Prologue
Han Xue’s POV
Velmira.
The name itself tastes like longing.
My bare feet press into the cool wood beneath as I stand still as an ethereal shape sculpted in porcelain. The thin white skirt around my waist hangs low on my hips, the fabric so fine it floats like mist. It flows down in folds like the tail of a white peacock. My chest rises slowly. My body is poised at the center upstage. I do not move. The moment is not mine. Not yet.
Icy feathers crown the top of my head, long and silken, sweeping back like strands of hair. Tinier plumes rise behind them, fanning up from the nape of my neck, angling upward to meet the longer ones in a curve. Above my navel and across the center of my chest, delicate, symmetrical feathers sprout in swirling mirrored patterns—so precise that one could believe they’ve been painted on by hand.
But this is just our true form as Avians—the bird-shifters.
Before me, the slender feathered dancers glide across the stage with unearthly grace. Each one is wrapped in the same flowing silks dyed in their color—teal, sea-glass, and soft tones of seafoam. Their feathers glint beneath the overhead light—blue crests fanned back, delicate green plumes rising behind them, catching the air with every breath they take.
Arms move like wings through the wind, forming spirals and mirrored shapes. They circle and fold around one another with the grace of migratory birds in flight. Hands trail like they’re touching something unseen, shoulders roll like waves, hips sway as the fabric swirls around their legs, never quite settling. From above, they would look like a flower blooming open—then folding closed—then blooming again.
I watch, unmoving. My limbs ache to join, but I hold. I am the final beat. The closing breath. They dance toward me. Around me. And my thoughts drift once more to Velmira.
The paradise city whispered about in gutters and safehouses. The only place where monsters like us don’t have to hide under human skin or behind shadows. No more shifting in secret. No more pretending not to exist. In Velmira, they say the sky is wide and clean, and no one runs when they see shifters. They glance. They marvel. They welcome.
Monsters, humans, even hunters—all of them, side by side.
The dancers move around us, the principal dancers—spiraling, gliding, forming crescents and wings, and the illusion of flight. Their feet barely whisper against the stage floor. Arms extended, long skirts swaying in perfect arcs, feathers catching the light with every turn.
‘Monsters.’
That’s the term they gave us.
A word spat out by hunters, soaked in judgment, as if our very ability to blend in, to look like humans, was some twisted offense. They call us monsters because we can smile and walk beside them. Laugh like them. Dress like them. And still never be them.
But they forget—hunters are the same.
Non-human. Disguised. Living among mortals, hiding behind polite masks and clean hands while holding silver-tipped knives behind their backs. Hypocrites. If we are monsters, then what does that make them?
And yet…in Velmira, the rules shifted.
Somehow, they found balance. A treaty between monsters and hunters. No human blood spilled—and in return, no more hunts.
A fragile agreement, some call it. But it holds. It has held for years. The only place where beings like us can walk openly in our skins, unashamed and unafraid.
The hunters from across the world look down on Velmiran Hunters, calling them soft, traitorous, tame, leashed dogs. But none of that changes the truth: Velmira is flourishing. Its economy is unmatched. Its people, freer than anywhere else. The most powerful company in the world? Owned by werewolves who don’t even bother wearing glamours anymore.
A paradise. But not one easily reached.
To even be considered for entry as a monster—or as a hunter—you must first survive a trial period that begins at the age of fourteen in Haelmarin, Velmira’s colder, sterner sister. A city draped in watchful silence. Every step here is monitored. Every move measured. Only those who make it through with an optimal record are granted entry.
The formation around us tightens, spiraling in like petals folding toward a bud.
Almost a century ago, a group of brave Avians paved this path before us. They came to Haelmarin, learned the rhythms of this city, its rules, its eyes. And somehow, they were able to show the hunters that we posed no threat. That neither our wings and feathers nor our talons were weapons. That we were not predators by nature, just wanderers looking for the sky.
Because of them, we are treated better than most non-humans. No chains, no fear-laced interrogations. Even our trial period is shorter. We are offered care, shelter, protection, and respect.
The hunters call us delicate due to our hollow bones and lithe bodies. They don’t see the strength it takes to be gentle in a world built on teeth.
Still, we, Avians, were given roles that suited our nature—graceful, precise, mesmerizing. Theaters became our nests, the stage our skies. We aren’t made to toil in factories or scrape by in alley kitchens like some of the others. We dance, week after week, pouring our essence into movement, into rhythm.
Each performance counts toward our record, a tally of worthiness, of compliance. We are seen, admired even—so long as we remain beautiful. So long as we remain harmless.
Avians require only ten years of trial in Haelmarin. I’m already seven years in. I knew it was achievable. That’s why I took the risk, left behind everything I’d known, and traveled here with Yue Qin.
I steal a glance from the corner of my eye. Yue Qin—my counterpart—stands beside me, close but not enough to touch. Her long silvery-blue skirt flutters slightly with the breath of movement that surrounds us. Her ivory feathers gleam faintly in the dimmed light, blooming from above her navel and spreading all around her chest to provide natural modesty. Her posture is as unwavering as mine.
