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Chapter Text

“Once upon a time,” Scar began, looking up at his captive audience of two. His face held an enigmatic smile, and he read from an old book, pages splayed open in one calloused hand. 

“A single droplet of moonlight fell from the heavens, and from this small drop of moon grew a magic flower. It had the ability to heal the sick, and injured.” Scar traced the illustrations on the well-worn picture book. They were done in flowing watercolour, dream-like but realistic. The plum-coloured petals of the flower were so detailed they were almost tangible, velvety and vivid. His index finger halted on the shadowy backdrop to the scene, where a dark figure lurked - so hidden that Scar had missed it, the first time he read this book. 

“You see that figure, there?” He pointed out to his companions. “They’ll be important, later.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. Then, like nothing had happened, he flipped the page and joyfully resumed his narration.

“Well, centuries passed, and a hop, skip and a boat ride away there grew a kingdom! The kingdom was ruled by a beloved King and Queen. And the Queen? Well, she was about to have a baby. But she got sick. Really sick.” Scar frowned, looking up from the picture book in his hands. His storytelling was paying off, he noted - both companions looked concerned, even though he was sure they knew the story by heart as well as he did. Green butterfly wings fluttered nervously before settling down, flat on his friend’s back. “She was running out of time, and that’s when people usually start to look for a miracle. Or in this case, a magic purple flower.” He turned the page again, carefully. The figure was back - this time taking up the whole page, emanating an eerie purple glow, long fingers wrapped around the flower delicately, with a graceful care that juxtaposed their ominous presence. There were cracks throughout their form, however, glowing in the same purple light as the flower. The largest crack cut across the mask on their face, which was blank but for a small symbol - a broken purple rectangle. “See, I told you they’d be important!” He winked at his companions. Both leaned forwards slightly, captivated by the illustrations and Scar’s storytelling. The cat-hybrid waved her tail back and forth in the air in a curious manner. “You see, instead of sharing the moon’s gift, the Watcher hoarded its healing power and used it to maintain their form for hundreds of years. All they had to do was speak in a forgotten language…” He trailed off as he turned the page, allowing his listeners to take in the strange text from a forgotten time. 

‘⎓ꖎ𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ʖᒷᔑᒲ ᔑリ↸ ⊣ꖎ𝙹∴, ꖎᒷℸ ̣  ||𝙹⚍∷ !¡𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ᓭ⍑╎リᒷ, ᒲᔑꖌᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓵꖎ𝙹ᓵꖌ ℸ ̣ ⚍∷リ ʖᔑᓵꖌ, ʖ∷╎リ⊣ ʖᔑᓵꖌ ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ, ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ’

Scar shifted the page slightly so that it caught the light. The letters scintillated, evoking a coo of delight from his calico-hybrid companion. 

Another page turned, and this time the cracks that had previously marred the Watcher’s countenance were gone. Scar grinned at his companions’ disconcerted expressions. “Alright, you get the gist. They speak to it, they reform. Creepy.” His listeners nodded, and he turned the page again. There was no text, so he allowed his friends to experience the illustrations in silence. The page exhibited two men, garbed in the sigils of Corona’s royal guard, discovering the flower. The next page showed the glittering purple flower submerged in a cup of shimmering liquid. He smiled at the illustration - this page was Scar’s favourite. 

“The magic of the purple flower healed the Queen.” He sighed happily. “A healthy baby boy - a beautiful Prince was born!” Scar smiled at his companions and turned the page once more. It exhibited a small child in an ornate crib, in the midst of innocently giggling at his parents. And on his back, stretching to either side- “With beautiful, rainbow-coloured wings.” Scar finished, and he touched the watercolour thoughtfully. The wings, patterned like a banded Scarlet Macaw’s, were intricately detailed. He could almost feel the texture of feathers underneath his fingertips.

His expression turned gloomy before he even turned the page. His companions, knowing what was to come, settled themselves with similarly stony expressions. “To celebrate his birth, the King and Queen launched a flying lantern into the sky - and for that one moment, everything was perfect.” Scar’s gaze lingered on the glowing lantern on the page. Then, with a sigh, he reached the final page of the book. “And then that moment ended.”

