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The palace of Duskareth rose like a frozen shadow into the pale morning sky. Its tall towers of dark stone cut into the wan light, and between them stretched stone bridges like threads of a spider's web. The walls were traced with runes, ancient as the forests surrounding them. Magic hummed within them, quiet and watchful.
Below the eastern towers lay the knights' training ground.
Even at this early hour, it was busy with activity.
Metal rang out, commands echoed, and above it all, the rushing of wings.
Conor stood at the edge of the stone balustrade and watched.
Warrior fae rose from the ground, golden, silver, and dark wings stretching against the wind. They pushed off from the earth, spiraled through the air, plunged into steep dives, and landed with an elegance that felt almost like mockery.
He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Beneath the heavy fabric, something burned. Not his skin. The memory.
"You'll stare holes into the stone, Your Highness."
Conor smiled faintly, without taking his gaze from the sky.
"Then I hope the stone is patient."
Beside him, Zach leaned against a column – a dragon elf, short brown curls, the grin of a born troublemaker. "You know you could go down there at any time."
"And make a fool of myself?"
"Since when do you care about that?"
Conor exhaled. "Since I understood that a prince cannot fall."
Zach studied him. "Falling is part of flying."
"Not when you nearly die the first time."
Silence.
The wind lifted the hem of Conor's cloak slightly. For a single heartbeat, the irregular shape of a scarred wing was visible beneath it. It was darker than the other, its membrane threaded with fine, silvery lines.
Zach saw it but said nothing.
"Aqualith will be impressed," he changed the subject instead. "A dark-elven prince on a diplomatic mission. Water creatures love drama."
"I hope they love peace as well."
"They do." Zach's smile turned crooked. "As long as no one tries to drown them."
Conor gave a quiet snort.
Footsteps sounded behind them.
"Your Highness." Mason's voice was calm as a clear lake. The light mage stepped beside them, the morning light catching in his fair hair.
"The preparations for the journey are complete," he said. "The carriage stands ready. Shadow horses. The fastest."
"I know," Conor answered.
Mason studied him for a moment too long. "You could postpone the journey."
"No."
"Conor…"
"No." Firmer this time.
The light mage sighed almost inaudibly. "I am not worried about Aqualith. I am worried about you."
"Because I don't fly?"
"Because you force yourself."
Conor finally turned away from the sky. His ice-blue eyes appeared brighter in the shadow of his hood.
"A prince who does not fly is a contradiction," he said quietly.
Mason's gaze softened. "A prince who lives is more important."
For a moment, there was only the distant sound of steel on steel.
"I will not be the broken wing forever," Conor whispered.
Zach pushed off from the column. "And I will not be the troublemaker forever. You see? Miracles happen."
A small smile flickered across Conor's lips.
Yet as he turned away from the training ground, he did not miss the glance of two nobles down in the courtyard. Quiet murmuring. A brief shake of the head.
He knew that look. Doubt.
Not everyone at court believed in a prince who avoided the sky.
Not everyone wanted to see him on the throne.
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Meanwhile, down on the training ground of Duskareth, dust swirled as Shane landed with wings spread wide. His long blond curls fell sweat-damp across his forehead as he returned his sword to its sheath in one fluid motion.
"Too slow," he murmured, glancing over at the younger knight he had just disarmed.
He was disciplined. Proud.
The sky was his element.
Mason stepped to the edge of the grounds.
"Sir Shane."
Shane bowed briefly. "Magister."
"You have been assigned to the journey to Aqualith." An almost imperceptible tension ran through his shoulders. "With the prince."
"Yes."
Shane looked up toward the towers, toward the place where he knew Conor often stood.
"We could be there in two days," he said calmly. "Flying."
"And instead?"
"We travel in a carriage."
Mason's expression remained neutral. "The prince has his reasons."
"A prince who lets himself be pulled by horses when we could fly." Shane's voice stayed respectful, but sharp. "It seems…"
"What?"
"As though he fears the sky."
Mason did not answer immediately.
Shane continued, quieter: "A prince who does not fly." The thought formed more clearly within him.
