Chapter 56

Ifound Anaria and Tristan in the library and cut right to the chase. "What have you two been whispering about for the past ten minutes, and don't tell me nothing."

Anaria glanced between us, her face tight. "Tell Tavion what you told me, Tristan."

"Wyverns aren't born with wings. We're born looking like any other Fae infant." Tristan stared out the window, dressed in a loose shirt of the duke's, doeskin breeches, and bare feet since he had to get airborne again soon.

"Like wolves, we can't shift for our first few years."

I nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "Wolves go through our first shift at about five or six. It's easier when we're younger, when our bones and muscles are more supple."

"Same for wyverns, but gods help our parents when we hit four or five. I know mine couldn't keep us on the ground, no matter how loudly they shouted."

Anaria's lips quirked at that visual, and I thanked the gods for him putting that smile on her face. But on the other side of the room, Raziel paced between the closed-off fireplace and the door, frustration seeping from him. "Get to the point, DeVayne. If you know something, spit it out."

"What do you think they are?" Tristan challenged. "You've seen a lot of battle injuries, healed a lot of wounds. Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

"Nothing like this. And I don't care to speculate or make wild guesses when it comes to my best fucking friend. So if you know something, stop fucking around and spit it out."

For a minute, I didn't think Tristan would, then Anaria nudged him. "Tell them everything, Tristan. You're not wrong."

"I barely remember, I was so young. And now all the wyverns are gone, so there was never anyone to ask. But I had a relative—a cousin, I think—who'd never shifted. I don't remember the reason, but he was a teen and some of my other cousins were teasing him, taunting him actually, about being afraid. Me and my brothers were hiding in the trees." He snuck another look at Anaria. "Watching when he shifted for the first time."

Tristan's golden skin turned a sickly hue. "He wasn't successful that first time. Not all the way. Two bony growths broke through his skin, right above his shoulder blades. He didn't have fully developed wings, only the support bone structure. I don't remember what happened to him, since it wasn't long after that the king came and…"

As if he were extracting himself from a bad memory, Tristan blinked at us for a moment before he went on. "Those wings emerged in the exact same place Zor's bumps are. My wings attach at the top of my scapulas, right here." He pointed to his shoulder blades.

"You're saying Zor's getting wings?" I blew out a breath, considering the possibility he was right.

Wolves who waited too long for their first shift faced the same issues. Bones didn't bend as easily at twenty as they did at five. Muscle shredded, fur sprouted from all the wrong places. Made me itchy just thinking about it.

But Zorander Vayle was over a hundred fucking years old.

Kind of late in life to decide to become a shifter.

"So is he dragon or wyvern?"

"Neither. I'm not claiming he's a shifter, I'm saying…he's getting wings." Tristan's eyes bounced between us before they landed on Raz. "Give me another explanation, then. He's bleeding out magic because all his energy is going toward growing wings. He turned the bedroom into a fucking greenhouse with all the heat and sweat he's putting off. And the itching…my shoulders itch, sometimes, right where my wings sprout."

"Wings?" I repeated.

"Twice now, I've seen…shadows form behind Zor," Anaria said softly. "Once, the night I claimed the magic, and a second time right before I destroyed the Reaper army. There was so much magic in the air that day, and I'd touched the keystone and accessed its power."

Anaria paused. "Then I used the stone later to bring him back to life. And he was caught in all three magical waves with no shield, no protection. None of the rest of us have been touched by that much magic. Not even me."

Okay, so the wings were looking more like a sure thing.

"Raz?" I asked. "What do you think?"

"It's plausible, but I've never heard of such a thing. But think of all the Fae in Blackcastle who ended up with power after the first wall fell."

"That was a fucking shiteshow," Tristan pointed out.

"What Lord DeVayne is suggesting isn't without precedent," Bexley said thoughtfully, hovering in the doorway. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Magic has mutated life on this planet since the beginning of time, and when the Old Gods arrived, they toyed with that magic, twisting the raw power to serve their needs. What if Vitigis had wings, and Zor being exposed to the magic simply brought out that latent trait?"

"From the beginning, everyone warned me not to use the magic," Anaria said slowly. "I always thought that was to protect us, but what if that warning was to keep us weak, to stop us from accessing our true powers?"

"Again, not without precedent." Bexley was nodding. "Magic begets magic. Think of the Fae in Solarys, the ones who developed new powers overnight. They might have had a drop of similar magic—could summon a thimbleful of water instead of an entire thunderstorm—but the magic was the catalyst to kick their own magic into existence."

"Zor could always fly," Anaria pointed out. "At least, that's how I thought of the way he traveled."

"And so can I, and you don't see wings sprouting out of my back." Raz's tone turned frosty. "You're all missing the big picture. We can't remain here. Not long enough for Zor to grow wings or work through whatever the fuck is going on. He's healthy otherwise. No sign his magic has been corrupted."

"He can't travel to the Wynter Palace. Not like this." I shook my head. "I don't even know if we should move him."

"This place isn't safe," Anaria murmured. "If the Oracle finds us, and she will, how can we face her with Zor down for the count and all of us trapped inside this castle with no means of escape? And we can't let her get her hands on that."

All our eyes fell to the box sitting on the table, the weapon contained within that might mean the difference of this world falling.

Or surviving.

Then we were staring at the female who would wield that weapon, the only one of us—besides possibly Tristan—who could even touch the godsdamned thing.

"You'll ghost Anaria out of here, with that knife, at the first sign of trouble." I didn't take my eyes off my wife. "Or Tristan can fly her out, but she has to get free of this while the rest of us slow the Oracle down."

"I agree to no such thing, Tavion, and I'm sick and tired of you?—"

I cut her off. "You are the only one who really matters, Anaria," I reminded her gently. "We're down to it now, and you are the only one of us who has enough magic to face Corvus. You are the only one of us strong enough to face Corvus. We serve you."

I took her hand, turned it over, and stroked my finger down the center of her palm. "We exist to serve our queen, as we always have. As we always will. And you cannot stay here any longer, Anaria. Your fate was always to the north, and it's our duty to get you there. But nothing we've thus far done matters if you die in this place."

Because Anaria's survival was all that mattered. She was my life. And I could trust Raz to get her the furthest away and keep her the safest.

Her safety was the bedrock upon which I stood, her happiness the air I breathed. My entire existence was based on her wellbeing, and the second the Oracle showed her face, I would give my life to allow Anaria time to escape.

"And go where, exactly?" Tristan asked quietly. "We have so few options; we might as well have none at all."

Raz dragged his hands down his face, his expression bleak. "Back to the original plan. Tristan flies to the palace to make sure it's still safe. I'll get to Whitehall and scrounge up as much food and water as I can. We rest, get strong, and wait for Zor to…fucking grow wings, I guess."