Aterion — 5 Years Later.

He had learned the hard way that in this world, beings like him were born with no rights. He was called a “hybrid” everywhere he went, even though he had been given a name once. He kept his own name with fondness, close to his dearest memories, and he rarely allowed himself to remember those times of brief happiness.

To remember was to grieve.

He felt small in that place. The kingdom of Aterion was his home now—the land of the Winged, one of the most aggressive races on the continent. They were the ones who had invaded and torn down the Confinement where he’d been held prisoner for…

He didn’t even like to think about how long.

The Confinement was the past. Now he lived among the rocky fortifications that rose up majestically in those lands of inhospitable creatures.

On each wrist, stone shackles circled his pale skin, marking his low status in Winged society. He was nearly eighty years old, though his half-Elf, half-Human body appeared far younger.

The full brightness of midday never penetrated the stone corridors he walked, yet the dry, stifling heat pressed in all the heavier. The arid climate was nothing like the Elven and Human kingdoms with their greenery and mild temperatures. Still, serving the Winged kingdom, he had grown used to the differences.

And in Aterion, there were many.

He descended the stairs with the weightless tread of someone who had learned to take up as little space as possible, carrying a small basket of fruit in his hands.

A guard stopped him at the cell block entrance. The tall Winged warrior cast a disgusted look at the basket and searched him methodically. As Taavi waited for the gray-skinned giant to rifle through the contents, he thought about the effort it had taken to secure that food.

The fruit was a gift, handed to him when his master, Arkros, returned from one of his inspection rounds through the Elven villages under Aterion’s control. Taavi never felt guilty eating it, even knowing Elves had suffered to put it in his hands. What worried him more was Arkros’s constant comings and goings.

A summons usually meant another battle.

He feared for his master’s life out in the wars of dominion. As humiliating as Taavi’s condition was, his master provided a shield; without one, a hybrid’s survival was never guaranteed. The abuse, the deprivation, and the terror of the years before he wore the shackles still haunted his darkest nightmares. Back then, he had been nothing more than an animal in a tiny Confinement cell—a time when hunger hollowed him out, and the emptiness left him with a bone-deep cold at night that not even tears could warm.

The guard opened the passage. Taavi moved through more tunnel-carved corridors until he reached the cell, letting his blue eyes adjust to the dim light before finding the figure lying on the cot.

“Mirna?”

The figure on the bed moved slowly and carefully. The Elven woman turned and offered a faint smile.

They came from vastly different worlds. While he had been dragged from an Elven Confinement meant for hybrids, she hailed from one of the noble Elven villages in Vetrel. They’d been brought to Aterion at different times, both for the same purpose: to serve the Winged. Mirna had once possessed the defiant spirit typical of her people, but now, she was merely a shadow of the sharp-tongued Elf she used to be.

“Taavi, it’s good to see you again,” she greeted him, her voice worn thin. The ghost of a smile tugged at her parched lips.

He nodded, though he couldn’t return the gesture. His own smiles were as rare as a pure-blooded Elf being glad to see a hybrid alive.

Stepping closer, he dropped his gaze to her swollen, heavy belly. Her time was drawing near.

“I brought these fruits for you.” He helped her sit up against the wall, placing the basket into her trembling hands.

“You shouldn’t waste your gifts on me.”

He knew that. Elves had starved him for years and never shown him a shred of mercy. But something in his nature pushed him to help regardless, and thanks to a concession from Arkros, he had permission to visit her.

“I know you miss eating Elven fruit and vegetables.”

“I miss home, Taavi,” she sighed. “I hate all of this—these Winged bastards, and this cursed thing I’m carrying.”

He remained quiet, staring down at her round belly. Such outbursts came and went with her moods, the rawest expressions of her grief. He couldn’t truly blame her, but hearing her words stung; she was voicing the very hatred, contempt, and violence he had faced his entire life simply for being a half-breed.

The child she carried would be lucky, despite the horrific circumstances of its conception. The Winged placed immense value on their offspring, even those of mixed blood.

“At least your child will be treated with dignity,” he offered aloud. “It’s not the same as being a Human-Elf like me. The children of Elves and the Winged are respected both inside and outside Aterion.”

“They only do it because they have to, Taavi,” Mirna shot back. “Without us, the Winged would go extinct.”

