Win'Tarra
The capital of the Sechvennat of Win'Tarra
The capital of the Sechvennat rose from the cliffs like a crest carved from ivory: cold, unyielding, its walls silvered by moonlight.
Terraces climbed upward in rings, opening like the petals of a vast stone flower. The higher the level, the less it catered to mortal needs, and the more it belonged to the winds and the wide heavens; the true domain of the winged masters, the Ilari.
At its base lay the human quarter, a rat's nest beneath an eagle's throne. Houses of gray stone and timber squeezed together, their black-tiled roofs low, their windows narrow as if afraid of light. The streets twisted without plan, crowded with people who seemed small beneath the shadow of the city above.
As the gaze climbed, the architecture opened. The second tier stretched into broad terraces without railings -gathering places where lesser Ilari mingled beneath the stars. The third was latticed with bridges and open galleries, where the young learned the skill of flight. Suspended gardens filled the fourth and fifth: trees rooted in stone platforms hanging like green chandelieres.
At the summit, crowning the city with eight sharp spires, stood the Towers of the Houses. Each tower bore the mark of its line, yet all were equally magnificent. The Tower of the Fifth House gleamed white with polished marble; rows of balconies jutted into emptiness, and its spires, sharp as daggers, pierced the sky.
On the highest terrace of that tower, facing the cold sea wind, stood Rhais V'Asanii, patriarch, Sechvenn of the House of War, these days known simply as the Fifth House. His dark eyes, as deep as the night ocean, gazed at the horizon with the mingled curiosity and disdain typical of his kind. His features were still strong: platinum hair, smooth youthful face; but his bearing carried the weight of over three centuries.
"You've brought me the letter?" His voice was quiet, yet sharp in the wind.
The human servant's hands shook as he offered a parchment sealed with two crossed flaming arrows. "Your Excellency, it arrived this morning from Astochia."
Rhais did not open it. He already knew its contents. His summons had been answered: his son was returning to Win'Tarra after eight years of exile; two spent in the legions at the lowest rank by choice, and six more ruling Astochia as prince.
The wind rustled through his wings. Once white as new snow, they now bore a gray cast; the ash at at the end of the flame. Among the Ilari, age did not write wrinkles on the face; it dulled the glow of skin, drained the feathers of their glow, until it slowly turned them into statues.
"Leave me." He did not turn. The servant withdrew, footsteps sliding softly across stone.
When silence had filled the space, Rhais closed his eyes and let memory wash over him.
Chains rattled against stone. The cell stank of damp and iron. Noemi, a rebel, Selavetian spy - stood heavy with late pregnancy, wrists bound, head unbowed.
"No matter what she's done..." His voice had once been young and sharp as steel. "She is mine. Spare her. Spare the child."
Eirran, youngest Seraph in seven centuries; the second-highest rank of the militant priesthood of the Antarrila, stood before the throne.
"The law is clear," Rhais had said. "She has committed high treason. Her life cannot be spared."
"The law exists to serve life." Eirran's gaze had not wavered. "If you take hers, I will give mine - for hers, and for the child's."
The night stretched long with bargaining; the day broke against their silence. In the end, Eirran laid down all he had: obedience, freedom, future...in exchange for their lives. Rhais had agreed. Fate was harsher than any sentence.
Noemi died giving birth. The guards watched with indifference; the light in the cell faded like breath on glass. The child lived.
When they placed her in his arms, small, fragile fingers curled tight, in that tiny face Rhais saw Eirran's eyes, the same stubborn set of mouth his son had carried at that age. He could have had her smothered. Tradition demanded it. Instead he gave an order that would haunt him ever after:
"Take her away. Find someone... A widow, perhaps. Someone poor, who won't ask questions. Five hundred gold. Two hundred silver each year for silence."
He told Eirran that the child was stillborn, that Noemi had gone to her grave alone. Something broke in his son that night, something that never healed. He severed his betrothal to the Second Daughter of the Sixth House, the House of Enlightenment, and returned to the militant brotherhood of Antarrila. Once a Seraph, he asked for the lowest rank: Angel. He flew, burned, and slew on command, as if in search of punishment.
On the northern slopes, a village smoldered in gray dawn. Wet smoke curled sweet and bitter. A cellar door slammed below, children's breathing hushed behind planks. "Cleanse it," said the faceless commander. Eirran lowered his sword. "No." The word fell heavier than steel. Only the crackle of damp beams answered. They bound his wings with ropes that bit into flesh and feather. Blood mixed with ash and rain. He did not resist.
When they brought him before the Archseraphs and the High Council for judgment, Rhais bargained for exile: lashes instead of wing-breaking, and a principality in Astochia, half-honor and half-disgrace.
