Chris wandered through the Aerial Palace like a ghost of himself.

He was lost, his journey aimless. As he roved the staircases and ambled down the endless maze of hallways, he barely took notice of anything—the grand paintings, the mosaic walls, the rusty armor, the red-and-blue tapestries, the gilded adornment of every archway and window. And he doubted anyone took notice of him. He felt hollowed out to the point of invisibility.

Then, having passed a dark, narrow entryway to a staircase, he stopped for some reason and returned to it. It could have been the sad, solitary candle flickering in the sconce across the hall or the arch's uncharacteristic simplicity. Whatever it was, he needed to know more. He took the candle and stepped beyond the arch.

He spiraled up the uneven stairs one tentative step at a time. He often had to turn sideways or duck beneath the dusty, splintered rafters. As he climbed, he grew colder. The draft, first a whisper, became a sporadic puff. He took extra care to shelter the flame. Amid darkness that could have swallowed him whole, he could not lose his only light.

Chris arrived at a wooden door, well-aged but heavy and obstructive, like it wasn't meant to be opened. Still, he tried to twist the doorknob. When he met resistance, he fiddled with it, but it didn't budge. He had his sword tucked in his belt, and he considered using it to pry apart the hinges or use the point in the keyhole to jimmy open the lock.

He looked around for a place to set his candle. As he felt his way around the walls, a dull red glow between two stones caught his attention. He stuck his hand into the crack and pulled out a key.

It reminded him of the poisonous dagger—artful and beautiful, and yet unwieldy, the heavy metal infused with both suffering and despair. Before he used the key to open the door, he had a feeling he knew where he was—the notorious North Tower.

What was meant to be a last glance at the key became a stare. The rubies captured in its flank had a pulse, or at least the candle flame made it appear that way. A draft crept across his neck, and whispers invaded his mind like some dark calling.

Unable to resist the pull forward, the key seemed to find its own way to the lock. It turned with no resistance. The door popped open without a need to push. He pocketed the key and followed the creaking door into the room.

The light from his candle reflected off shattered pieces of glass. Most of them were shiny, like broken mirrors, though others had a dull sparkle, like porcelain. There were also remnants of what used to be toys. They looked handmade, or scavenged and reconstructed. They were no match for Andromeda's destructive fury, though. She had warped metal and charred wooden objects beyond recognition.

The broken dolls were the most haunting. Their bodies had burned to ashes, but their fractured faces were a mix of black and gray-white. Their vacant stares made the room feel like a tomb.

I don't need to see this.

Chris had an urge to run. He almost made it to the door, but his foot nudged a damaged music box. An armless, broken-winged ballerina sprang to life with a tiny pirouette while the cracked base played a few notes out of tune. And then he couldn't leave, not with Cassie's childhood room in such tragic disarray.

He went to the bed, removed a pillowcase, and started chucking pieces of glass into it. Big pieces. Small pieces. Smash. Crack. Crash. The noise was satisfying, but through it, he heard something unexpected—a loud, shaky sigh.

He whirled toward the door.

A winged fairy with long blond hair was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her uniformed chest. She had a handkerchief balled in her tight white fist. Her mournful eyes must have only moments before shed tears; now they were dry and pointed at Chris.

"Hi . . . um . . . I'm sorry. I'm . . . pretty loud. Did I wake you?"

"Why the sudden concern for noise?" the fairy scolded, arms still crossed. "It didn't seem to bother you while you were tossing armor from ledges."

"Yeah, sorry, not my finest . . . moment. Chris . . . my name is Chris, by the way." He attempted to sound pleasant. He wasn't sure if the palace staff would see him and his family as liberators or intruders. But he knew his attempt had failed. He was too tired, distracted, and miserable to fool anyone.

"I know who you are! What are you doing here? It's forbidden!"

It was evident in her tone that she despised him, but he didn't get the sense that she wished him harm. Her face, her voice, her sad blue eyes—all had a kindness to them that the hardships he evoked couldn't overshadow.