The last page was stormy and dark, filled with a purple glow that seemed to emanate from the worn paper. “The Watcher broke into the castle, stole the child, and just like that-” He slammed the book shut with a force that sent leaves fluttering into the air. “Gone.” Scar said, and the word rang out around the woody clearing. 

“The kingdom searched and searched, but they could not find the Prince.” Scar murmured. “The King and Queen succumbed to their grief, and now the Steward of Corona wants to take over the throne.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his cloak and thrust it onto the gnarled Oak stump he’d been using as a table. As it unravelled, it revealed a poster, torn from the walls of the kingdom, advertising the Steward’s coronation.

His two companions stared in shock. Thieves by name and nature, they were two of the dwindling group of people Scar could trust with his life. To the right sat a feline hybrid by the name of Lizzie. Her waist-length, pastel pink hair fell around her face, and two fluffy ears with the markings of a Calico pressed close to her head. Her hands had paw pads on the palms and fingers, and her tail lashed in annoyance. 

To the left, her husband. Joel was a butterfly hybrid, but to assume that meant that he was delicate and harmless was many people’s downfall. His veined green wings fluttered nervously, and the antennae on his head curled and uncurled restlessly.

“We can’t let the coronation happen.” Lizzie bit her lip, lowering her voice as the wind rushed through the canopy above like an eavesdropping spirit. “Ren has been a terrible steward. Corona is in economic ruin.” 

Joel nodded in agreement. “Besides, the Prince is still out there somewhere. He has to be. We have to leave the throne vacant so he can take his rightful place one day.”

Scar smiled. “I knew you two would agree with me.” He stood up slowly and stepped back, one foot behind the other. Positioned in the dappled sun like a spotlight, arms spread wide in invitation, he levelled the two thieves with a challenging grin. 

“How do you feel about stealing a crown?” He asked them.

Joel and Lizzie looked at each other, and within a split second, they’d had a whole conversation with their eyes. Wearing matching grins, they stood in tandem.

Joel shouldered his crossbow and Lizzie strapped her sword to her waist, eyes gleaming like the cat who got the cream.

“We’re in.”

Chapter Text

‘⎓ꖎ𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ʖᒷᔑᒲ ᔑリ↸ ⊣ꖎ𝙹∴, ꖎᒷℸ ̣  ||𝙹⚍∷ !¡𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ᓭ⍑╎リᒷ, ᒲᔑꖌᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓵꖎ𝙹ᓵꖌ ℸ ̣ ⚍∷リ ʖᔑᓵꖌ, ʖ∷╎リ⊣ ʖᔑᓵꖌ ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ, ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ’ 

The words came from Grian’s mouth like second nature. He watched with giddy delight as purple light ran its way through his wings, igniting each feather from the inside out with a gorgeous display of colour. The books his Uncle brought him said purple was the rarest colour to find in nature. That meant Grian was special . 

He was sat on his Uncle’s lap, humming happily as his magic did its work. The cracks up and down his Uncle’s body slowly sewed themselves back together again as the man threaded his long fingers through Grian’s wings. The purple light - Grian’s purple light - was emanating from the fissures and fixing them together with cracking noises.

His Uncle had wings, too, but they were pure white, unlike Grian’s colourful feathers. He’d tried touching them once, but they were razor sharp and cut his finger, staining the white with blood. He’d quickly learnt not to do that again.

Grian was lifted off of his Uncle’s lap, signifying an end to the healing process. “Excellent job, Grian.” His Uncle said, patting Grian’s sandy brown hair absent-mindedly. Grian beamed. His Uncle was wearing a mask, as always - not the big one, which was only for when he went outside, but the smaller one that covered the top half of his face. Grian had never seen his eyes, but that didn’t bother him. It was just another thing about the man, and he knew his Uncle wouldn’t appreciate unwarranted questions.

“Do you know what day it is today?” His Uncle asked.

Grian frowned. After a moment, he shook his head. 

“It’s your seventh birthday.” His Uncle smiled. “I have a gift for you. Come, sit here by the window.”

Grian chirped happily, mind whirring as he wondered what the gift would be. He fluttered over to the window - he was getting better at using his wings, maybe one day soon he’d be able to fly like his Uncle - and sat down at the ledge. 