She was right. The Winged suffered a severe dearth of females. For a long time, they had bridged that gap with force, raiding Elven villages to steal women. Taavi understood the grim reality: they needed to breed with a race that shared their longevity. Human women were too fragile—if they survived the grueling early months of pregnancy without miscarrying, the births left them physically broken. And beyond simple survival, the Winged harbored a raw, carnal fixation on Elven women.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice flat but entirely sincere. “For everything you’ve had to endure.”

“Damned longevity, right?” she spat, laughing bitterly.

He couldn’t laugh along. It was simply reality. And there was nothing to be done about it.

***

The King held court in Aterion’s Council Hall, flanked by two of his advisors and three military commanders. Together, they received a small delegation of visitors hailing from the kingdom of Exclam.

The diplomats had requested this audience. Dressed in pitch-black garments that contrasted with the tower’s rugged stone architecture, they oozed a disdainful arrogance as though the powerful magic running through their veins placed them above everyone else in the room.

What had brought the Lords all the way across the continent to Aterion was anyone’s guess. Pure curiosity was the only reason the Winged had agreed to welcome their sworn enemies onto their lands.

“We are here on behalf of our queen to propose an alliance,” the Lords’ spokesman announced, stepping forward.

“Exclam is as much an enemy to us as we are to you,” the King countered from high upon his throne. “What kind of alliance could you Lords possibly want with us?”

“It may seem strange, indeed, but this alliance will greatly benefit your kingdom,” the envoy replied, his tone perfectly even.

Arkros, who had been sharply observing the enemies’ posture and parsing their every word, decided to step in. “And exactly how would this alliance benefit us, Lord?”

Without so much as a glance in the general’s direction, the painfully pale man with piercing crimson eyes began to explain.

“A fair trade. It is common knowledge that His Majesty’s firstborn currently serves as a shield for Oceânea. As a political prisoner, he is being paraded as an insurmountable wall by the coastal Elves.”

A hard crease formed between King Zarhek’s white brows.

Menkar, his eldest son, had been captured during one of the Winged’s attempts to fully conquer the coastal Elves’ territory. It had been a calculated strike, but far too risky. Oceânea hadn’t fallen; instead, its people took Menkar hostage and forced a retreat. Now, the coastal Elves held the ultimate deterrent, keeping the Winged from marching against Queen Tarëan.

“Where exactly are you going with this?” The King’s expression hardened.

“We can intercede on Aterion’s behalf... if you agree to break the defenses of Fort Fieri in Tharsa.”

The sovereign stared, coldly analytical, at the long-haired, dark-clad man representing Exclam.

“Now that is interesting.” Arkros smirked mockingly.

“We anticipated the proposal would be to your liking,” the spokesman said, finally deciding the general was worth his attention.

Arkros’s smirk widened into a feral grin. As if dealing with an utter fool, he fired back: “It’s not the proposal that’s interesting. It’s whatever the fuck is so important inside that fort that made you tuck your tails between your legs and come crawling to our people for help.”

“Our interest in the fort is none of your people’s concern—not unless the deal is struck,” the Lord countered. “Our magic holds no sway in Tharsa’s territory, as you well know, which prevents us from achieving our goal.”

“Yeah, we know that without the gift running in your blood, you’d be nothing but common Humans,” Arkros scoffed. “Worse than Humans, actually. At least they know how to hold their own in a fight without relying on cheap magic.”

There was a veiled respect among the Winged for Humans. They admired the grit, the sheer determination, the strength and courage of a people who had always been outmatched, yet who, to this day, still stood their ground against them in war.

The Lords, on the other hand...

The Lords’ contempt for Humans was just as fierce as their hatred for the Winged. The harsh truth was that the Lords didn’t respect a single race other than their own.

“I see that trying to negotiate with your kind is a complete waste of time.” The envoy turned his back, clearly intending to storm out of the hall.

“And yet, my kind is exactly who your people need,” Zarhek barked back, his voice echoing through the chamber. “You came crawling to us, not the other way around.”

The Lord turned back to the sovereign, eyes narrowed, his crimson irises sparking with a dangerous energy. “The impasse between us is obvious, King Zarhek. We are open to a fair bargain, but you’d rather fixate on matters that are none of your business.”

