Page 51 of Court of Twisted Angels

Aerasak's outer district stretches before me, a maze of crooked buildings with clay-tiled roofs that lean into each other like tired old men. Wooden beams creak overhead where laundry lines stretch between windows, sheets and tunics swaying in the evening breeze. The scent of fresh bread from Madame Loire's bakery mingles with woodsmoke and the ever-present tang of iron from the forges.

A group of children dash past, their bare feet pattering against stone as they chase a glowing orb - a simple magic toy crafted from spare conduit fragments. Their laughter echoes off the walls, reminding me of easier days.

"Kyrie? By the gods, is that you?"

Old man Thaddeus peers out from his workshop, his leather apron stained with dyes from the fabrics he mends. The conduitbracelet on his wrist glows faintly as he works, threading magic through torn garments.

"Can't stay to chat, Thaddeus. Mother needs her medicine."

"Of course, of course. But child, you look..." His voice trails off as I pass.

I know what he sees - the wings at my back. It must be a lot for the people of my small village.

I wish Azrael was here, but he'll be here in a few days. I insisted that I come see my family first, to heal my mother. She won't want to be on death's doorstep when she meets him. It took a lot of convincing for him to agree.

Our family home comes into view at the end of Thistle Lane. It's smaller than I remember, the stone walls weathered and the wooden shutters hanging crooked. Herbs still grow in mother's window boxes, though they're wilting now without her care. The protection ward above our door pulses with a weak blue light, nearly spent from lack of maintenance.

My hand trembles as I reach for the iron door handle. The box of medicine is clutched in my hand, a reminder of everything I endured to obtain it. Home feels different now - like a childhood dress that no longer fits quite right.

I push open the door, ducking beneath the low wooden beam. The scent of meadowmint tea wafts from the kitchen, along with hushed voices that fall silent at my entrance.

"I'm home," I call out, my voice rougher than it used to be.

Footsteps shuffle across creaking floorboards. My younger sister Mira appears first, a cup of steaming tea slipping from her fingers to shatter on the floor. Her green eyes - so like mine once were - go wide as saucers.

"Kyrie?" she whispers.

The wings at my back shift, iridescent feathers catching the lamplight in shades of blue and lilac. They're still new, stilltender where they emerged from my shoulder blades. I have to angle them carefully to fit through the narrow doorway.

My father appears next, his weathered face pale beneath his beard. The conduit band on his wrist flickers erratically, responding to his shock. He reaches for the doorframe to steady himself.

"Sweet gods above," he breathes.

"Where's Mother?" I ask, pulling out the vial of medicine. The crystalline liquid inside catches the light, throwing rainbow patterns across the wall.

"Here, my love." Her voice comes weak from the bedroom. I move toward it, my wings folding tight against my back, but my father steps between us.

"What happened to you?" His eyes trace the silvery scars that spiral up my arms, the strange metallic sheen that now ripples through my auburn hair. "Your eyes..."

I catch my reflection in the tarnished mirror by the door - eyes that now swirl with threads of gold, mixing with forest green they once were. The transformation had been gradual during the trials, each challenge leaving its mark.

"Let me pass," I say softly. "Mother needs her medicine."

Mira reaches out to touch my wing but pulls back at the last moment, as if afraid they might burn her. The fear in her eyes cuts deeper than any trial wound.

"I'm still me," I tell them, but even I hear the change in my voice - the echo of power that now threads through every word.

I kneel beside Mother's bed, my wings carefully tucked against my back to avoid knocking over the collection of herb-filled clay pots on the bedside table. The sheets rustle as she turns toward me, her face gaunt and pale in the glow of the enchanted crystals Father keeps lit day and night.

"The medicine," I whisper, uncorking the vial. The liquid inside ripples with swirls of silver and blue, casting strangepatterns across Mother's sunken cheeks. My hands shake as I slip an arm beneath her shoulders, helping her sit up against the worn pillows.

"Your wings..." She reaches out with trembling fingers.

"Later. Drink first."

The glass is cool against her cracked lips as I tip it carefully. Each precious drop gleams as it falls, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. The medicine from New Solas carries its own magic - I can feel it humming against my palm through the vial, resonating with my conduit band.

Father paces by the window, his footsteps creaking on the ancient floorboards. Mira hovers in the doorway, clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders. The protection ward above Mother's bed flickers weakly, its blue light pulsing in time with her labored breathing.

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