It was on a quiet evening when Lily first saw an Ilar up close.
She had never been face-to-face with one before.
But she had heard the stories.
And when he came, he was everything they promised...and worse.
The cottage smelled of salt and hearth smoke when three knocks rang out against wood, heavy as hammer blows. Her stomach twisted into a knot. Her palms, clutched tight around a worn straw doll, went cold and damp. Late callers never brought good news.
Outside, the last crimson streaks of sunset sank into a leaden horizon; the evening star flickered above the fishing boats in Ulm's harbor. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, yet the first storm had not broken over the village. Lily's hair clung to her neck, droplets sliding down her cheeks like invisible tears.
Her aunt's hands froze in mid-stitch. The rose motif lay forgotten as Mirna's fingers, callused by salt and nets, gripped the fabric. Lily saw the tremor. Not from fatigue.
"Stay here," Mirna whispered. It was no mere request. Lily pressed her back to the cold wall and hugged the doll tighter. The doll's threadbare face had long since faded; like everything else in their home.
Mirna straightened her patched skirt almost unconsciously. Firelight caught the silver strands in her dark braid and the fine lines that hadn't been there three winters ago. Then she stood tall, stiff: the bearing one wore for tax collectors, chin lowered in wary respect.
The door opened.
Lily's breath hitched.
It wasn't human.
The stranger stood a head taller than Mirna. His traveling cloak shimmered like liquid silver; not from rain, but from something "other." Beneath it loomed a shape at his back, a silhouette no human body could cast.
Ilar.
The word cut through Lily like ice. Children whispered that God had spun them from His own hair, while man was molded from clay. That each step of an Ilar sanctified the ground, and each crossing of a human threshold brought both blessing and desecration.
The planks groaned under his weight. "Mirna Hamad," said the stranger; his voice spilled through the room like oil: rich, uncanny, a metallic harmony, as though spoken from five mouths at once. The hair on Lily's nape stood upright.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
It was a chorus of crystal spirits in misty moonlight.
Mirna's hand went to the mark at her throat: three dots for Ellevath's three blessings, and she knelt. "Your Excellency."
The stranger's sigh carried centuries. "Please, rise." Authority without sharpness. "I am not here on official matters."
He shed his cloak in a single movement, as if it turned liquid.
Wings.
Too vast for the little room, they arched above him like white monoliths. Primary feathers longer than Lily's outstretched arms; coverts soft as first snow. Each plume caught the firelight, glowing like an enchanted lamp.
Don't look. If you stare too long, your eyes will burn.
She could not look away.
"I should introduce myself." He drew off his gloves. His long, unmarred fingers glowed with warmth. On his ring shone the sigil of the Fifth House: two crossed flaming arrows.
"Eirran V'Asanii, Prince of Astochia."
The name struck heavy. Even Lily had heard of the Eight Houses, and though she couldn't place him, she knew he was tied to them.
Mirna's forehead touched the floor again. "My lord."
"Please," he said gently, weary. "Tonight I come only as a man."
Liar, Lily thought. Ilari are not men.
"As I understand it," he went on, "your sister had… a certain arrangement with the Fifth House." His gaze brushed Lily—just for an instant, but enough to make Mirna jolt.
"Lily," Mirna snapped in a whisper. "Out."
Lily longed to bury her face in her aunt's skirts, but her legs refused to move.
Eirran looked at her.
Eyes.
Darker than they should be. Deep. Lightless. A night without stars.
Like hers.
"May I speak with her?" His voice was soft, harmonies dulled to a lullaby. "Just a moment."
"She is a child, Your Excellency. She does not..."
"I know." He lowered his head. "But I wish to meet her."
Mirna's glance asked: Can you?
Lily didn't know, but she nodded anyway.
"I will be just outside," Mirna said, and left them.
The air thickened. His wings, bent in impossible grace, brushed the beams. Each feather shimmered like moonlight on ice.
"Have you ever seen an Ilar up close?" he asked. The harmony of his voice was both lure and warning.
Don't get too close. Don't look him in the eye.
Lily shook her head, fingers worrying at her frayed hem. "Only the ones who collect the taxes," she murmured. "They fly low enough to be seen."
But never this near. A sharp fragrance of lemon blossom and metal drifted around him; scents no person should carry.
"Ah," he said with a faint smile that never touched his eyes. "The officials of the Fourth House. Not fit company for a child."
His right wing shifted slightly; light rippled. Lily flinched back a step.
Death from above.
"Do not fear me," he said softly. "I will not harm you."
She looked down at her bare, salt-stained feet. "Why did you come?"
He breathed; his wings opened and closed. "Because you are… special."
"I'm not special!" The words burst out. "I'm just Lily."
"No." His voice hardened. "You are Eilleah."
"I hate that name," she blurted, then, seeing the sharpening in his gaze, quickly pressed a hand to her mouth.
"Why?" There was no anger in his tone.
She bit her lip. "It's strange." She didn't mention how other children ridiculed her for it. "I don't know what it means." A pause. "I asked Aunt once. She said I'm too curious for my own good."
"It means 'She Who Brings Light,' in the old language of my people." A tender smile. "Curiosity is no sin, though. In Astochia…"
"Where is that?" The boldness startled her; she flinched at her own impertinence.
He did not anger. "Far to the south. The sun heats the land so strongly that true winter never comes. Orchards blossom all year, their fruit sticky with sweetness. You could come there, if you wished."