Too delicate for the sky. Or too weak.
"You judge quickly," Mason said at last.
"I judge by what I see."
"And what do you see?"
"A prince in the shadows."
Mason held his gaze. "Then I hope you learn to look more carefully."
Behind a stone column, Zach crossed his arms. He had heard every word. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
Shane only noticed him when he stepped forward.
"Have you lost something, dragon elf?"
Zach smiled coolly. "Only my patience for hasty judgments."
Something invisible flickered between them. It was not open conflict, but a promise of it.
Mason raised his hand. "Enough. You depart at sundown."
Shane nodded, but his gaze drifted once more to the towers.
A dark silhouette stood there in the wind. The prince.
And for one fleeting moment – just one – Shane found himself wondering why someone who held themselves so upright would choose to shun the sky.
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The main gate of the kingdom of Duskareth opened with a deep rumble. Beyond it lay the dark forests, ancient, tangled, and threaded with mist. The trees grew tall and gnarled, their branches like interlaced fingers. Between their roots, magic reserves pulsed with restless energy.
The carriage was already waiting.
Four shadow horses stood harnessed before it, considerably larger than ordinary horses. Elegant, with manes like flowing darkness, as though they had been born of shadow itself. Their eyes shimmered silver, and where their hooves touched the ground, their shadows glided a heartbeat further than their bodies.
Conor stepped through the archway of the gate.
The black cloak lay heavy on his shoulders, the hood pulled deep over his face. The court had assembled, though the glances were less for the journey itself than for what it symbolized. Diplomacy. Or weakness.
Shane stood ready with the guard, sword at his hip, wings folded. His bearing was immaculate. His gaze cool.
As Conor passed him, their eyes met consciously for the first time. Ice blue against ocean.
"Sir Shane," Conor said quietly.
"Your Highness." Only a brief bow, no smile and no warmth.
Conor felt it immediately – that cool distance. That disdain, too politely packaged.
"You will accompany us to Aqualith," he said.
"For your protection." Accompanied by a faint undertone, almost like a reproach.
Conor held his gaze. "I am grateful for your service."
"It is my duty."
Nothing more.
Zach slipped up beside the carriage. "If you stare at each other much longer, you'll miss the sunset."
Shane ignored him. Conor climbed into the carriage. For a moment he paused, as though he meant to say something, but then he only pulled his cloak more protectively around himself.
The gates closed behind them.
The forest swallowed them whole.
Dusk settled early between the tall trees. The creaking of wheels mingled with the soft snorting of the shadow horses as they glided soundlessly over the ground.
Shane rode alongside the carriage, glancing around vigilantly. The other warrior fae kept their distance in the air, drifting silently between the branches, watching for any suspicious movement.
By evening, they made camp. Nothing large or elaborate. Only a small fire burned, its sparks rising into the dark night.
Conor sat slightly apart from the others on a fallen trunk. The cloak still lay around him, though it was not cold.
Shane stood by the fire with one of the knights, Ardan.
"Still five days to Aqualith," said Ardan.
"Three, if we were flying," Shane replied drily.
Ardan grinned. "The prince must enjoy his comfort."
"A prince who does not fly," murmured Shane.
"I don't understand it."
"Maybe he's simply cautious."
"Or he's afraid."
Conor's fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the trunk. He had not heard every word, but enough. Enough to know what this blond warrior thought of him. And it was not much.
He stood and stepped closer to the fire.
Shane noticed him immediately, but did not fall silent.
"Your Highness," he said, neutral.
"Sir Shane."
Silence spread between them.
"I hear you prefer the sky," Conor began quietly.
"It is faster. And more honest."
"More honest?"
"It only carries those who are strong enough."
The words landed like a blow to the face.
Conor kept his expression unchanged. "Not every battle is decided in the air."
"Many are."
"And not everyone who stays on the ground does so out of weakness."
Shane's gaze sharpened – contemptuous, uncomprehending. "Why then?"
The question hung between them.
Conor felt the burning beneath his cloak. The memory of wind that was too strong. Of pain that tore through his wing like fire. Of the fall. Of everything he had spent years trying to work through – writing it down again and again, trying to stay positive, trying to rebuild himself.
