, but Calder knew the descent wouldn't last long.
He snapped his wings open, arresting the fall just in time to catch the wind and soar once more, breathless and exhilarated.
For a moment, he forgot about the laws, the eyes, the secrets. For a moment, he was just Calder alongside the wind and the sky.
But the darkness was settling over the mountain, and even with his thick layers, the air felt cold. With a sigh, he began to angle himself back towards the winding road, the path to Glacial Grove waiting below.
~
The icy wind died the moment Calder stepped through the door. Warmth pressed against his cheeks—thick and sweet, smelling faintly of herbs and firewood. His wings drooped instinctively, feathers shaking off the frost. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence, and the glow of the lanterns pained the small home in amber light.
"Calder?" Her voice came from the kitchen; it was soft, melodic, worn with passings but still carrying that warmth that could melt through any storm. He could hear the familiar rhythm of her knife chopping against the board, the bubbling of stew on the stove.
He smiled, stepping out of his boots and hanging his cloak by the door. "It's me, Ma." His voice was quiet but carried through the room, and the sound seemed to relax something in her.
"Good. I was about to send the hawk after you," she teased, though he could hear the relief beneath the words. "You were gone longer than usual. Did the winds turn rough again?"
Calder rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the herbs poking out of his pouch. "Something like that. The market was crowded."
"Mm. You should've gone earlier, before the cliffs started howling."
"I like the wind," he murmured.
She turned, smiling faintly, eyes shining like fading stars under the hearthlight. "You like danger, that's what you like."
Calder only chuckled, crossing the small space to set the herbs beside her cutting board. "I got everything you asked for. Even elderflower."
"Oh?" She raised a brow, taking the pouch and peeking inside. "All of them, I see." Her tone was knowing, teasing him the way only a mother could.
He shrugged, wings twitching shyly. "Didn't want to pick wrong."
She reached up and brushed his cheek with a flour-dusted thumb, a tender gesture that made his heart ache. "You never do, my feather."
The wind moaned faintly against the windows, but inside, the warmth held steady. For Calder, this tiny home was the only place the storm couldn't reach.
The table was small, carved from driftwood, polished smooth by time. Calder sat across from his mother, the firelight flickering in her red eyes. Steam curled from the wooden bowls between them, carrying the scent of root stew and roasted hare.
Citrine's wings rest low behind her, only a single pair as white as mountain frost, feathers soft and still. Even after all these passings, she still carried herself with quiet grace, the kind that didn't belong in a cottage cabin at the edge of nowhere.
Calder's, by contrast, never seemed to rest. His shoulder shifted, the larger pair lifting slightly as if the weight of what lay beneath them could breathe on its own. He caught himself and forced them lower.
"You shouldn't slouch your wings so much," Citrine said softly, breaking the silence. "They'll cramp if you keep them folded like that."
He stirred his stew with his wooden spoon. "It's easier this way. Less to notice."
Her expression faltered for a moment, the flicker of fire reflecting off the scar near her collarbone—a faint line, too clean to be from a fight. "You shouldn't have to hide."
Calder gave a small, humorless laugh. "Says the woman who pretends she's only two."
Her spoon paused halfway to her lips. The air shifted. For a moment, the wind outside seemed to press against the windows like it wanted to listen.
"I am two," she said at last, her tone steady, but her eyes told another story. "And you are six. That's what makes it hard."
"I didn't ask to be."
"I know." Her voice softened. "Neither did I, but let's not forget to mention that you are a halfbreed, and that's dangerous, little feather."
I'm a whole foot taller than you. Yet Calder said nothing. He looked down at his dark grey wings. For a while, they ate in silence, only the sound of the spoons hitting the bowl and the wind pushing snow against the shutters.
Then, after a moment, Citrine said gently, "Someone was at the blacksmith's today. A soldier. Asking questions about a boy who flies at dusk."
Calder's spoon stilled its stirring. His wings tightened behind him, feathers rustling like distant thunder. "What did you tell them?" he asked.
She met his gaze evenly. "That I knew nothing of it," she said, her tone as calm as ever. Then she added, with that faint motherly edge he could never quite read as scolding or pleading, "But surely my son knows better than to fly where others can see."
Calder didn't respond at first. He stared down into his bowl, watching the roots swirl in the broth. The steam fogged his lashes, and he blinked slowly, jaw tight.
"I do," he said firmly, voice low. "I'm careful."
"I know you are." Citrine's words came quietly, almost swallowed by the fire's soft hiss. "But careful doesn't always mean safe."
He looked up at her then, and for a moment she seemed smaller than he remembered. Not because she was weak, but because she'd spent too many passings pretending she wasn't afraid.
"I'll be fine," he said, standing and taking his bowl to the basin. His tone carried the sort of confidence he didn't believe.
"I'd rather you be home before dusk tomorrow," she murmured.
He only nodded, setting the bowl down. The wooden floor creaked softly as he turned away, his wings brushing the doorway, a faint whisper of feathers against wood.
Citrine's cherry red eyes followed him until he disappeared down the narrow hall. When his door shut, the cottage felt too quiet.
Calder leaned against the inside of his door, eyes closed. He could still hear the crackle of the fire, his mother's soft breathing through the walls. The air in his room was colder, windowless yet cold.
He sat in the dim glow of the dying hearthlight, his breath fogging the cold air. His wings hung open behind him, stretching to the limits of the small room. Feathers brushing the walls, knocking against the table, the low ceiling pressing against the topmost tips.
He rubbed at one of the joints, grimacing at the dull ache that never quite left. The smaller pairs twitched restlessly beneath the larger set, wanting space that didn't exist.
"Damn things," he muttered, tugging at the edge of a feather that had bent out of place. "Would've been easier had I been born a Rank Three."
The words felt like ash the moment they left his mouth.
He tried to fold the six wings down again, layer upon layer, tucking the smaller pairs beneath the broadest ones. It was always a struggle. Feathers catching, muscles protesting, joints stiff from being held too long. By the time he finished, he was breathing harder than he should've been.
He pulled the furs up over himself, lying on his side. The wings shifted awkwardly against his back. One refused to settle flat, another twitched each time he exhaled.
"Fine," he hissed under his breath, rolling to his stomach instead. "Have it your way."
The bed creaked in protest, feathers spilling over the edge. He pressed his face into the pillow, willing his mind to go quiet, but it never did.
He thought of the sky—wide, dark, endless—and how it felt to fall through it, to spin until the cold bit at his face and the air whistled through his feathers. The only place where his wings weren't a burden. The only place they felt like they belonged.
But even in dreams, he wasn't sure if the sky would ever forgive what he was.
The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the flicker of light from the hearth, just enough to remind him that fire still burned, somewhere.