They said the inventor was just one person. One woman. And yet, every creation bore a different form—some tall, some scaled, some winged, some soft, others sharp. She gave them personalities, gave them purpose. Every pair she crafted was made to complement the other, to rely on one another like twin stars bound in eternal gravity.
She never used ink—said it couldn't be trusted. Said things written could be erased, rewritten, forgotten. But the things she created with her hands? They endured.
What little we know of her came from a fragmented journal, not written by her, but transcribed by one of the children she raised. In it, she spoke in riddles:
"They were once tiny cuties, too fragile, so I made them big.
They were birds once—I made them talk.
I gave them hands to eat, and still, they begged.
Shimmers favor an apple, but the red bird offers something similar.
Don't take it—it's not edible."
She said the last two she created were her favorites. She poured the final fragments of her magic into them. She made them not out of boredom—but love. A desperate, furious kind of love. She hoped the world would cherish them.
But then came war. Her death. Her secrets were swallowed in flames.
The journal disappeared, passed down, changed from truth to myth to bedtime story. Only those who had seen the beings she created—those creatures believed extinct—still believed in her. Believed they still walked among us, hiding in human skin.
He clasped his hands together, rubbing warmth into his palms with a sigh. The cold crept in through the windows of his research cabin, even as the sun peeked over the ridge. Aidan exhaled into his cupped hands, then pressed them to his neck. It helped for a few seconds.
He hadn't slept again.
Another sleepless night, chasing answers and concoctions long after his clinic closed. No matter how much he tossed and turned in bed, his mind wouldn't stop spinning. It always circled back—memories, mistakes, worry.
Finally, at three in the morning, he gave up. His feet padded across the cold wooden floor to a cabinet labeled meticulously with teas and herbs. He opened it with a resigned huff.
"Add to tomorrow's list," he muttered.
Pause.
"Or today's."
He chuckled softly to himself. Even if he was loud, no one would wake. He was alone in the cabin.
Steam rose as he poured water into his chipped mug. He blinked. For a moment, his vision blurred—either from exhaustion or tears he refused to acknowledge.
When was the last time I really talked to Mother?
Not just the hollow exchanges about food or chores—but a real conversation.
Once, before Father died, she'd laughed with them. Taught them lullabies. Brushed his sister's hair. But after his death, it was as if she'd shut her heart away. Aidan and Adeena became shadows, baggage she carried into exile after they'd lost everything.
He looked out the frosted window. In the distance—barely visible through the thick snow—was a flicker of candlelight.
Mother was awake.
Should I make her some tea? She used to love it…
His thoughts froze.
A figure darted through the snow, thin and fast—cloaked in barely enough fabric to fend off the wind.
"Adeena?"
She was storming down the hill, boots crunching hard against the snow, clearly in a rush.
"Where are you going this early?!" he shouted through the crack in the window, then cursed and shoved his mug aside. He flung open the door and jogged through the snow, catching up with her.
She wasn't dressed properly. Not for this weather.
"Adeena! Are you insane? Come here." He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward him. Her fingers were already red with cold.
"You should stop working for that household," he muttered. "They don't value you. Even a dog would rather stay in a barn today."
He gently patted her frozen cheek and began wrapping his scarf around her neck.
"You're not meant to be a maid. That life doesn't suit you, darling."
Adeena scowled and shoved his hand away. "Because I'm a girl? Or because I was a noble? News flash, brother—expired titles don't buy food."
It had been almost a year since she'd started working as a maid for the Conqueror's household. They discovered she was a Wisteria descendant—a bloodline known for their fertility. Someone even suggested she become the mistress of the third son.
She'd barely escaped.
They let her stay, pretending it was kindness. A noble with no coin was still useful to them.
"They're trying to wear you down," Aidan whispered, narrowing his eyes.
Adeena leaned in and patted his backside with a wicked grin. "I know. And I don't care."
She suddenly threw her arms open. "I'm cold. Hug me."