He pulled himself together quickly.
"Because I chose to," he said coolly.
Shane studied him. No defiance. No arrogance. Only… guardedness.
"As you wish, Your Highness."
He turned away.
But as Conor sat back down, Shane noticed something.
The prince was not arrogant. He was tense. As though he were constantly waiting for something.
For the next fall.
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The night was too dense.
The mist came silently from between the trees and swallowed everything.
Shane raised his hand. "Stop."
A sound, barely more than a whisper, cut threateningly through the silence.
And then, in an instant, the darkness broke apart.
Cloaked figures burst from the mist. Shadow magic flickered in their hands, black and violet, cold as grave-earth, calling out for ruin.
"An attack!" Shane cried.
The warrior fae rose immediately into the air. Steel met magic. Screams echoed through the darkness.
The carriage in which Conor had been resting was torn apart by an explosion of force. The wood splintered, the usually calm horses screaming shrilly.
Conor stumbled out of the carriage and into the darkness of the forest.
A shadow creature seized him by the arm and wrenched him to the ground.
"The prince!" hissed a shrill, distorted voice. "Kill him!"
A blade of black energy swept downward –
Steel flashed between them.
Shane.
He shoved the attacker back and hauled the prince sharply to his feet. "Run!"
Another shadow lunged from the darkness of the trees. Shane spun around, parried, but was struck at the shoulder. Dark energy ate through his armor.
"Fly, Your Highness!" he cried.
Conor stood as though frozen, naked panic written across his face.
The mist grew thicker. Screams. The rush of wings. Blood. Too many impressions at once.
"Fly!" Shane bellowed.
Conor's gaze was vacant. Locked far away inside himself.
A sound in his head – sharp, whipping wind. A tearing membrane. The fall.
He could not move.
Shane saw it.
The horror. The panic.
And understood. "You –"
A shadow lunged at them both.
Without another thought, Shane grabbed Conor firmly around the waist, spread his wings, and pushed off from the ground. Pain shot through his wounded shoulder, but there was no time for that now. They rose unsteadily, grazing branches as chaos raged below. A magical spear struck Shane's side. He gasped, but held his course.
"Hold on!" he pressed out.
Conor clung to him, not out of pride or dignity. Out of sheer terror. At being forced back into the air. He was not ready for this. He had not been able to prepare himself.
They flew blind through the mist, away from the screams, away from the forest. Away from everything familiar.
The landing was hard.
The impact tore a strangled gasp from Shane's chest. His knees struck wet grass. Conor was thrown against him and fell sideways onto the cold ground of the plain, the once-injured wing twitching uncontrollably.
For a moment, there was only wind.
No fighting. No screams. Only vast, open silence.
Before them stretched the Step Plains, the first outlying edges of the Trisgar Reaches. The grass here was lighter, silvery in the moonlight. In the distance, gentle terraces rose from the varied terrain – forest, moorland, and jagged stone.
Shane pushed himself upright. "Are you hurt?"
Conor slowly sat up. His breathing was shallow. "No… only…" He broke off as he saw the dark blood at Shane's side. "You're bleeding."
"Unimportant." Shane ran a hand through his hair. Then he looked at him. And the restraint in his gaze crumbled. "Why didn't you fly?"
The question struck harder than any blow.
"I…"
"I bought you time! I ordered you to fly!"
"I couldn't!"
The words rang out across the plain.
Shane froze, shock and irritation written across his face.
Without further thought, Conor's hands trembled as he tore the heavy cloak from his shoulders.
The left wing unfolded haltingly. It was beautiful – dark and blue-black.
But above all, it was marked by a scar. Silver, irregular lines ran through the membrane, as though someone had once torn it apart and sewn it back together.
"I fell," said Conor quietly. "When I was twelve."
His voice was not royal. Not controlled or composed. Only honest and trembling.
"A storm. Magical. Too sudden." His eyes looked into nothing. "Something summoned it. I was too high. My wing tore. I only remember the wind… and the falling." A shudder passed through him as he became caught in his memories.
