The cold woke him before his eyes did.
The warmth of his usual room was gone—no sunlight, no silken drapes, no feathered trees singing lullabies. Just a sterile chill pressing against his skin and a silence so loud it screamed.
Lysander opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above him was plain. The bed beneath him was harder than usual. He tried to shift, but his limbs ached like he'd fallen from the sky.
Again.
He blinked, disoriented. Where am I?
"Lysander?"
A soft, familiar voice cut through the haze.
He turned his head—too quickly. Pain lanced down his spine.
But then he saw her.
Mira.
His childhood caretaker.
Her ash-brown hair was tied back in a braid, and her kind hazel eyes shimmered with worry. She was the only constant in his life. Not royal. Not magical. But warm. Always warm.
"You're finally awake," she whispered, rushing to his side, cupping his hand in hers. "Stars above… you scared me, little feather."
He tried to smile.
Failed.
"What happened?" he croaked. "Why does it feel like… like I was burning?"
Her expression shifted.
Worry. Guilt. Fear.
"Your body gave out again," she said gently. "You've been asleep for two days."
"Two days?" he repeated, stunned.
His heart began to race. No, that wasn't right. That couldn't be right.
He remembered the tonic. The dizziness. The ache.
And then—
Black.
Wings.
Whispers.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In the eastern infirmary," Mira replied, brushing his hair from his forehead. "The Queen wanted you away from the central palace wing. Too much noise."
Lysander stared at the ceiling.
"…It's cold."
"I'll get another blanket," she said quickly.
But before she could rise, his trembling fingers tightened around hers.
"…Mira?"
"Yes, sweet one?"
His lips quivered.
"I feel… shattered," he whispered. "Like something inside me cracked. Like I'm trying to hold myself together with broken wings."
He turned his face away, eyes watering.
"And everything hurts," he said, voice cracking. "My chest. My back. My soul."
Mira sank back down, pulling him into her arms carefully. Her touch was so gentle, as if even her embrace might break him further.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked, sobbing now into her shoulder. "Why was I born like this? Why am I always sick, always weak, always less?"
Her heart broke at the sound of his cries.
"You didn't do anything wrong, Lysander," she said fiercely, rocking him slowly. "You are not broken. You are not cursed."
"Then why does it feel like I'm dying a little every day?" he wept. "Why does no one tell me the truth?"
Mira closed her eyes, burying her face in his hair.
She didn't have answers. Only love.
And sometimes, that wasn't enough.
He clung to her like a drowning soul, crying out the years of pain he'd never been allowed to show. The loneliness. The fear. The isolation behind walls of silk and duty.
No friend.
No freedom.
No peace.
Just tonic after tonic.
Prayer after prayer.
Wing after broken wing.
Then—
The door burst open.
"Mira, is he—?!"
Lysander flinched, startled.
Two figures stormed in, robes stained with travel and wind.
Luciel and Cassian.
His older brothers.
Luciel—the firstborn—stood tall and golden, the image of a warrior-angel, hair like firelight and eyes like polished bronze. His jaw was clenched, his wings still half-spread behind him.
Cassian—the second prince—was leaner, sharper, with midnight hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked like lightning caught in human form.
Both of them rushed to his side without hesitation.
"Lys!" Cassian called, dropping to his knees beside the bed, eyes wide with panic. "We came as soon as we heard—what happened?!"
Luciel didn't speak—he just yanked Lysander into his arms and held him tight, kissing his temple as if afraid he'd vanish.
Lysander went still, shocked by the sudden heat around him.
"Wha—?"
"You almost died, idiot," Cassian muttered, blinking rapidly as if fighting tears. "Don't scare us like that again. Ever."
"I didn't mean to," Lysander whispered.
"I know, baby bird," Luciel murmured. "I know."
He held him tighter.
And Lysander, without meaning to, began crying again.
But this time…
Not from pain.
From relief.
"I thought you forgot me," he whispered. "You're always at the border. You never visit—"
"We never forgot," Cassian interrupted, ruffling his hair gently. "You're the heart of this family, Lys. You think we'd let anything happen to you?"
Luciel added, "We left the moment we heard. The Queen didn't even want to send a message, but Mira did."
Lysander turned to Mira with wide eyes.
She looked away, but her smile said everything.
His heart throbbed painfully.
"Thank you," he whispered to her.
Luciel cupped Lysander's cheek, his calloused thumb brushing away tears.
"I swear on my wings," he said, voice tight, "we'll protect you. Whatever's going on, whatever this sickness is—we'll find a way to stop it."
Cassian leaned in, kissing his forehead. "You're not alone, Lys. Not now. Not ever."
They stayed with him for hours.
Mira brought tea and snacks. Luciel read from one of Lysander's favorite old storybooks. Cassian told jokes and sang lullabies from when they were children.
For a while, the cold didn't feel so cold.
The shadows retreated.
And Lysander… smiled.
That night, sleep claimed him gently.
His breathing was slower. His limbs still ached, but the fire in his chest had dulled. His body relaxed into the pillows, surrounded by warmth, love, and the scent of family.
But then the dream returned.
It wasn't like before.
This one felt real.
He was standing in a field of ash. The sky above him burned with purple and crimson clouds. Feathers—black ones—rained from above.
He looked down.
He was barefoot. Clothed in robes darker than anything he'd ever worn. And his wings—
Black.
Full black.
Stretching wide, endless, powerful.
He trembled.
And then…
Someone stepped from the smoke.
A tall figure.
Clad in shadow, framed by fire.
Eyes like night without stars, yet somehow gentle.
Too gentle.
Lysander didn't speak.
Couldn't.
But the figure reached out, brushing his cheek with fingers calloused by centuries.
The touch sent shivers down his spine.
"You're mine," the man said softly, voice a blend of thunder and longing. "I've waited long enough."
Lysander's lips parted.
He didn't know who he was.
Didn't know what he meant.
But the touch—
It didn't hurt.
It made his heart race.
He wanted to ask a thousand questions.
But then—
He woke up.
Sweating. Gasping.
The dream shattered.
The whisper remained.
"Mine."