Instead, he took off his padded coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She smiled. "That's why I love you. Don't forget to eat. And don't let anyone bully you. You're too soft, brother."
"I'm not soft," he mumbled.
She turned and ran back into the snow.
"Being an apothecary doesn't suit you either!" she yelled over her shoulder. "You're too pretty! Someone's gonna mistake you for a fairy and snatch you into the woods!"
Aidan flushed. People often said that about him—mocked how delicate he looked. Patients didn't trust his skill, said he looked like he'd faint carrying a sack of herbs.
Sometimes, the village children would wait at the foot of the mountain just to make sure he didn't collapse coming down.
He sighed and stretched his arms toward the sky, loosening his aching muscles.
Behind the cabin, the well shimmered slightly in the morning light. As he lowered a small barrel into the cold water, he hummed, thinking about Adeena. No matter what, that household couldn't force her to do anything—she still had noble blood, even if it didn't matter here.
Here, magic was forgotten. Feared. Hiding their nature was essential.
He tugged the rope—and hissed.
The rope tangled around his thumb, and the barrel jerked. Water splashed, soaking his legs. But worse than that—his skin caught the morning light.
A shimmer.
His eyes widened. A mark, faint and iridescent, lit up along the back of his hand.
The medicine's wearing off.
"Damn it."
He rushed back inside, abandoning the water.
"Oh. My tea…"
He passed the mirror he'd placed beside the door—a habit to ensure he looked human enough before venturing outside. Today, the mirror showed too much.
His long hair slid over his shoulder, revealing scales along his neck. He tugged the strands back to cover them.
I thought the cold would slow it down. Guess I was wrong. We're changing faster now… How old am I again?
He changed into thick layers, covering every inch of his body, wrapping a thick scarf tight around his throat.
Then he knocked gently on his mother's door.
Naina was already awake. She looked surprised when she saw him, but accepted the hot potatoes he offered her. Her hands made a quiet motion over her lips: Thank you.
She didn't speak anymore. Not since Father died. But she wasn't fully deaf—just unwilling to speak. As if any sound would betray the grief inside her.
She tucked his hair beneath his scarf and rested her forehead against his.
"I'll be in town," Aidan whispered. "I need to restock the medicine."
She nodded.
"Morning, Addy!" a loud voice boomed as he descended from the hills.
Aidan winced. "Good morning, Ma'am," he said gently to Samantha, who was bouncing with energy despite the snow. Her mind wasn't quite all there, not since the accident with her son, but she was kind. And lonely.
"You're dressed like a snowman!" she cackled.
"I'm warm, that's what matters." He helped her sit on the nearby bench.
"Are you sick?" she asked, reaching for his forehead.
"No, Ma'am. But I must go now."
He slipped a small candy from his coat and handed it to her. She beamed as she popped it into her mouth. He watched to ensure she ate it—he'd infused it with a calming herb.
Then he turned toward town.
But a glint of silver caught his eye.
A carriage.
One he didn't recognize. It bore a noble crest he hadn't seen in years.
That's a cousin to the Emperor… What's someone like that doing out here?
The carriage turned.
Right into the estate where Adeena worked.
Aidan's heart stilled.
No guards. Only a few servants. Something's wrong…
"You're worried?" a voice behind him sneered.
Aidan turned.
Dmitri stood behind him, unwrapping his scarf.
"She's smarter than you think," Dmitri said flatly. "She'll be fine."
He handed Aidan a flask. "Drink this. Then strip. I need to see the aftereffects."
Aidan froze.
"You increased the dosage again?" he asked.
Dmitri nodded. "You're still growing. We both are. Time's running out, Aidan. We don't have the luxury of pretending to be human forever."
Aidan's breath hitched as something inside him cracked—too deep to be bone. He stumbled forward, arms weak, and the metallic taste of blood touched his tongue. Dmitri said something, but the words faded like wind across water. His vision blurred, and the room spun violently.
Aidan collapsed.
And so it begins…
The slow unraveling of what they were, and what they were never meant to be.