"Mason healed me. He saved my life." A bitter smile. "But not my fear."
Shane was silent.
"You thought me a coward."
Shane swallowed heavily, only now grasping what had just been revealed to him. "Yes."
The honesty stung.
Conor lifted his chin slightly. "Fear is not the same as cowardice."
The wind moved through the grass.
Shane stepped closer. "No," he said at last, quietly. "It is not."
He sank down onto one knee before him – not in submission, but to examine his wound. "Let me see."
Conor hesitated, then nodded.
Shane's fingers were warm as he took Conor's hand. His touch was calm, focused – and yet something else lay within it. Remorse.
"I wronged you."
"You didn't know the truth."
"I should have asked."
Conor looked down at him. "Would you have believed me?"
Shane looked up. Their faces were close. Too close. "I don't know," he admitted. Silence settled between them, dense but no longer hostile.
Shane tore a strip of cloth from his own tunic and began to bind Conor's scraped hand. "You were trembling," he murmured.
"I was terrified."
"And yet you stayed."
Conor smiled faintly. "I was too frozen to run."
"Sometimes staying is braver than fleeing."
Their fingers touched.
Neither pulled away.
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When morning broke, the mist now entirely lifted, they found it.
A symbol burned into the ground, near the spot where they had landed. A circle crossed by three narrow lines meeting at the center.
Conor's face went pale. "The mark of the Forsaken Circle."
"Shattergrim," murmured Shane.
The Valley of a Thousand Deaths. A place spoken of only in whispers.
"A death mage," said Conor. "Or a shadow council."
"Why have they set their sights on you?"
Conor's gaze hardened. "Because a weak prince is easy to remove."
Shane felt a pull in his chest. "You are not weak. Do not speak of yourself that way."
"Many see it differently."
"Many are blind. As I was."
Conor looked at him. Longer this time.
"If I die," he continued gravely, "Aqualith would be blamed – after all, I was on my way to them. War would be inevitable. Everything would be plunged into chaos…"
"And someone would use that chaos to seize power."
"Exactly."
Shane straightened. "Then we will not allow them that."
"We?" Conor raised an eyebrow. "I swore to protect you." A brief pause. "Not the throne. You."
Something in Conor's gaze shifted.
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The mist returned with the afternoon. But this time it was different. Thicker and colder even than it had been the day before during the attack. It brought something with it, something barely perceptible – wafting, seething magic, though none of the good kind.
"Illusion," said Shane quietly.
Figures moved at the edge of their vision.
Conor froze.
Before him, the sky suddenly opened up – black and churning. The wind began to tear at him, relentless and strong. He was standing high above the forest again. And then a shattering sound. His wing tore. He was falling.
"Conor!" Shane's panicked voice sounded distant.
The ground disappeared. His lips parted in a silent scream, but the panic constricted his throat. Spread through his entire body, cut off his air.
"It's not real! Listen to me!" Shane seized him by the shoulders.
Conor gasped for breath, whimpering. "I'm falling…"
"No. You're standing." The familiar address slipped from him unbidden.
Shane pulled him close, firm and strong, hoping to keep the slender man from breaking apart.
The illusion flickered as warmth reached Conor, and he let himself fall, exhausted from the memories, into the shelter of those arms.
At the same moment, the illusion took hold of Shane as well.
Before him: Conor, motionless in the forest, blood on his face, a dagger in his chest.
"No…" His hands tightened their grip around the prince in his arms.
"You're not dying," he murmured hoarsely.
"Shane –"
The waves of mist shrieked, drowning out all sound. Shadow creatures darted between them, but at the center of the small clearing, they stood – closer than ever before. Though extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary measures.
Conor's hands had clutched themselves into Shane's clothing. Their breath mingled. They could feel each other's far-too-rapid heartbeat.
"I'm here," said Shane, quietly and calmly. "I will not let you fall."
The illusion shattered like glass. The mist thinned, the shadow creatures vanishing with it.
Conor blinked, realizing how close they were standing. "You held me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Shane hesitated. "Because I will not watch you fall again."
