He had power, yes. But not the kind that shifted walls without permission. Not the kind that could keep his daughter safe.

Through the window he watched Eilleah race down the garden steps, black hair streaming behind her. In every spark of her eyes he saw Noemi.

But Noemi was gone.

He told himself he kept Eilleah in Astochia for her safety. But in truth, he could not endure losing again. Not like that.

“My lord.”

Keth’s voice was formal, low. Three men followed him in: tall, restrained, robed in the silver-grey of the Eighth House, the House of Construction. They were humans, not Ilari, carrying satchels of rolled designs like weapons. Weapons that killed not with steel, but with consequences.

Eirran did not rise. “Sit. Tell me what cannot be done.”

The eldest, brows like raven wings, inclined his head.

“The Palace of the Astochian Principate is classified as a First-Order Aerial Monolith,” he began. “Its configuration and proportions are protected under the codes of the Eighth House.”

“Translate.”

“You cannot alter it without our sanction.”

The second added softly: “Anything resembling human support is considered aesthetic contamination.”

“And a fall from the ninth tier is treated as what?” Eirran asked.

The youngest, stiff as a blade, answered: “A misfit.”

Silence cracked the air.

“So,” Eirran said calmly, “you bring me the illusion of aid.”

“We bring a compromise,” the elder said. “Decorative grilles. Gently widened stairs. Lit tunnels. But the vertical logic must remain inviolate.”

“And when someone falls?”

“You are the signatory. We are the advisors.”

Eirran inclined his head once. “Begin. At once.”

~~~~~

The palace of the Sixth House smelled of old parchment. Light slid down glass vaults, breaking against golden globes that mapped the heavens. Even servants whispered here.

Vhanna V’Lorath reclined on a chaise, idly snapping a fan stitched with Enlightenment sigils. On the table lay three letters and a silk handkerchief sewn to a perfect edge.

The air shifted. Wings folded at the door.

“You’re late,” she said gently.

“The Minor Council’s reports,” Vareth replied, setting his gloves on the table. “V’Asanii spoke longer than all the others combined.”

“Or perhaps he’s running out of time.” Vhanna tapped the handkerchief. “The court ladies came this morning. They bring whispers.”

“Rumors are often wishes in disguise.”

“This one is dirtier. They say he’s housed a family of Selavetian peasants. With a child. Some claim half-breed.” She met his eyes. “The lady said she couldn’t tell; claims all the wingless look alike to her.”

Vareth’s smile was bloodless. “Mudborn. In a prince’s palace. And a half-breed child…” He let the words sharpen. “How reliable is that rumor?”

“As reliable as servants who think no one listens when they speak.”

“A week ago,” Vareth said, “I saw those mudborn officials from the Eighth House measuring stairs in his south tract. I thought little of it. Until now.”

“So,” Vhanna murmured, “the Eighth meddles with his steps. He hides the peasants. And a child.”

“Too many coincidences.” Vareth’s tone cooled. “If it’s charity, it’s distasteful. If it’s personal—” He left the thought unsaid.

“He crossed lines long ago,” Vhanna said, snapping the fan closed. “Eight years have not erased the broken betrothal.”

“Nor my cousin’s disgrace,” Vareth said. “It is remembered and recorded.”

“Then let the city record this too,” Vhanna replied. “Mudborn peasants. Eighth House interference. A child.”

“Not yet,” Vareth said. “We need names. Proof. Something more than gossip.”

“You’ll have it,” she promised. Her smile was thin as a blade. “By tommorow."

~~~~~

The door opened without sound. Lioran entered—thirteen, too tall for his years, his wings frayed at the edges from practice.

“Mother. Father.” He bowed with poise thin as glass.

“Back straight,” Vareth said coolly. “Your shoulders droop. A sigh cannot replace an argument.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And don’t hide that feather,” Vareth added. “Either learn to be orderly, or to conceal disorder.”

Lioran lowered his eyes. “I understand.”

“You may go,” Vareth said.

When the boy left, silence returned.

“He takes after you,” Vhanna observed.

“I hope he’ll be better,” Vareth replied. “That’s why we shape him.”

“Then let’s gather light,” Vhanna said after he left, opening her fan again. “Tomorrow, we'll know for certain. If it's true, and I believe it is, we've finally found his weak spot.”

"And then?" Vareth asked.

She leaned back. "Then we let the story fly."

~~~~~

The changes arrived quietly, as if ashamed.

Grilles of elegant curves. Railings tilted at odd angles. “Visual boundaries” where guardrails should stand. Lamps that lit tunnels but seemed to cast deeper shadows.

On paper, all was compliant. Charts and projections declared it “statistically sufficient.”

In truth, Eirran trusted not a joint. He pressed rails until they shivered under his palm. He said nothing. Only noted. Returned at night.

~~~~~~

At the Minor Council, Vareth rose.

“In behalf of the House of Enlightenment, I raise a matter plain to all: the Prince desecrates Ilari space, adapting it for human clay. He hands the breadth of our wings to their grasping hands!”

Eyes turned to Eirran. He sat unmoved.

“My palace,” he said. “My rules.”

“And the Eighth House?” V’Lorath sneered.

“They cooperated,” Eirran replied. “Discreetly. As you may.”

The silence that followed would not be forgotten.

~~~~~~

That night, Eirran dreamed of Noemi.

She stood on a terrace without rails, wind lifting her hair.

“You cannot protect her with grilles that wouldn’t withstand a gust,” she said.

“It’s all they gave me.”

Her eyes narrowed, voice cold from beyond the grave.

“Then take more.”

In the dream, Eilleah touched a railing. It gave way. He woke to silence, heavier than a scream.

~~~~~~

At dawn Keth found him in the atrium, testing the new metal with a single finger.

“No more polite cooperation,” Eirran said. “From today, we work quietly.”

“My lord?”

“The servants’ corridors. North and west. Solid handrails on every stair. At night. No paperwork. Only smiths we trust.”

By dusk the first rails held in place—dark iron, unmarked. By morning, they looked like shadows carved into stone.

~~~~~

When V’Lorath came again, Eirran walked him only on Ilari paths: open platforms, endless air.

“I see you’ve stopped your ‘interventions,’” the envoy said.

“You see what you need to see,” Eirran replied.

“It will matter when the High Council judges your zeal a poaching of sacred space.”

“Then we will speak before them,” Eirran said coldly. “About ten dead each year in this palace. About hundreds in the city.”

V’Lorath went pale. He left without farewell.

~~~~~

That night Eirran stood at the atrium’s edge, moonlight washing stone. Along its rim stood small, stubborn facts: bolts, rails, grips of iron.

I will not lose you.

If they give me little, I will take more.

If they close a door, I will open a corridor.

If they raise a clamor, I will count the dead.

Stone was hard. So was he.

But the palace was only one mouth in a city full of jaws. He had silenced only part of it, hoping no one would ask the wrong question.

So far, they hadn’t. But the ground was watching. The air still pulled.

And Eirran could not yet say if it would be enough.