Outside, the night was dark and cool. It was early summer, and the crickets chirruped softly far, far below his tower. The honeysuckle that climbed up the old stone brick was blooming, and the sweet smell wafted in the soft wind. The breeze picked up a little, and it ran through his feathers, making him shiver with excitement.

Suddenly, there was a tugging on his feathers and a noise from behind him.

Snick, snick.

He tried to turn, but his Uncle held him by the back of his neck. He let out a warble of distress. 

“Shh, it will be over soon.” His Uncle murmured softly, but he was still squeezing Grian’s small neck so hard that he was feeling faint.

Snick, snick went the awful noise, until finally the pressure dropped and Grian fell to the floor, gasping for air.

When he turned, he cried out again. The floor was littered with the ends of his growing flight feathers. Blue, red and yellow fluttered about like discarded trash in the breeze, and when it rustled through his wings again it felt like it was taunting him.

Grian’s bottom lip wobbled as he lifted one wing up, surveying the damage. The primary flight feathers at the end were cut in harsh, straight lines, useless for anything but decoration. 

“W-why?” He asked his Uncle, eyes welling up.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” The man muttered. “It’s not permanent, but as long as you live here I expect you to keep your wings cut, just like this.”

When Grian stared in childlike hurt and confusion, the man sighed and sat at the window beside him. “Out there, Grian,” He waved a hand to the dark night outside, “Is dangerous for you. The wind may be tempting, but you cannot allow yourself to be drawn to it. Your place is inside , with me. You can look all you want, but never touch, yes?”

His Uncle’s hand on his back was a lurking presence, light but deadly. Grian looked out into the world beyond and felt the breeze through his feathers. In the distance, strange lights were beginning to appear. They looked like stars, only they were floating upwards towards the sky, instead of hanging there.

His Uncle’s grip on his back tightened. “Do I make myself clear , Grian?”

Grian nodded hurriedly. “Yes, Uncle.” He whispered.

His Uncle smiled, relaxing back into his usual warm stance. “Good. The world out there is not meant for you.”
He swept out of the room, but turned at the doorway, observing the small child who, in turn, was observing the world.

“You are only ever meant to watch .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Pascal?” Grian called, drawing out the ‘aaa’ sound theatrically. “Where are you, you pesky bird?”

He fluttered his wings to propel him through the tower - not enough to fly, never enough to fly, but enough for a speed boost. 

With an agility that came from years of make-shift obstacle courses around his small living space, he thrust himself onto the balcony so that he was perching precariously on the ledge overlooking his valley. It was early summer - four nights before his birthday. He idly picked one of the honeysuckle flowers from the tangled vines embedded in the side of the tower, sucking out the sweet nectar. Flowers in hand, he peered around the flower pots on the balcony until familiar red feathers came into view.

“There you are, pesky bird!” He laughed, picking up the parakeet and allowing it to gently nibble on his fingers. “Oh, come on, that was the same hiding spot as the last twelve times. You’ve got to make it more difficult for me!”

Pascal didn’t seem to notice his woes, taking flight into the open air - off to feed on berries somewhere, probably.

Grian watched the bird with envy. From experience, he knew that Pascal would always return to him, but the real jealousy was in watching him fly with such ease. He lifted one wing, poking forlornly at the dull, clipped feathers. He’d be molting in a few days, and then the brand-new, vibrant flight feathers would be cut once more.

Grian stared out at the bright blue sky. There wasn’t a single cloud, and it appeared endless , the spire of the tower sticking straight up like it would pierce through the heavens. He set his mouth in a determined line. It would be his eighteenth birthday soon. On that night, he’d sit on the balcony just like he did every year and watch the floating stars lift themselves towards the purple sky, yet another thing that taunted his inability to fly, but at the same time sparked an inexplicable hope inside of him. He knew that these lights were the answer. If he could just convince his Uncle to go and see them, he’d never want for anything again. 

It’d be tricky, but he was always one for a challenge.