The words hung between them.
And this time, it was not duty that bound them.
It was something that had been slowly growing – something even mist could not conceal.
A connection, anchoring itself ever deeper into their souls.
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The sky above the Trisgar Reaches darkened quickly.
What had begun as a fine drizzle transformed within minutes into a raging storm. Rain lashed across the plains, turning the earth to mud in seconds and the stepped landscape into a slippery labyrinth of wet grass and stone terraces.
"We need to get higher!" Shane called against the wind. A bolt of lightning split the sky.
Conor stumbled. The ground beneath him gave way, the mud dragging at his boots. Before he could fall, Shane threw an arm around his waist.
"I have you."
"I can manage on my own –"
"No." Firm. Unyielding.
Another clap of thunder shook the plain.
Shane simply lifted him and carried him a stretch up the slope, even as his own wound ached with every step.
"You're still injured!" Conor protested.
"And you're soaked through. Complain later."
The rain ran down Shane's face, catching in his blond curls. Conor watched him, saw the determination, the tension… and something else. Concern?
They reached a half-ruined rock alcove. The wind raged outside, but here it was quieter. Shane set him gently back on his feet. For a moment they simply stood there, breathing hard, exhausted from the steep climb.
"Why?" Conor asked at last.
Shane did not look at him, turned his back. "Why what?"
"Why do you keep saving me?"
The storm howled like an impatient witness.
Shane lifted his gaze and turned around.
"Because you are more than your wing."
Conor's breath caught.
"You are not your scar!" Shane continued, quieter now. "Not your fear, and certainly not the gossip about you at court."
He stepped closer, placed his hands lightly on the prince's shoulders.
"You are so much more than that. You are the man who stayed even when he couldn't move. Who did not flee despite the panic."
Conor's eyes were wet, his voice barely more than a breath. "That was not bravery."
"It was to me."
A bolt of lightning lit the alcove.
Their faces were only a few breaths apart.
Conor's fingers trembled slightly as they clutched at Shane's wet clothing.
"I thought…" he began, his voice rough, "you would always look at me with nothing but contempt." Shane shook his head slowly. "I was wrong."
His hand rose, hesitated briefly, but then touched Conor's cheek. It was warm and real. The storm outside raged on, but between them it was still. They lost themselves in each other's eyes, holding fast to everything that gave them shelter in this moment. Kept them grounded in reality.
Shane leaned forward slightly, carefully, not wanting to frighten Conor.
Conor's lips parted –
A shadow shot through the alcove. A sharp pain lanced through Shane's side as dark magic struck him.
"Shane!"
He staggered back. From the rain stepped a tall figure in a dark coat. Eyes glowing violet. "How touching," said a cold voice. "The broken prince and his loyal knight."
The man let his hood fall. Conor's eyes widened.
"Vaelor…" The former court mage of Duskareth.
Banished for forbidden shadow magic. "You cast me out," Vaelor hissed. "Me – who truly understood magic. Me – who could have secured us so much more power! And now a laughable prince with a torn wing is to lead the kingdom? A little prince who cannot even defend his own realm. Weak! Soft!"
Lightning cracked behind him.
"Your death will be blamed on Aqualith," he continued. "War will follow. And in the chaos… I will return. Your father will perish in a tragic ambush behind the dark walls. And then I will rule at last!"
Shadow creatures formed in the rain around him.
Shane stepped in front of Conor, swaying, though he could barely stay on his feet.
"You will not… reach him."
Vaelor smiled thinly. "You are already dead, knight. Look at yourself. You cannot even protect him."
Shadows seized Shane, tore at him. He fought on, despite the wound, despite the pain. Steel cut through mist, yet for every creature destroyed, another formed.
Conor backed away. Fear crept through him, the same numbing cold as in the storm long ago. Vaelor raised his hand. Dark energy gathered, aimed directly at Shane.
"No!" Conor raised his own hands.
Shadow magic answered him. The dark, pure power, the essence of the dark fae, broke from him – not wildly, but controlled.
It collided with Vaelor's spell, shaking the ground with the force of their clashing magic.
