Paper Birds: Wings of Ice

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Author’s Note

Welcome, and thank you for picking up my story.

If you’re reading this, I hope these pages become a small escape—a place you can disappear into after a long day of school, work, or simply life. Stories have always been that kind of refuge for me, and they’ve comforted, inspired, and stayed with me long after I turned the last page. They are the reason I fell in love with reading, and eventually, the reason I found the courage to write.

This is my very first novel.

Like every first step, it comes with excitement, uncertainty, and countless lessons. I’m still learning the craft of storytelling, and I know I have plenty of room to grow. But every chapter in this book was written with genuine care, countless revisions, and the hope of creating characters and moments that would stay with you, even after you’ve finished reading.

More than anything, I hope this story makes you smile, laugh, ache, and fall in love with its characters the way I did while writing them.

Thank you for giving a first-time author a chance. Your time is one of the most valuable things you can offer, and I’m truly grateful you’ve chosen to spend some of it with my words.

I hope The Paper Birds becomes a story you’ll remember.

With love,

-Luna Blaire

There was only one rule. Don’t date your co-star. Studios called it professionalism but tabloids called it damage control. Either way, it didn’t concern me.

“I just got here,” I said into my phone. Luke Miller, my agent, answered with the usual reminders. “Table read starts at ten. Press photos after. The producers want to introduce you to—”

“I know.”

A brief silence. “...Try to look approachable.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

He sighed before ending the call. I slipped my phone into my pocket and stepped farther into the conference room. People were already gathering around the long table, balancing coffee cups and scripts while exchanging familiar greetings. Some had worked together before. Others laughed a little too loudly, eager to make good first impressions.

I chose the spot nearest the window. Old habit. Windows meant fewer conversations. Outside, Los Angeles carried on without noticing us. Inside, everyone waited for someone. Then the room changed. No announcement. No dramatic entrance. Just a subtle shift—as conversations slowed, chairs stopped moving, and heads turned toward the door almost in unison.

Olivia Hamilton walked in. White tailored suit. Minimal makeup. Hair neatly pinned back. Nothing about her demanded attention. Yet somehow, she had all of it. She greeted people with practiced warmth, shaking hands, exchanging polite smiles, remembering names that probably mattered. Effortless or rehearsed. I couldn’t tell.

For a brief moment, her eyes swept across the room. They paused on me. Not out of curiosity or recognition. Just simply acknowledgement and then moved on. Interesting. Most people either stared too long or avoided eye contact altogether. She did neither.

“That’s Olivia Hamilton.” Someone whispered behind me. “I still can’t believe she’s producing this.”

“And starring in it.”

“I heard she personally chose the cast.”

Another voice lowered. “The guy by the window...”

“Hanzo Takeda?”

“The Takeda?”

Before the conversation could continue, Director Elias Howard clapped his hands.

“Everyone, let’s get started.”

The room settled. Scripts opened. Pages turned. Introductions began– names, departments, characters– they blurred together. People talked too much when they were nervous. I preferred silence.

“...Hanzo Takeda.”

I looked up. “My turn.”

“Hirono Hiro,” the director said with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I already was. I’d read this script enough times to know where every pause belonged. Emotion wasn’t louder. It was quieter. The room disappeared. There was only the page.

“I don’t steal for greed.” My voice remained level. “I steal because the world already decided who deserves to own what...” No theatrics. No unnecessary movement. “...and I simply correct the balance before it notices it’s been robbed.”

Nobody interrupted. Even the restless shifting stopped. “...By the time they realize something is missing...” I lifted my eyes from the script. “...I’ll already be gone.”

Silence. The kind actors rarely created. The director smiled first. “Well...” He looked around the room. “I think we found Hiro.”

Soft laughter followed. Someone murmured, “That was good.” Another nodded in agreement. I barely heard any of it. Because someone was still watching me.

Olivia Hamilton. Not smiling. Not applauding. Simply watching. As though she had forgotten everyone else in the room.

Our eyes met and for the first time in years… My timing faltered for a second. But for someone like me— a second was enough to notice.

And somehow...

I had the unsettling feeling she’d noticed it too.