With newfound purpose, Grian fluttered his way back into the tower. Though on the outside it was cold, unforgiving stone, the interior of his tower was carefully crafted into a home just for him. No wall was left bare; vivid tapestries depicting scenes from fairy tales were hung everywhere the eye could see, and where patches of wall did show through, they were covered with paintings from over the years. The paintings marked the progressions of Grian’s growth, as the lowest slabs were covered in rudimentary children’s doodles of the moon and stars and vaguely winged figures. These slowly morphed into more complex drawings - the trees and flowers surrounding his tower, feathers and birds and fantasy creatures, characters from his storybooks, Grian and his Uncle. Eventually, he’d had to start climbing up the eaves to reach more canvas, and his paintings curled around wooden beams like secrets. 

The ceiling of the building was tall, stretching all the way up to the domed tiles that capped the top of the tower from the elements. In between two thick beams hung a net covered in blankets and pillows, which Grian had affectionately titled his ‘Nest’. He started there, first, straightening out the linen sheets and placing each pillow atop with care. Next, he swept all of the dust off of the beams, opening the small circular windows wide to allow shafts of light into the room. Then he mopped the floors, wiped down every surface in the kitchen, organised the bookshelves, and even stacked his empty paint cans.

By the time he was finished, the tower was cleaner than it had been for years. He grinned. His Uncle was sure to enjoy this surprise.

As he was surveying his handiwork, Pascal swooped back into the room and landed on his shoulder, chittering lightly. As he had done a thousand times before, Grian held out a hand and waited until the small bird dropped something into it.

He held it up to his eye, where it glowed softly in the light. It looked like the apples his Uncle sometimes brought him, but it was far smaller - berry sized, and dusky pink blending into yellow at the top.

“What’s this, Pascal?” He asked. “One of the poisonous berries Uncle always warns me about?” 

Pascal, clearly unamused with that conclusion, stretched his neck out and snapped up the strange fruit.

Grian sighed. “Clearly it’s not poisonous to you, at least.” 

He stared out the window again. Pascal had been bringing him small gifts - twigs and berries and leaves - since he was small. It was his only way to learn about the world outside, unfiltered from what his Uncle thought he should know. Though small, all of Pascal’s gifts were beautiful and rich in possibility. They contrasted everything his Uncle said about the dangers of the world in a way that made his stomach queasy.

The smaller feathers behind his ears twitched as the whoosh of large wingbeats drew closer.

“Hide, Pascal!” Grian hissed, and the bird quickly flew off into the shadows of the rafters. Pascal was the only secret Grian had ever kept from his Uncle, after the parakeet had crashed into the window of his tower with a broken wing as a fledgling. Grian was going to tell his Uncle, but… Something about the sight of his own jaggedly cut feathers, coloured red just like Pascal’s own, made his stomach turn with queasiness. 

What his Uncle didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Speaking of - Grian fluttered to the open balcony, where the familiar tall, robed shape of his Uncle rose like a guardian angel, gracefully landing on the stone floor. At the sign of his wide open arms, Grian rushed forward and accepted a hug.

“Hello, little bird.” The Watcher stroked the small, fluffy covert feathers where Grian’s wings met his shoulder blades. Grian chirped a greeting in reply. 

His Uncle sighed and released him. “I’m afraid this recent trip has been harsh on my health. Could you…?”
“Already on it!” Grian called, pulling a chair over the floorboards quickly and manhandling his Uncle into it. He was so excited to propose his idea - he wanted to get through this chore as quickly as possible. His Uncle was often gone on long trips, so Grian was determined to make the most of the time he had.

“Grian-” The Watcher started.

But Grian wasn’t listening. He sat down in front of his Uncle with a thump and angled one wing into the man’s hands, already thinking about how he would phrase his request.

“Grian, slow down!” His Uncle yelped at the feathers unceremoniously thrust in his face.

“ ⎓ꖎ𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ʖᒷᔑᒲ ᔑリ↸ ⊣ꖎ𝙹∴, ꖎᒷℸ ̣  ||𝙹⚍∷ !¡𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ᓭ⍑╎リᒷ, ᒲᔑꖌᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓵꖎ𝙹ᓵꖌ ℸ ̣ ⚍∷リ ʖᔑᓵꖌ, ʖ∷╎リ⊣ ʖᔑᓵꖌ ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ, ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  𝙹リᓵᒷ ∴ᔑᓭ ᒲ╎リᒷ” He muttered, rushing through the words easily.