"You hide behind your fear!" Vaelor cried. "Flee! As always!"
Shane fell to one knee, overwhelmed by shadows.
"Conor!" he pressed out.
In that moment, everything became clear.
Flee and leave Shane behind. Or leap. Not for himself. For Shane.
The person who had grown so deeply into his heart over these past days. The person to whom he had entrusted himself in his most vulnerable moment.
The storm raged on. The rain stung like needles. Conor looked at his scarred wing. He heard the tearing again. Felt the falling again.
A prince who does not fly is a contradiction.
He stepped to the edge of the stone ledge.
Vaelor laughed. "You wouldn't dare."
Shane raised his head, blood at his brow, his voice no more than a breath. "You don't have to –" Conor looked at him. Not as a prince. Not as a symbol. As a man.
"I will not fall again," he whispered, holding the curly-haired man's gaze one last time.
Then he jumped.
The first wingbeat was uncoordinated. Pain shot through the scar.
He dropped. A gasp tore from his throat.
Again.
And again.
The air caught him, carried him. Not perfectly, not high, but enough.
He was flying. Unsteady, faltering – and yet he stayed aloft.
Vaelor's smile died at the sight.
Conor gathered his magic, let it circle around him like a dark current, and dove. The force struck the death mage head-on; the shadows exploded apart.
Vaelor screamed as the energy hurled him back, away, into the storm, into the darkness.
The remaining creatures dissolved with shrieks. Shane was freed.
Then silence. Only the steady sound of rain remained.
Conor landed hard beside Shane, fell into the mud next to him.
For a moment he could not speak. Only looked at him, breathing hard.
Shane lay motionless on the wet stone.
"Shane?"
Conor moved closer, his knees in the mud, his breath still unsteady from the flight. He laid one hand carefully against Shane's cheek. Cold.
"Please…" His voice broke, tears rising again in his eyes. "Wake up."
Blood ran freely from a wound at Shane's side. Conor pressed his hand against it desperately, called his magic – not destructive as before, but calm. Dark energy flowed controlled through his body and out of him, mingling with the healing warmth Mason had once taught him to channel.
"You cannot go now," he whispered. "Not after I…"
His voice failed. He leaned forward, forehead to Shane's temple.
"I was so afraid," he murmured. "Not of flying. Of losing. Of losing you."
A weak, rough laugh broke the silence. "You talk too much, Your Highness."
Conor's eyes flew open.
Shane's eyelids lifted with effort. Pain lay in them – and a quiet smile.
"You… were listening?" Conor asked, his voice rough.
"Hard… to miss." He raised a weak hand and laid it over Conor's. "You flew." "I nearly crashed." "But you overcame yourself."
Their foreheads touched. No storm. Only their breath.
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The next morning, the sky was clear.
A narrow river cut through the plain. The water glittered in the sunlight.
Shane sat on a stone, his wounds freshly bound, exhausted but alive.
Conor stood before him, cloak loose over one arm. The wind played with his dark hair.
"I thought you weak," Shane said without preamble.
Conor smiled slightly. "You've already mentioned that."
"No." Shane shook his head. "I thought you someone who shirks his duty."
"And now?"
Shane slowly stood. "Now I know that you are the braver of us both."
Conor's gaze flickered.
"And I thought," he said quietly, "you would never look at me without contempt."
Shane stepped closer. "I see you."
No titles stood between them any longer, the distance overcome, on equal ground.
Only two men in the light of a new morning.
Shane raised his hand slowly, as though giving Conor time to pull back.
But he did not. Quite the opposite. Conor leaned toward him, closed the last remaining distance.
Their lips met softly. Not stormily or demandingly, but gently, as though the moment might shatter with any wrong movement. As though both were testing whether it was real. Conor's fingers slipped into Shane's curls and held there, drawing him closer still. Shane's hand rested at Conor's hip, holding him gently but firmly.
The kiss deepened, grew slower, warmer… more intense.
For a while, they simply let it all fall away. The shock, the fear, the battles of the last hours.
All of it left them.
When they parted, Conor breathed out softly.
"That was… unexpected."