“That’s because your matters might just come back to bite us,” Arkros interjected, stepping forward and dropping into an aggressive, battle-ready stance. “We’d be the ones sticking our necks out to breach the fort’s defenses so your people can get what they want. Tharsa will turn against us after the attack, and, consequently, Vetrel will too.”

To Arkros, the whole thing reeked of deception. Tharsa was allied with Vetrel, and breaking Fieri’s walls would drag the Elves of the Southern Mountains into war. However, if the Lords were truly planning to conquer new territories, the Human kingdom’s primary defensive stronghold—the one they should be worrying about—wasn’t that fort.

“You won’t be making any enemies you don’t already have,” the spokesman shot back. “It’s a simple deal. Take it, or we’re done here. No advantages for you, none for us.”

Arkros’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at the Lord’s sheer audacity. Just before he lost control and lunged, one of the advisors whispered into the Aterion sovereign’s ear.

“Stay exactly where you are if you wish to further discuss this deal of yours, Lord,” the King commanded.

Zarhek fixed Arkros with a pointed look. The general hesitated for a split second before stepping back, though he kept his furious glare pinned on the Exclam envoy.

Arkros understood the dark necessity of a trade like this—the hope of freeing Menkar was on the line. But he didn’t trust the Lords’ intentions for a second. And to figure out what they were truly after, he would make damn sure he was the one leading the charge against Fieri.

***

Stepping out of the cell block, Taavi paused to feel the sun on his skin and breathed a sigh of relief. Only he knew how much walking those corridors and visiting the breeders’ cells caused him immense discomfort—a panic he kept at bay with sheer willpower.

He would never tell Mirna, but he held little hope for her. Birthing a Winged baby was notoriously brutal. They were born in their primal form: with sharp claws, fangs, wings, and a size far greater than any Human or Elven newborn. If the birth wasn’t induced and closely attended, it could tear an Elven woman apart from the inside out. Mirna faced the added complication of being severely weakened.

Taavi could only hope she would be strong enough to survive.

“Where is your master, and what are you doing here?” The harsh voice made his heart race.

Taavi kept his eyes glued to the dirt, turning toward the sound. Slaves were strictly forbidden from looking at any of the Winged unless commanded to do so. Eyes always on the ground; submission had to be painfully clear, right down to their body language.

“My master was summoned to the Tower, sir,” he answered in a quiet voice. “And I came to see Mirna.”

“You were visiting my breeder again?” the Winged warrior asked in disgust, his words punctuated by the heavy thud of approaching footsteps.

Taavi stared at the warrior’s massive boots. In the next instant, a hand gripped his chin and forced his face upward.

“Arkros is truly bizarre... keeping a piece of trash like you around.”

Taavi could see the sheer depth of the warrior’s repulsion in those icy eyes. Raskin couldn’t stand him. Since his time in the Confinement, however, Taavi had learned that the less he fought back and the less he reacted to their insults, the safer he would be.

“You know how useless you are, don’t you, slave?” Raskin’s fingers tightened painfully on the hybrid’s chin. His towering, muscular body leaned in until he hissed into Taavi’s face: “Don’t you?”

Raskin, like the rest of the beings in Aterion, was huge and terrifyingly strong—intimidating, but not quite enough to crack Taavi’s expressionless façade.

Not anymore.

“Yes, sir,” Taavi replied, holding his gaze.

“Why don’t you spare us your worthless presence and get the fuck out of Aterion?”

Because he had his own reasons for wanting to stay in the Kingdom of the Winged. His own comfort, mainly, but he could only give Raskin one answer.

“I can’t, sir. My master would hunt me down and kill me, and I don’t want to die.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, it had been one of the very first warnings he’d been given upon being brought to Aterion—a law of their people that placed the duty of hunting and killing runaway slaves squarely in the hands of their owners.

“Sooner or later, he’s going to end up killing you anyway,” Raskin smirked.

Arkros was fully capable of killing him, Taavi knew that much, but as long as he kept his master satisfied, his life was secure.

“You aren’t going to leave a mark on me, are you, sir?”

A flash of contained fear crossed Raskin’s eyes, quickly replaced by sheer anger. Arkros was highly respected by his people, but they all dreaded what he would do if he found out someone had laid a hand on his servant. To get himself out of situations like this, Taavi only had to gently remind his tormentors of that little detail.

“Get out of here!” Raskin shoved the hybrid’s jaw away.

Obeying the order, Taavi hurried back home.