"Why would I?"
"Because you could read there. Grow."
"I can't read."
"You could learn. Teachers would show you letters, numbers, stories…"
Her eyes slid toward the door. "And Aunt? Uncle Jereh?"
"If they wished, they could come too."
Her eyes widened. "All of us?"
"There is plenty of room in Astochia."
She clutched her doll. "Why? Why would you offer us this?"
He faltered; his eyes darkened with sorrow. "Because sometimes God grants a chance to mend what we have broken."
She did not understand, but felt its weight.
"Here," he said, drawing forth a silver rattle engraved with hawks. "For you."
She wanted to touch it. When she reached out, the flame's light brushed her skin, and for an instant her arm betrayed a quiet pearlescent glow. She jerked back as if burned.
She did not see his breath hitch, nor his pupils widen in recognition.
"I cannot take it."
"Why?"
"Aunt says the Ilari gifts always come with a price."
Something in him broke. "She is wise," he whispered. He set the rattle on the table. "This is no gift that demands payment. It is… a sign."
"A sign of what?"
"That my words can be trusted."
Lily looked at the rattle, but did not claim it. "If I go to Astochia, will I see the sea?"
"The palace overlooks a bay," he smiled. "White beaches, clear waters..."
"Not that sea." She pointed toward the door. "This sea. The one that hums before a storm and smells of iron."
He paused; he understood. "You may return whenever you wish."
She searched for a lie. Found only a sorrow too great for a child to grasp.
"Think on it," he said, rising. His wings brushed the beams. "I will return in a month for your answer."
When he left, Lily remained staring at the rattle. Her heart fluttered between fear and yearning.
Why me?
The answer lingered in the air, with the scent of lemon and the far south.
---
Outside, the wind carried salt and the promise of storm.
Eirran stood before the cottage. How small she is, he thought, gazing at the hands that had wielded a sword in many battles, yet now dared not touch his own child.
"She will not accept you, my lord," Keth murmured in his mind. "To her, you are death from the skies."
He was right. In Lily's eyes, he had seen fear mingled with wonder: the gaze of prey before the strike.
Footsteps. Mirna stood in the doorway, eyes burning.
"Are you satisfied, my lord?" Her voice was cold as current.
"I did not come for satisfaction, Mirna Hamad."
"Why, then?"
He turned. His feathers rustled. "Did your sister ever tell you of Lily's birth mother?"
Mirna blinked. "No. Only that I must protect her."
"From what?"
"From everyone. Especially from your kind."
The words cut like a blade. Keth had been right.
"Your sister was wise," he said quietly. "Lily's mother was… my love. And my sin."
"And Lily?"
"The fruit of that love." The words were stone. "Born in a cell, while her mother died."
The wind moaned through the planks.
"Why now?" Mirna's voice shook. "Why after eight years?"
"I did not know." His fists clenched. "My father hid the truth. Told me she was stillborn. He gave your sister money to take her. No questions asked."
"Five hundred gold."
"Yes."
Mirna shoved her hands into her pockets. "And now? What do you want?"
He searched the stars. "To give her a choice."
"What choice can an eight-year-old make? She was afraid of you."
"I know."
"She looked at your wings like she was seeing a shark."
The comparison stung.
Silence; only the humming of the waves.
"A month," he said at last. "Grant us both that long."
She studied him a long moment, then slowly nodded. "A month."
He spread his wings. Felt her gaze. Did not look back.
What if I am too late? he thought, lifting over the rooftops of Ulm. The sky offered no answer. Only cold stars, distant as the child he did not know.
---
The ship creaked on the waves as Eirran landed on the deck. Night smelled of salt; moonlight spilled like silver cloth.
Keth waited at the prow, lit by a single lantern.
"My lord?"
"I told her."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing." His voice was rough. "She looked at me like a monster from her nightmares."
Keth said nothing.
"A month," Eirran continued. "She granted me a month."
"Enough time."
"For what? To learn to be a father? To erase eight years? To explain that I was… Keth…", his face twisted, "I was cleansing rebels not ten miles away from where she lay swaddled as an infant."
Keth's fists tightened. "She is a child. She does not understand..."
"She understands enough to fear!", all five voices rang across the deck. "She saw wings and thought me the angel of death. The worst part is that she was not wrong."
The wind strained the sails.
"What will you do?"
Eirran looked toward the shore; Ulm's lights flickered like fireflies. "I do not know. I cannot force her. Not after all."
Keth stepped closer, human warmth in the cold night. "Give her time. Children shed fear faster than you think."
"And if she does not?"
"Then you will live with it. But at least as her father."
He closed his eyes. The words were equally sweet and bitter.
"We sail to Astochia," he said at last. "We'll send gold, clothes, food, tinctures… toys. Whatever she needs."
Keth regarded him. "And you?"
"I will return in a month. If she will not come I will grant another month. And another." He turned toward the cabin, his wings sagging. "Until she stops seeing the wings, and starts seeing me."
Keth said nothing. He watched Eirran vanish into the half-light, burdened with eight lost years and the uncertainty of the month ahead.
The ship slid toward Astochia, leaving in its wake a trail of foam, and a girl in a cottage by the shore, clutching a silver rattle and dreaming of heavens she had never seen.
She didn't yet know what she was to him.
But something in her had already started to reach - toward light, toward sky,
Toward the stranger who said he would return.
And that terrified her more than any monster.