The sun hung at its zenith when Eirran returned to Ulm.

The Ilari were not meant to walk in the dust.

They were meant to descend.

But today, he walked, through mud and dust; toward a child who had never asked for him to come.

And a village that no longer feared gods, only the gifts they left behind.

Feet made for flight scuffed clumsily through the dust, leaving uneven tracks like the those of a wounded bird.

Each touch of earth felt too sharp, as though he expected it to burn him.

Lily saw him first through the small window.

“He’s here,” she whispered, a knot of unease and something nameless twisting in her stomach.

Mirna pressed her fingers to her lips. Jereh rose slowly from his net; his eyes narrowed. Evan hid behind his father but could not look away.

The villagers gathered at the edge of the square, staring in silence. They did not approach and they did not leave. Men with arms crossed, women with lifted chins, children scratching at the dirt with their fingers but not running. The silence was heavier than any shout.

Eirran stopped at their threshold. His wings, folded tight, draped him like a heavy mantle of light -something that did not belong here.

“Mirna Hamad. Jereh Hamad.” He greeted them by name; his voice was gentler than they had expected, that layered Ilar tone, quiet, almost muted. Almost.

Mirna bowed her head instinctively; Jereh stood tall, fists clenched.

“My lord,” Mirna whispered.

“I am not here as a lord,” he said. “Only as a man seeking an answer.”

Lily noticed how his hand trembled.

Jereh stepped forward, placing himself between Eirran and the children. “The decision has not been made.”

“I understand,” Eirran replied.

Silence stretched. Evan did not hide; he stood beside Lily, his right leg twitching with nerves.

“I promised,” Eirran continued, “you will not be separated. In my palace there is room for all of you. You will not be servants, you will have your own chambers, your own space.”

Mirna looked to Jereh.

“And if we refuse?” Jereh asked flatly.

Eirran did not answer at once. His gaze slipped to Lily; there was no arrogance or anger in his eyes, only vulnerability.

“Then I will accept your choice,” he said at last. “But I will still come. I will bring gifts. I will give money so you do not starve.”

“We don’t need your charity!” Jereh flared.

“Not charity,” Eirran shook his head. “Obligation.”

“Obligation?” Jereh looked at him as if he’d misheard.

“I cannot let you suffer,” he said quietly.

Jereh laughed bitterly. “And have you thought of the village? Of the family to whom the Ilari send gifts? Of her?” He pointed at Lily.

Eirran paused. Clearly, he had not considered it.

“The ship sails at dawn tomorrow,” he said finally. “If you do not come, I will know your answer. But…” He swallowed. “Please. Think on it.”

He turned to leave - his wings not perfectly folded; the right quivered faintly, as if something pulled him back.

“Why me?” The words burst out of Lily.

He turned. Looked at her for a long time.

“Because you are the echo of the only truth in my life,” he said at last. “Because you are part of someone I loved. And part of me.”

Lily’s heart pounded. Part of him?

“I don’t wish you harm,” he added hoarsely. “The last thing I’d ever want. But… I cannot abandon you.”

A whisper rippled through the villagers; someone made the sign of protection. Pain flickered across Eirran’s face. Then he was gone.

---

When the door shut, the air in the cottage grew heavy.

Mirna began stacking pots, too loudly. Jereh stood at the window, watching the villagers disperse, though their eyes clung to the house. Evan twisted the hem of his shirt.

Lily stood in the center of the room; her fingertips tingled with rushing blood.

“Why did he say I’m part of him?” she demanded, sharper than she meant.

Mirna froze; Jereh sighed.

“We’ve already told you, dear...”

“No!” Lily stamped her foot; dust leapt. “No more half-truths! Why did he say it?”

Silence.

Mirna looked at Jereh. Evan stayed beside his sister, leg trembling.

“It’s… complicated,” Jereh said tensely.

Lily snatched the rattle from its hiding place and clenched it. “I don’t want complicated. Why did he come for me? Why does he say I’m his? Why...”

“Lily, calm down,” Mirna reached toward her.

Lily hurled the rattle.

It struck the shelf; a clay bowl painted with blue flowers -Mirna’s favorite- shattered to pieces.

Everyone froze.

“Do you know why I never forced you to call me father?” Jereh said, too sharply. “Because I always knew you never would be mine.”

The words seared like coals.

“Jereh!” Mirna clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Why would you say that?” Evan’s voice, still childish, rang firm. “Haven’t you always said family is what we make, not blood?”

Jereh looked at his son as though seeing him for the first time, then his face broke with regret. “Lily, I’m not...”

But she was already gone.

---

She ran toward the shore without direction, only away. She dropped onto a cold rock, hugging her knees. The rattle lay in the dust; its glow had dulled, but the hawks still flew in silver.

Who am I?

The sea murmured. No answer came.

Mirna found her on the cliff and sat beside her. “Are you hungry?” she offered a piece of bread.

Lily shook her head.

“You know he loves you,” Mirna said softly.

“Why did he say it?”

“Because he’s a man.” Mirna looked at her hands. “And people say things they don’t mean when they’re afraid.”

“What’s he afraid of?”

