But today, it was just stone, and every stone had edges.

Eirran stood at the edge of the terrace, fingers pressed into cold marble wall, watching the last light crawl across the stone courtyards below.

No railings. No walls. Just wind and open space. Once, he had seen beauty in this. Now he saw a snare. Bridges with no guardrails. Walkways with no edge. A palace made to honor those who fly, and forget those who can’t.

The breeze rustled through his feathers, carrying citrus from the gardens and salt from the sea.

The beauty remained, untouched.But he couldn’t take it in. Not anymore. Not when every arch and staircase whispered one truth:

His home was never built for his daughter.

“Keth,” he said quietly, but the storm in his voice was unmistakable. The steward appeared three steps behind, hands folded neatly. His usual calm was gone. His eyes held discomfort.

“My lord?”

“How many?” Eirran didn’t turn. “How many have died here?”

The words dropped like a blade.

Keth glanced toward the window, where Eilleah sat with a book in her lap; still unable to read it, still trying. Her back was turned to the terrace.

“Tell me the truth,” Eirran said, his voice like silk pulled tight. “Now.”

Keth took a breath.

“Ten or twelve each year. In the palace.”

A pause.

“Hundreds, in the city.”

The word slammed through Eirran like a bell:

Hundreds.

“How?” he asked, voice bitter.

His gaze dropped to the vast atrium below, a void that gaped like an open wound.

“Falling, mostly,” Keth answered. “Some disappear in the servant corridors.”

The unspoken part was loud enough.

Some are pushed.

Eirran had heard the laughter. Remembered how easily fear became someone else’s joke.

“Why didn’t I know?”

“Those reports... didn’t reach your desk,” Keth said carefully. “It was considered better that way.”

Better.

For whom?

Eilleah shifted at the window, stepping close to the terrace — and just as quickly, stepped back. Cautious. Careful. Smart.

His chest ached.

“Prepare my rooms in the North Wing,” Eirran said. “The ones with access through the servants’ corridors.”

Keth blinked. “Those are storage chambers, my lord.”

“Exactly.” Eirran’s voice was cold. “No terraces. Thick walls. Windows that don’t open into air. She’ll sleep there. Every night. Until I fix it.”

Keth started to speak, but Eirran cut him off.

“Tomorrow, start looking for architects. Quietly. The kind who can design changes without asking too many questions.”

A pause.

“And no paperwork beyond your hands.”

For a moment, Keth said nothing. Then he bowed.

“It will be done.”

Eirran looked back toward the room.

Eilleah now sat cross-legged on the floor, far from the edge.

Small. Steady. Braver than she should have to be.

My blood. My responsibility.

The city was what it was: beautiful, merciless.

But he was her father.

---

That night, after the move was done, quiet and fast; and Eilleah was finally asleep in a narrow room with no open air and no sharp drops, Eirran stood above the atrium, watching the moonlight spill into the void.

How many had fallen here?

How many had vanished into this silence?

He shut his eyes and held onto her brief, startled laugh from earlier.

Already it was lodged in his chest like a compass.

I won’t lose you.

Not like this.

Never like this.

The battle had only begun.

Against a city meant to kill.

Against tradition sharpened into habit.

Against the very world that had raised him, and now threatened his child.

---

Jereh couldn’t sleep. The halls were too wide. The windows, too open.

His footsteps were soft on the marble but heavy with unease.

He found Eirran on the terrace, wings half-spread, catching the breeze.

“Nice sky,” Jereh said. Dry. No effort made to mask the bitterness. “Good for those who fly.”

“It’s not easy here,” Eirran replied, without turning.

“I don’t like places that swallow people,” Jereh said. He joined him at the railing.

“And this place? This was made to do just that.”

Eirran’s shoulders tensed, just slightly.

“I won’t lose her,” he said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… true.

“You can’t protect her from what you don’t see,” Jereh answered. “And this city is danger carved in stone.”

Eirran looked at him.

His eyes were darker than the sky.

“Do you know the number?” he asked. “How many fall every year?”

“More than I ever want to count,” Jereh said.

Eirran nodded. “Hundreds.”

“I figured.” Jereh smiled wide, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“The sea doesn’t eat everyone, my lord. Some rocks do it faster.”

Eirran’s hand tightened on the rail.

“I’ll change it.”

Jereh exhaled. “I don’t doubt you’ll try.”

He didn’t say it would work.

But he didn’t walk away, either.

They stayed there: two fathers, not speaking, while the wind moved through the city, snuffing out the last invisible candles.

The city would not change overnight.

But it would change.

He would make sure of it, or break it trying.

And he knew: once the walls cracked, others would come to hold the line.