"Not to me," murmured Shane.
Conor raised an eyebrow.
Shane smiled crookedly. "Perhaps a little."
And for the first time, they laughed together. Freely, unburdened, perhaps even a little… in love.
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The sky above Duskareth was leaden and heavy, as though the city itself had held its breath. First it was heard only as a distant rumble. Not thunder, not a storm. No – wingbeats.
Irregular and labored.
On the battlements of the walls, Zach stepped forward, hand at his sword hilt. Beside him, Mason, taut as a drawn bowstring. Below them gathered soldiers, healers, some of the inhabitants – all with faces raised, ready for whatever was coming.
Then they broke through the cloud cover. Two dark silhouettes. Too close together. Too low.
"Too fast," Mason murmured.
The wind tore at their cloaks as they descended. Not majestically or with control. It was a pure struggle against gravity.
Conor's wings trembled. One beat out of time. Blood darkened his feathers darker than the night.
"Shane…" His voice was barely a breath in the wind.
"I have you," Shane pressed out.
He was not truly flying beside him. He was carrying him. One arm locked around Conor's waist, constantly correcting his own flight path to compensate for the weight. Every beat of his wings was too hard, too heavy. He had long since passed his limits.
The ground rose to meet them faster than either would have liked.
"Now!" Zach called from below.
The landing was not a graceful descent – it was a hard impact. Dust exploded beneath their feet. Conor buckled immediately. Shane caught him, went down on his own knees, skidded a short distance across the stone, until both came to rest, breathing hard.
For a moment everything was still.
Only the gasping of two men who were still alive.
Shane held Conor as though releasing him would mean losing him at the first blink.
"Stay with me," he murmured, forehead pressed to Conor's temple.
Conor tried to smile. He half-succeeded. "I'm… still here."
Then they were surrounded. A murmur ran through the crowd. No cheering. Not yet. Too much blood. Too much shock, too many open questions. His scarred wing lay exposed in the light.
He did not hide it.
Zach was the first to reach them. He crouched before Shane, his gaze moving over blood, torn fabric, burned skin.
"You're alive, you absolute idiots," he said roughly. His voice trembled, betraying him. "And you look like you burned down half a valley."
"Nearly," said Shane drily.
Mason followed close behind. His hand came to rest on Shane's shoulder without a word, firm and assessing.
"What happened to you?"
"We were attacked," Conor said weakly. "By a man who believes fear is weakness. But… my scar is not a mark of failure. It is a mark that I fell and rose again." Through the pain, he spread his wings – and then lost consciousness. His body sank heavier into Shane's arms.
"Healers!" Mason called sharply.
Several rushed forward, careful and practiced, mindful of causing no further harm. Shane did not release him immediately.
"Shane." Zach looked at him directly. "We have him."
For a fraction of a second, there was resistance. Then Shane's grip loosened, with the knowledge that he could not give Conor what he needed now.
As the healers lifted Conor onto a stretcher, Shane forced himself to his feet, only to sway at once. Mason caught him, held him.
"You don't have to play the strong one now," Mason murmured.
Shane followed the gazes of the others. All around stood people. Soldiers. Inhabitants. Children.
They had seen it all – seen them return. Together.
A murmur moved through the crowd. Not yet cheering. Too much blood. Too much shock, too many open questions.
-°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°-
The sunrise painted the dark towers of the palace in warm gold.
High atop the eastern platform, Conor stood. The wind played with his hair. Shane stepped up beside him. "Ready?" he asked.
Conor looked into the sky. "I'll fall." Shane smiled gently. "Then I'll fall with you."
Conor laughed quietly and jumped. His flight was still not high, not flawless – but free. And that was all that mattered.
Shane flew beside him, their wings nearly touching, their fingers intertwined.
Over the dark forests of Duskareth, they circled.
Not as prince and knight.
But as two who had learned that scars are not chains, but proof.
As two who had looked death in the eye and been forged together by it.
As two who had come to understand that prejudice brings only harm.
As two who love each other.
And when they landed, Shane's hand remained in Conor's. And Conor did not pull it away.