“Losing you. Losing everything he knows.”

Lily stared at the rattle. “But I’m not his.”

“Not the way he wants,” Mirna admitted after a long pause. “But in other ways, yes.”

“How?”

“As you are mine,” she smiled without joy. “As you are Evan’s sister. Family isn’t just blood, Lily. It’s what’s carried here.” She pressed a fist to her heart. “And here you are ours.”

Lily looked at the sea; her throat ached.

"I'm sorry about the bowl." - her bottom lip trembled - "I didn't mean to."

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart." - Mirna smiled, lifting a hand to brush an unruly strand of hair out of Lily's face - "It was only a bowl. It can be replaced." - a pause - "People can't."

Lily pressed her lips and looked away.

“He knew my mother,” she said, not as a question. They both knew who was he.

“Yes.”

“He loved her.”

“Yes.”

“She’s dead.”

Mirna’s fingers tightened. “Yes.”

Lily lifted the rattle, watched the sunlight dance across its carvings. “And now he wants me.”

Mirna said nothing. She didn’t need to.

On the horizon, sails gleamed white. Tomorrow at dawn a choice would have to be made.

---

Jereh found her as the sun sank, staining the sea the color of old blood. He knelt beside her, but not too close. Always a hand’s breadth away.

“Lily.” His voice was rough, salt-worn.

She didn’t look at him; she traced circles on the wet stone with her finger.

“That bowl…” He swallowed. “It was Mirna’s favorite.”

She shrugged; her lower lip trembled.

“I shouldn’t have said...”

“I know you love me,” she cut him off simply. “And I love you.”

The words hurt him. His gaze dropped to her small, scraped hands. He remembered how tiny she had been when they brought her, all eyes and thin bones.

“When you first came to us… I was afraid,” he said, climbing carefully over the steep slope of admission.

Lily finally looked up. Dark, wide eyes dry, but already old with understanding. “I know.”

“No.” He took her hand. “I was afraid I would hurt you. And look: I managed to anyway.”

She stared at their joined hands.

“Evan…”

“We’re not talking about Evan,” he closed his eyes. “Not today.”

The sea licked the stone beneath them. Lily held the rattle.

“You won’t go alone,” he blurted suddenly. The words escaped before thought.

“What?”

“If you choose to go… we all go. Me. Mirna. Evan.”

Her eyes widened. She shoved the rattle deeper into her worn tunic pocket.

“Why?”

He drew a long breath. “Because once, I let you go. When you were small. I didn’t protect you as I should have.” He paused. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Waves and a distant gull’s cry filled the silence. Lily stretched her fingers and touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“Will Evan have to leave his friends?” she asked, solemn, childlike.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “But he’ll make new ones. And… maybe with you, he’ll learn to read. More than he ever could here in Ulm.”

She nodded, thoughtful, then suddenly embraced him. Buried her face in his shoulder.

He froze, then slowly placed his hand on her back, listening to her heartbeat against his ribs.

“Let’s go back,” he whispered at last, relief in his voice. “Your aunt will be angry we missed supper.”

“She’ll be angry with you,” Lily said, lighter now. “Never with me.”

“Because you’re her favorite,” he sighed, rising.

They walked back toward the village; Jereh slowed his stride to match hers. Every few steps Lily slipped her hand into her pocket to touch the rattle. She thought no one noticed.

Jereh knew. He let her keep the secret.

---

Eirran stood at the prow of his ship, gripping the rail. The harsh Selavetian wind stung his face; the sea smelled of salt and something bitter that belonged to these waters alone. His legs, unaccustomed to that amount of walking, still cramped with phantom aches.

The way she looked at me.

The thought pierced him. Lily had watched his walk; that clumsy, earthbound parody of flight. The Ilari were not made for walking; their steps were only pauses between flights. Noemi had teased him for it.

“Look at you, my angel,” she had laughed once, “so noble in the air, and on the ground like a calf in a stable.”

He closed his eyes; the sound of her laughter had not faded.

Another image rose in him, one he had never seen but always knew: not the palace -a dungeon. Noemi, broken from childbirth, dead on cold stone. Steps, a cliff, these very waters. Her body thrown into the waves.

They denied her even a grave.

His hands tightened; the wood of the rail groaned.

“My lord?” Keth stood behind him.

“Prepare the chambers for the travelers,” Eirran said without turning. “Tomorrow at dawn.”

“Shall we prepare also…”

“The whole family,” he cut in. “As I promised.”

When Keth withdrew, Eirran looked at the sea again. Somewhere beneath those black waves Noemi slept; on the shore, their daughter- the same eyes, the same quiet understanding.

The wind hissed through his feathers and carried with it a trace of the village, a trace of the child. He drew in a deep breath, as if he could hold it inside him.

Forgive me, he thought, not knowing if he meant it for Noemi, for Lily, or for himself.

The ship lay anchored on the quiet sea; at the horizon, sky and water merged in a dark line as long as a nameless grave. Tomorrow at dawn the choice would be made.

He had come back for her.

She would go with him.

But neither of them knew what the price would be, or who would be the one to pay it.