A flash of purple light, and the light fissures along his Uncle’s hands popped and crackled out of existence.

“GRIAN!” His Uncle roared, standing up and out of the chair. “Slow down!”

The avian wilted, snapping out of his rushed daze. He lowered his head. “Sorry.”

Grian’s Uncle sighed. “ Don’t do it again.”

Silence drifted on, and eventually, his Uncle began to pack away the little basket of forageables he’d collected over his trip away. Grian cursed himself. Now the mood was off, and that was never a good time to ask something of his Uncle.

Grian nudged closer, waiting for the tension to drip away. Eventually, he felt brave enough to speak.

“Notice anything different about the tower?” Grian prompted. Perhaps he could help the mood with his surprise?

Uncle looked around, bored. Eventually, he snapped his fingers. “You cleaned up?”
“Yes! Do you like it?” Grian asked eagerly.

His Uncle laughed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted something from me.”

Grian fidgeted, running his hands through the feathers by his ears. He’d certainly cleaned the tower to get his Uncle in a better mood, but he didn’t want it to seem like bribery. “Well, actually-”
He was cut off by a long, drawn-out sigh. “Not now, Grian, please. Your Uncle is tired from a long journey.”

“I just thought-” Grian bit his lip. “Well, you know how it’s my birthday in a couple of days, and…” He trailed off, getting quieter and quieter as he realised his Uncle wasn’t listening - now strolling away to store his long purple cloak in a cupboard.

His Uncle sighed. “Mumbling, Grian, you know how I feel about the mumbling.”

Grian took a deep breath. He adjusted his wings, and waited for his Uncle to finish unpacking. Then he began again. “It’s my birthday in a few days!” He said, as crisp and clear as a bell.

His Uncle turned around, slowly. “No, no. I distinctly remember. Your birthday was last year.”

Grian laughed a little, pleased. His Uncle was making an effort at humour, despite his muck-ups.

“That’s the funny thing about birthdays. They come around every year.” 

His Uncle came closer, and without warning, picked up one of Grian’s vibrant wings.

Grian froze as his feathers were examined. His Uncle’s stiff grip had bent a few out of place, and he was already getting the itch to fix them. 

Disinterested, the Watcher made a disappointed hum. “We’ll have to cut your wings soon. Your new flight feathers will come in, and I don’t want you getting any instincts to fly away.”

Grian held back a warble. His Uncle didn’t like it when he overdid the bird noises - even if it hurt his throat to block them from escaping his windpipe.

“Of course, Uncle. Back to my birthday-”

“You do want something.” The Watcher sneered. His mask, which he had swapped out from a full face covering to the shorter one, framed the way his mouth twisted around the words, nose scrunching into annoyance. Grian, however, was fed up with being interrupted.

“There’s only one thing I want for my birthday. I promise you, afterwards I’ll never ask to go outside again, I’ll never even think about the world. All I want is to see the floating lights.” He got all the words out in a rush, barrelling through but not mumbling.

For a moment, there was silence, like the blissful moment the sparrow feels moments before it is snapped up by a larger bird of prey.

Then, ever so slowly, his Uncle loomed upwards and spread his wings out wide. Unlike Grian’s, which were relatively proportional to his body, his Uncle’s wings were incomprehensibly huge - the razor sharp feathers spanned the whole length of the tower. They knocked a paint jar off of a shelf and it smashed on the floor in a mosaic of glinting glass shards and splatters of red. His Uncle paid it no heed. From behind his mask, around where his eyes should be, there was a purple glow, and around his head, shimmering like a terrible mirage, hollow purple eyes blinked open in the air. One by one they swivelled grotesquely to focus on Grian, who was now trembling in the shadow of his Uncle.

“ What floating lights .” His Uncle’s voice asked, but it was magnified by a thousand whispers behind it.

Grian shrank back further, letting out a scared warble. His wings trembled right to their roots, and the smaller wings on his head flickered up and down in distress. 

“T-the ones that happen on my birthday. I just- I thought they might be connected to me, that’s all!” Grian stuttered.