The dancers begin their retreat, collapsing inward toward the center of the stage. Their movements are slow now, dreamy, drawing the audience in with the promise of something more. I lift my gaze to the crowd beyond the footlights. They are silent, eyes wide, breaths held. They’re spellbound. But they don’t applaud—not yet. They know this isn’t the end. The heart of the show hasn’t yet taken the front.
And then it happens.
The music softens, a hush ripples through the theater, and the dancers part like water. The spotlight blinks to life and washes over me and Yue Qin in a sudden burst of white. My skin tingles, feathers lift with anticipation. We step forward, languid, elegant, every motion measured, our skirts sweeping like quiet tides beneath us. Then, facing each other, we turn in unison.
Her eyes catch mine, and she smiles. I answer with my own. There’s nothing to say. Everything is already written in the way we move.
Our torsos lean forward until our foreheads nearly touch, our necks arching like cranes courting under the moon. Our arms stretch behind us, fingers unfurling in slow, fluid waves—offering, responding, echoing the music’s subtle rise. Then, the dance begins.
The rhythm takes a gentler, more intimate tone. Each step we take is deliberate, every pose a confession. A declaration. Our bodies speak not just to the audience, but to each other. The way we move—so close, so perfectly attuned—is no longer just performance. It’s memory. It’s a promise. We spin together, our eyes never breaking contact. I don’t see the crowd anymore, only her. The rest of the stage darkens around us.
We move together like drifting petals caught in a silent breeze, every step woven in the language only our kind remembers. The music swells—not loud, but full—and as we draw closer, I feel Yue Qin’s breath brush past my cheek. Our foreheads touch for a fleeting moment, and our arms encircle each other in a final embrace so delicate it feels like it might dissolve if held too long.
Then, with the same grace she entered with, she slips away—her feet barely making a sound—as she returns to the center stage, vanishing into the ring of dancers like mist retreating from light.
And I glide forward, downstage, deliberate like the final stroke of a brush across parchment. The spotlight follows. My arms extend with the poise of wings unfurling, fingers fluid, wrists dipped just so. One leg lifts—toes pointed—and I begin to spin as if the air itself is helping me turn. My long white skirt flares in a perfect circle, catching the air like a feathered halo. I dip low, my body folding like origami, bones bending with ease and grace that can only belong to something not entirely human.
I rise into a leap—weightless—and land without a sound. My arms sweep across my chest, then slice through the air, mimicking a bird mid-flight. Each flick of my limb is intentional, sharp when it needs to be, then melting again into softness.
Then, I spin again, this time faster, my feathers fan outward like breath across glass. The long ones from my crown ripple with the motion, curving behind me in a gleaming arc, catching the breath of the audience. My chest lifts, head thrown back slightly, and for a moment, I’m not a dancer at all.
I’m a bird in proud display.
And then the music halts, and I stop with it. Abrupt, centered, arms outstretched to the sides, palms open.
A still image carved in motion.
For half a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. And then, applause rains down in waves. It rolls over the theater, hands clapping, voices rising in awe. I don’t move yet. I stand where I am with my head held high, feathers lifting in the residual thrill of it all. My gaze remains forward, but my heart beats wild beneath the calm.
Then I feel a familiar slender, cold hand curling softly around mine.
I turn to my left, and there she is. Yue Qin. Her smile is warm and proud as she stands beside me with quiet grace.
Behind us, the other dancers form the final tableau. As one, we bow. And at this moment, we are not monsters, not migrants, not trial subjects under a hundred watching eyes.
We are simply free Avians.
From the right wing, Arlo bursts in with his arms full of long-stemmed roses. He quickly crosses the stage in a swift glide, kneels, and lays the flowers at the front edge in a neat line before slipping away without a word. The dancers move immediately. They pass by Yue Qin and me, reaching for the roses.
The female dancers gather in front of me, their eyes gleaming. One by one, they bow elegantly, arms extended, each offering me a single rose like it’s sacred. Their fingers tremble slightly with the joy of performance still lingering. To my left, the male dancers do the same for Yue Qin, mirroring the gesture with their roses held out.
But neither of us accepts them.
We give gentle smiles, quiet thanks spoken only in our eyes. One by one, the dancers catch on. Their hands lower, their gazes soften, and they begin to disperse, retreating into the arc of bodies behind us, leaving space open once more.
I step forward to the edge of the stage. My eyes scan the roses. I carefully choose, plucking the best one. I walk back. Yue Qin stands still, her gaze waiting. When I reach her, she lifts her chin, her expression unreadable but expectant.
Lowering myself into a bow, I extend the rose to her, one hand behind my back. Just like always.
She lets out a soft breath, her fingers touching her chest as if surprised, though we both know this moment is ritual. With practiced elegance, she leans forward, bows deeply, and accepts the rose from my hand. Her fingers brush mine. The cheers rise louder, carrying through the grand space of The Velar Theater.
I turn back to the audience with the others, lifting my arms in one final bow. The applause roars and the lights dim.
When the curtain falls, the adrenaline still thrums through my limbs. The afterglow of the stage clings to me until I feel it.
That familiar weighted gaze. Not just watching—but knowing.
My head turns slowly to the left wing. There, shrouded in shadow, a large figure stands patiently. The light doesn’t reach him, but I know who he is. Brown pupils, ringed with gold, glint even in the dark. In his massive hands, a single rose.