"I'm not good at waiting around," he replied sincerely, looking her in the eye, hoping she wouldn't see him as yet another arrogant warrior. "I need to be doing something, and this looks like the right place to be. And if it is Andromeda who forbids anyone from being here, you can guarantee I'll be here anyway."

The fairy nodded somberly. "Lyra," she said, compassion now present in her tone. "My name is Lyra." She curtsied dutifully. "Do you need any assistance, sir?"

He almost smiled. "Please, just call me Chris. And no thanks. I'm fine."

I deserve to pick up every shard of glass, one by one, by myself.

"Let me at least get you a broom."

Before he had a chance to say otherwise, she disappeared, and returned a few minutes later.

"Thanks," he said as she handed him the broom.

He started working immediately but paused to watch her flutter toward the door. She had beautiful wings, prettier than any others he'd seen. Nothing to fear or resent. They were white and glittered like fresh snow.

More than ever, life seemed so fickle and arbitrary in Pyxis. Hatred was resting on such a weak foundation; he wondered how it could sustain itself for so many years. Then he understood and he was to blame, too. It was a lot easier to hate someone who hated him than to ask questions and challenge what has always been.

"Since you're here," Lyra said, pausing in the doorway, "you must know what occurred in this room four years ago."

"Yes, I do." His eyes darted back to his work to make it seem like he wasn't staring. "What I don't know is how she got out alive."

"Her half-brother intervened in the nick of time."

And I just put a sword through his chest.

"If you don't mind me asking, Lyra, is this where her brother brought her last night?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"How do you think she escaped?"

"The window." She pointed to it with her eyes. "There's a loose bar, or so I've heard. Is there anything else I can do for you, Chris?"

"No thanks. I'm all set. It was nice meeting you, Lyra," he said, and he realized he wasn't the only one grieving in the room, so he added, "And I'm sorry for your loss."

She nodded and her eyes filled with tears. As her handkerchief went to collect them, her candle crashed to the ground. Then, as if she had been stabbed in the stomach, she cried out in pain and fell against the doorframe with her arms cradling her center.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he approached her.

Her eyes filled again, this time with fear. And then, before he could offer his hand to help her up, she was in flight and out the door.

"I'm not gonna. . ." he called after her. He peeked his head into the dark, twisted maze of a stairwell. It was empty. Hurt you. . .

Alone again, Chris was confused for a moment, but his thoughts quickly returned to the window Lyra had mentioned. He went over to it and tried twisting the bars. The one at the edge gave way and pulled free.

He stuck his head out the window, and though he tried to get a shoulder out too, he couldn't. His amazement didn't stop there, either. The jagged ledge below was narrower than a hand's width, and the ground was so far down he couldn't see it. How Cassie had managed to slip through and avoid plummeting to her death was a mystery. This adventure clearly had a heroine, not a hero. And he couldn't have felt worse for what he had said to her. I thought you weren't like her. I was wrong.

His hand rested on the key in his pocket. He pulled it out and wanted to crush it into dust. When he couldn't, he chucked it out the window and heard a distant splash. He may never be able to make things right with her, but at least that key was where it should be, in the West River, and gone forever.

After that, Chris collapsed against the wall and buried his head in his arms. He wasn't sure if there was a god, but he prayed hard regardless. There were many things he could have asked for—forgiveness, peace of mind, strength, endurance—but he kept it simple. He prayed for her life. And his heavy eyes remained shut. His body and mind shut down before he had a chance to persuade them otherwise.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Fuel. Hemorrhage.

~

"Don't fall away

And leave me to myself

Don't fall away

And leave love bleeding in my hands

In my hands again"

https://youtu.be/ZbHfgXJKn1Y

~

To be concluded. . .

🧚🏼‍♀️We're almost at the end, folks! Thanks so much for joining us (me and the fairies). We appreciate all your support and look forward to seeing you in fairyland often.🧚🏼‍♀️