“ You’d leave your safe home for a dangerous world, all to chase a fantasy? ” With a beat of his wings, the shutters on the balcony clattered shut, and the tower was thrust into darkness. Grian fell to the floor along with the gust of air, and scrambled for anything familiar or comforting - but all his hands grasped was cold stone.

“No! I’m sorry, it was a mistake. I don’t want to leave any more!”

Looking up, all Grian could see were glowing purple eyes, searching through the darkness. At his words, however, they shivered and flicked shut. The static pressure of power slowly lifted from the room.

Shaking on the floor, Grian waited until a candle was lit. At the centre of the room, his Uncle was standing, arms spread open.

Grian rushed into the embrace, eager for warmth. A little voice in his head whispered that he was only seeking warmth because of his Uncle, but he stamped it out in favour of the familiarity - flowing fabric wrapped around him, long-fingered hands stroking the feathers on his back. “I’m sorry!” He whimpered. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“ Mumbling, Grian.” His Uncle smirked, going for humour, but the pit in Grian’s stomach just deepened further. “I will get you more art supplies for your birthday. After all, you’re completely out of red paint.” His eyes flickered to the smashed jar on the floor with disdain. “It’s a three day trip. I’ll be back in time for your birthday.”

His Uncle swept towards the balcony, and opened the shutters once again. The warm summer air was a balm to Grian’s frozen skin, a sweet scent of flowering jasmine overtaking the musky din of the stone tower.

“You’re leaving right now?” Grian asked, cautiously.

His Uncle nodded at the window. Before he turned to leave, however, he looked back. One purple eye opened by his head, focussing on his nephew almost lazily. The easy, sluggish way in which it settled on him was somehow even more threatening, a reminder of his Uncle’s power. “Grian?”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Don’t ever ask to leave this tower again.” The eye blinked shut with finality.

The Watcher turned and took off into the sky, and Grian finally sank to the floor.

Chapter Text

The sound of footsteps thundered along the roof tiles as they scrambled out of sight of yet another patrolling guard.

“It seems the Steward has increased security since we last visited!” Scar chirped cheerily to Joel, who was leaning against a wall to catch his breath, antennae rising and falling with each heave of air. Joel sent him a glare in response.

Meanwhile, Lizzie laughed, easily dangling her legs off of the edge of the building. It was a long drop down - a piece of tile broke off and skittered over the edge, falling until Scar could no longer see it. As a cat hybrid, however, Lizzie was totally unbothered by the certain death below. Her pink hair flowed in the wind like water, as did her tail. Like her husband, she was wearing all black, with a sword secured at her waist.

“We’re out of the danger zone now.” She turned back towards the two men, ears twitching in amusement. “Come and see the view! Joel, you have wings, and Scar- well, you just won’t fall.”

Scar stood and carefully made his way over to Lizzie. From the height of the castle, he could see the whole of the southlands. Thick dark oak forest stretched on for miles and miles, with the capital city of Corona a mere blur in the distance. The air was thick and sweet, the sky crystal clear and a bright, duck-egg blue. Scar took a deep breath, allowing it to fill up his lungs with a honeyish consistency. 

“Wow.” He murmured, though the word didn’t do the view justice. “I could get used to a view like this.”

Joel stood, having caught his breath. He fluttered over to Scar, breathing in the view with similar wonder.

Eventually, though, he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We should get going, Scar.”

Scar smirked. Seeing his expression, Joel groaned, “Oh no, not this again…”
“Scar? Who’s that?” Scar asked, smirk becoming a full grin. “As thieves, we must only use code names, and mine is HotGuy!” He spun around smoothly, striking a pose. Lizzie giggled at him, whilst Joel just ran a hand down his face, sighing.

Scar was a far more outgoing thief than the other two. Whilst they operated in the shadows, he preferred the limelight - he wore black, too, but there were embroidered accents of orange and blue up his collar and along his trousers. On his legs, spanning from his calves to midway up his thighs, were biotech braces. The black thieves’ mask he wore over his eyes was dual-toned orange and blue, and on his back was his trusty bow. 

