House of Wings and Roses

Chapter 1

Quentin didn't think anybody could claim they knew true beauty until they had seen his land.

The Court of Soaring Winds was a gorgeous sequence of islands, strung together by clouds and shimmering mist. It was the only court that lay above the ground, with the others taking claim of the rolling hills and forests far down below. But the fae of his court were gifted with wings like birds and voices like music. They claimed the clouds. They owned the sky.

The view was especially breathtaking from the cathedral spires, where Quentin was perched on. He loved flying down here, just before the sun spilled across the clouds; loved the way his wings tipped to welcome the currents, the way his cheeks bit with the cold of the dawn. The cathedral was his favourite spot, a large marble building in the center of the Sacred Island where the faeryn would gather to worship the immortals of old. Quentin liked to watch them, the gatherers; legs dangling in the cool air, eyes roving the masses deep in prayer.

But recently, it had become... different.

Quentin knew of the war raging in the lands below, but it never seemed to touch the vast skies of his paradise. It was for this reason exactly that those displaced or left without family at the cruel hands of the humans had begun to plead for refuge in our court. The cathedral, once a quiet sanctuary for those bold enough to seek aid from the gods of old, became a place of hope.

Beings with the fluidity and grace of water, fingers webbed and scales glittering at the corners of their eyes gathered to pray for their fallen loved ones. Immortals with sun-browned skin and phoenix feathers woven in their hair sung hymns into the sky, gaze like molten flames. Despite the swirling colours and cultures, they all had one thing in common: the empty, hollow misery locked in their eyes. The humans had left them without hope.

The thought of them—humans—made something dark and awfully twisted inside of him burn white-hot.

"Quentin? What're you doing out here?" His sister's voice rang warmly in his ears as she plunked herself down next to him on the ledge, tucking a stray strand of hair out of her face. They looked almost identical; same smooth, delicate features, same wispy silver-blue hair, same eyes. But whilst his wings were an ordinary pale blue, hers were the envy of all their court—an angelic rose gold, soft and shimmering.

"Just watching," Quentin replied with a smile, glancing at Avery affectionately. "There's so many refugees now. Must be the uprising, huh?"

"'Suppose so. Apparently it's gotten worse the past couple of days. Father's been zipping in and out all day, trying to organise defending forces."

His heart sunk, smile falling from his lips. Faeryn hadn't known war for a millennia until the end of last year, when a human mining camp rebelled against it's fae rulers and managed to start an entire uprising. More than 40 camps had gone rogue, which meant...

"Time's running out. I hear there's a shortage," He said darkly after a moment. "Imagine that. No more immortality just because a bunch of stupid humans decided they didn't want to work anymore."

"I mean—I don't blame them, really. Spending your entire life mining for time underground?"

He half raised from his position in shock, cutting an accusing glare towards his sister. "Don't you dare defend them. After all they've done? They deserve to spend eternity rotting there." He glanced up, just in time to see a legion of winged soldiers gliding down towards the mountains. He added with a slight smirk, "—and they will, under our watch."

Avery huffed a sigh, shaking out her wings. "Mmm, whatever. I'll be in the gardens if you need me."

Quentin watched her soar into the mist, raising a hand to rub his eyes. Could be like her? Merciful and compassionate, even in the face of human greed and evil? He swung his legs, deep in thought.

And that was when the screaming began.

Quentin leaped to his feet, balancing precariously on the tiled roof, his silver gaze flitting around for the source of the noise. A cloud of something hazy and dragonfly-blue suddenly began to seep through the open windows, coiling up towards him in ominous swirls.

"Is that— saffice?" He cut out loud, a shiver rippling down his spine. It was a plant notoriously weaponised by humans, known to be the only thing that could bring an immortal to their knees.

The glittering blue mist spilled continuously out of the windows and doors, filling Quentin with sick dread for those trapped inside. He slid clumsily off the roof, eyes squinted against the snow flurries dancing in front of his disjointed vision. Tiny crystals of saffice scraped past his throat, into his lungs—he doubled over with a gasp at the biting pain. Already, he could feel his faeryn powers dulling; his wings sagging against the ground, his tongue turning to lead.

He staggered sideways, only to be caught by a firm hand grasping his wrist.

"Father?" He managed to choke out, his eyes weakly flicking up from the ground.

"Quentin. We're getting you out of here."