Eirran left without a word. Six years he had not set foot in Win'Tarra. Six years Rhais had not seen his youngest son.
Now he had called him to return. Death stood at the door, and Rhais V'Asanii, the man who once commanded the greatest army of Sechvennat, could not die with that lie in his chest.
The wind sharpened, carrying salt and storm. Somewhere across the restless sea, Eirran was returning. When they met, Rhais would have to look his son in the eyes and speak a truth that might destroy what little bond remained, or finally bring him the release he craved.
The hall of the Fifth Tower was cold, lit by pale light through tall, narrow windows. Rhais sat upon a throne of polished black stone, shadows spreading from him like wings. His own wings, once white as snow, now carried an ashen tint at the tips, stirring faintly with shallow breath. The dull ache in his bones had become an old companion.
Fariah was not there. At this hour his devout wife, a member of the Sisterhood of Lanterns, was in the Great Temple, lighting candles to secure the priests' goodwill and quiet influence in the council.
The doors opened without a knock.
Gioden.
The heir entered with measured, confident steps. His dark silk lliath whispered as he moved, the silver ribbon of succession gleaming on his chest. Long pearl-colored hair framed features that mirrored Rhais's own, only more relaxed. Passing by, Alina, First Daughter of the Second House, the House of Ore, adjusted that ribbon with a light touch, her chin lowered slightly: a gesture that might be intimacy, or strategy.
"Father." He bowed-not too deeply. Never too deeply.
"Son." Rhais raised a hand toward the chair beside him. "Sit."
Gioden obeyed, but his calculating dark eyes never left his father's face. Only three days earlier he had quietly replaced three commanders of the Third Tier bridgeheads, restructuring the watch in a few lines of script; no blood spilled, no cries raised, but whispers silenced. Rhais knew. Competence...and ice.
"How do you feel?" Rhais asked.
A thin smile cut across Gioden's face. "Better than you, apparently."
Rhais let the jest pass. "It's time we spoke of the House's future."
Gioden folded his arms. "If this is another attempt to convince me that Eirran will prove loyal after you..." He paused, but the word hung in the air. "... depart."
"I will not depart until I know you are ready," said Rhais.
"Then you'll live forever," Gioden replied dryly.
Framed in the doorway's light, Alina stood close enough to hear, far enough to remain apart. Her posture was composed, schooled into calm; yet her gaze was alert, weighing, without the cruelty that sometimes clouded Gioden's eyes.
"Eirran is coming," Rhais said.
Gioden's eyes darkened. "Of course he is. At last you'll give him what he's always wanted: your attention, even if only on your deathbed."
"He does not come for me," said Rhais. "He comes for the truth."
"What truth?"
Rhais closed his eyes for the briefest moment. The pain was more than of the flesh. "Noemi's child," he whispered.
Silence thickened.
Gioden rose slowly. "No."
"Gioden..."
"No!" For the first time, his voice cracked; a fissure through the ice. "You will not tell him. Not after everything you did to bury it. Not just to ease your soul, leaving me to deal with the aftermath."
Rhais studied him. Beneath the fury, he saw fear: that even now, Eirran would be the one given everything.
"You know why I must," said Rhais.
Gioden's fists clenched. "Because he was always your favorite."
"Because it is the only thing I regret." Rhais's voice grew rough. "I did what I believed was right. And Eirran... it was as if she extinguished him. Noemi's death killed something in him I cannot restore. But the child..."
"The child is a mongrel. Not ours."
Rhais lifted a brow; silence returned him to control. "You know what it means. I know too. To acknowledge it would tear our alliances apart, open the Temples' jaws upon our House." He shrugged, shoulders weary, grey feathers brushing the polished floor. "That's why I never checked... I thought if I didn't look, it didn't happen." A sigh. "Especially once I learned of the intermediary's death. I thought...Perhaps that was a chance to put it all behind us. But no one can outfly their sins, my son. Not even us."
Gioden said nothing.
"I do not ask you to understand," Rhais continued. "I ask you to respect it."
His brow furrowed, conflict shadowing his eyes. At last he looked up. "If you tell him, you will break him again."
"I know."
"Then won't you at least give him the chance to find peace before you..."
"Peace?" A short, bitter laugh tore free, ending in a cough. "The only thing your brother and I share is that neither of us will ever find it."
Gioden studied him; something new crossed his face; not love, not forgiveness, but perhaps a trace of understanding.
"What do you want from me, then?"
Rhais laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "Lead the House better than I did."
Gioden did not answer. But he did not pull away.
"Wisdom is sometimes surviving the truth," Alina said quietly, almost to herself.
In the silence that followed, a bell tolled far above the city tiers. Rhais and Gioden exchanged a look.
"The Council of the Eight Towers is summoned," Alina said, this time clear.
It was enough.