He’d gained somewhat of a reputation in Corona’s Southlands over the years. The mysterious thief that stole from the rich, careless Steward and gave back to the poor. Rumor was that he never missed a shot - and whilst that wasn’t technically true, Scar did nothing to disprove the notion.

“HotGuy , we were drunk when we made those names.” Joel groaned theatrically.

“Well, my dear Bad Boy, I embrace it wholeheartedly, and you should too.”

Joel turned to his wife, a long-suffering look on his face. His antennae drooped in annoyance.

Lizzie just giggled. “Hey, I like my name too! Don’t look at me!”

“Ocean Queen is cool, though.” Joel grumbled. “Alright, enough talking, seriously. We need to get going.”

The trio clambered across the roof of Southlands Castle for another twenty minutes, freezing whenever the sound of Royal Guards on the turrets met Lizzie’s sensitive ears. 

“I still can’t believe Steward Ren is trying to take over the throne for good. We don’t even know that the prince is dead!” Lizzie muttered as they hid in the long morning shadows of the castle’s turrets. Scar counted down on his fingers three, two, one , and they dashed along the roof and into the shade of another tower, just in time for a group of guards to walk by where they had been a moment before.

“It’s stupid .” Joel agreed vehemently. “Especially as the whole of Corona still lights lanterns on his birthday each year. The Steward is bonkers.”

Scar leaned down to adjust his leg braces. All this stop-start movement was beginning to jostle his knees uncomfortably. The biotech allowed him to live his life as the agile, sneaky, epic HotGuy, which he was eternally happy about, but sometimes the side effects were painful. 

Whilst Lizzie and Joel waited for him to finish, he added, “We’ve known he’s crazy since the very beginning. Taking action to secure his place on the throne shouldn’t be that surprising. Him and his right-hand man- what’s his name?”
“Martyn .” Lizzie and Joel both groaned with equal disdain.

“Him! They’ve been power-hungry weirdos since day one.” Scar finished recalibrating his braces. “Though, I’m having second thoughts.” He joked. “If I could have a castle like this, maybe I’d try to take over the throne too. Can you imagine it?” He spread his arms wide. “Scarland! Run by the most attractive, most intelligent, most uh-mayzing-”

Lizzie smacked him over the head. “Focus, HotGuy . I thought you said no names on the field?”

Scar grinned apologetically and turned his mind back to the task at hand. His sharp eyes zoned in on a turret in the distance. “According to the blueprints Cleo got us, that tower should be directly above where the crown is held. All we need to do is get over there, steal the tiara, and get out, and bam! Coronation is off.”

They set off once more, dashing along tiles with an almost giddy elation. Lizzie’s feline agility made her the leader, followed by Joel who was boosting himself along with his wings, and lastly Scar. As much as Scar tried to be the good guy, and only steal for morally correct reasons - he couldn’t deny the absolute thrill of stealing. He felt as if he was on top of the world.

Eventually, they made it to the spot highlighted on the blueprints. It was an unassuming turret, tiled with the same partially oxidized copper as the rest of the roof, but below it was the most valuable prize in all of Corona. 

“Your time to shine, HotGuy.” Joel murmured. The teasing, lighthearted atmosphere was gone - in the height of the operation, it was time to get serious. Despite their joking, the three of them were the most famous thieves in Corona - no, in the entire continent - for a reason.

Scar secured a length of strong, coarse rope around his waist with practised movements. He tugged on the double figure of eight knot thrice to guarantee it was secure, and then grinned at his two friends. 

“See you on the other side.”

Without further ado, he called upon the magic that was sitting restless in his bones. His dormant Vex genes began to buzz as he flexed his fingers, pulling them closer to the surface, and blue magic zapped along his skin like lightning. From experience, he knew that his skin was turning grey as he slipped into intangibility and drifted through the floor.

All of a sudden, Scar was dangling through the ceiling of a massive hall. He’d turned the rope intangible, too, so it phased through the roof like some strange mirage. Scar tugged once, and he knew that Lizzie and Joel on the other side had received his message when they began lowering him slowly downwards.

