Page 60 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“When the celestials first descended to Elithian, they imprinted on the fae, establishing the dominance of the original bloodlines capable of forming bonds. Imprinting usually begins late in a fae’s adolescence, but it can happen at any time. When a celestial is ready, it seeks a bonded—some as hatchlings, others fully grown. The choice is always the celestial’s.”
Dawson walked over to Beck and ran a hand between the griffin’s eyes. Beck closed them and leaned into his touch. The way Dawson looked at him—with pure adoration—made it clear how much the creature meant to him.
“When the bond is formed, it’s an overwhelming rush—a bridge between two souls, linking them until death. Everyone experiences it differently, but when Beck bonded with me, it was like a stream of air rushing through my veins, filling me with power. It felt as if I’d discovered a missing piece of my soul. The bond forges a telepathic connection, uniting celestial and fae in a way nothing else can.”
Alaire sighed, still engaged in what had to be the longest neck scratch in griffin history.
“Early on,” Dawson continued, “the fae who bonded believed that forming alliances through relationships outside their houses would strengthen the royal bloodlines. But they discovered the opposite. Those unions diluted the magical purity of the lineages. As the population grew, the bloodlines inevitably weakened. That’s why not every fae with magic can bond to a celestial—and why descendants of the original lineages are held in such high regard. Because the celestials are. And why most elemental fae attend Aeris Academy, but not all do. While recommended by the Consortium, attendance here is not mandatory.”
“Does magic affect the bond?” Alaire asked, brow furrowed as she tried to absorb everything. “For a celestial to bond with someone from the original bloodlines, they’d only choose someone with magic. But is their magic a separate entity? Or is it tied to the celestial?”
Her head spun from all the new information.
“Each celestial represents one of aether’s elements,” Dawson explained. “As a gift to their first bonded, the celestial bestowed the fae of that region the ability to wield, create, and shape the element they harnessed. To their bonded specifically, they granted access to rare and unique elemental powers the celestials themselves held.”
“So that’s why humans were never bequeathed with magic.” The words felt like glass in her throat. She was human. Even though white-hot fire had danced across her palm. Nothing else made sense.
Dawson’s gaze never left hers, studying her with an intensity that stripped her bare.
He shrugged. “It’s what we’ve been taught. However, magic pulls from a deep well within each of us. When we use too much, we approach depletion. Aether demands balance. There’s always a cost to power—typically a physical one. But if a bonded flier nears depletion, it could cost them their celestial’s life. Some texts claim that while humans were created by the gods, they couldn’t withstand the toll magic exacted on their fragile bodies.”
“Am I not human, then?” Her voice broke on the last word. There was no mask to hide behind—not for this. Because if she wasn’t human, then what was she? And if she was, how could any of this be possible?
“It’s something we need to investigate. The ramifications of either are vast and far-reaching.”
“You’re telling me.” Alaire ran her free hand through her hair and tipped her head back to look at the night sky. She couldn’t stand to see whatever truth he might have glimpsed in her face.
“And you never found it strange that you had no memories of your parents or childhood?”
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “How do you—” The words died in her throat. Realization hit like a blow. “You looked into me.”
“Of course I did,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Did you really think once we were partnered I wouldn’t do my due diligence?”
“You had no right?—”
“I had every right.” He threw her an arrogant half-smile that made her want to throttle him. “Your past, your secrets, yourweaknesses—they’ve all become my problem. So forgive me if I wasn’t willing to go in blind just to spare your feelings.”
“You bastard.” She lunged forward, shoving him. Dawson didn’t budge.
She tried summoning the magic that had appeared before, but the space where it had sparked to life now felt bleak and empty.
He covered her hands with his, forcing her to tip her head back and glare at him. A piece of hair had escaped his tie, falling loose to frame his face.
She resisted the urge to reach up and yank it from his scalp.
“All your family perished in a fire. You were orphaned, with no memories. Pieces of the puzzle are either missing or purposefully hidden—I just don’t know which.”
Alaire sighed. “I never questioned it. It’s what I’ve been told my entire life. I grew up in an orphanage. Everyone there had gaps in their stories. It was normal. No one sat around wondering why they couldn’t remember their mother’s voice or the sound of their father’s laugh. We didn’t have time for questions like that.”
Nostalgia rolled through her. The orphanage had been far from perfect, but at least she’d felt safe there. And then there’d been Blake.
“The caretakers explained it all. Said it was trauma. That my mind must’ve shut everything out to protect me. It sounded plausible enough. And when they gave me a diagnosis, I accepted it. What else could I do? Who was I going to ask? I was brought to them after the fire had already happened. It wasn’t like anyone cared enough to look deeper. And I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was just the way things were.”
She hesitated, the truth sharp in her throat. “What kind of person forgets their parents? Their whole life? When you’re raised on scraps, you tell yourself what you have is enough.”
“I think the absence of your memories is tied to your magic trick.”
“It’s not a trick, Dawson.” She yanked her hands from beneath his, stepping away from the heat of him.