His eyes focussed on the floor far below. There was a huge open doorway and a deep red carpet that ran from one end to the other. Directly below him was a pedestal, upon which sat the royal crown, glittering invitingly like a lamp to a moth. In front of it, totally oblivious with their backs to Scar and the crown, were four royal guards. Scar smirked. Of course, the guards were facing the doorway - who would suspect a phantom invader from above?

Finally, the rope lowered him down to the level of the crown. Scar tugged twice to signal Lizzie and Joel, and then reached towards it with trembling hands. He picked it up carefully, reverently, and examined the intricate metalwork. It was made of gold woven together like vines, with rubies and sapphires and emeralds embedded throughout the crown, incorporated to look like flowers.

In front of him, the guards were still oblivious. He relaxed a little, resting his chin on the pedestal lazily as he slipped the crown into his satchel. Each of the guards were evidently chosen especially for the task. A creaking hybrid, dark hair bushy with leaves, whose natural strength was well suited to the job. A wolf hybrid with grey ears sticking out of her brown hair, and a loyal pack of dogs by her feet, would be able to hear any intruder around - if it weren’t for Scar’s natural vex silence, she’d be upon him in seconds. A fish hybrid, with cyan hair and blue gills, had a wickedly sharp sword and the posture of someone who knew how to use it. Finally, a blonde man with a few yellow feathers in his hair stood rigid and alert, clearly a loyal knight who would fight for his country.

Just as Scar was about to tug on the rope to be brought up, an explosive noise echoed around the stone hall. He froze - but it was just the blonde knight, who was sniffling and rubbing his nose after sneezing.

What he did next was detrimental to the mission, but Scar simply couldn’t help it.

“Hayfever?” He asked, commiseratingly.

The blonde knight turned around casually, sighing. “Yeah.” Then he turned back around.

Scar tugged on the rope, hard , as all four knights did a double take.

“ JIMMY! ” The cyan-haired one yelled as he loaded an arrow in his bow, but Scar was already whizzing up and away, phasing through the ceiling as the sharp arrowhead clattered off of solid tile.

As he passed through and became tangible once more, Scar heaved a breath. “Oh, boyyy.” He rested against the tile, eyeing his friends shiftily.

“Did you get the crown?” Joel asked, antennae rigid.

“I uh- I did do that, yes.” Scar patted his heavy satchel. “But we also may have the whole royal guard after us.”

“SCAR!” Lizzie shouted, her tail bristling. Scar’s focus was behind her, however, on the knights that were thundering up the spiral staircase of one of the towers. The wolf hybrid caught sight of them first and yelled for the others.

“You can shout at me later!” Scar yelped, grabbing both of his friend’s hands. “We gotta skedaddle!”

They dashed along the tiles, slipping and scrabbling over where they’d been so careful earlier in the day. Instead of hiding in shadows, they raced through the sunlight and jumped onto the main wall around the castle. 

When they made it to the main staircase of the castle, they were met with more guards - but they had the element of surprise. Lizzie slammed into them with her sword, whilst Joel at her back took care of the stragglers with his crossbow. His fae magic added extra explosiveness to his arrows, stunning their attackers as the veins in his wings glowed green. They sped onwards, out of the drawbridge not a moment too soon and across the bridge over the river.

“Are they still after us?!” Joel yelled as they ducked between oak trees, pushing through brambles and twigs.

“Yes!” Lizzie replied breathlessly. They closed in on one another, running side by side, and she managed to sheath her sword. Her ears twitched as she listened for their pursuers. “They’ve got horses!”

Scar cursed under his breath. “This way!” He yelled, and they tunneled deeper into the forest. He hoped that they could get the horses tangled in the thick woodland, unable to pursue - otherwise, the knights would catch up to them easily. 

As they ran, he heard hoofbeats getting closer and closer on the dirt beneath their feet, thumping in tandem with Scar’s heart. Despite the danger, he was still grinning.

They swerved around another tree and passed a trunk with wanted posters. Scar grabbed one as he rushed past, eager to see how the knights portrayed him - but when he saw the name on the poster, he scowled.

“Are you kidding me?!” He shoved the poster at Joel who was beside him, though his hand was shaking as he ran, making it illegible. “Hawkeye. HAWKEYE?! They just can’t get my name right!” 

“Aw, it’s not that bad, Scar!” Lizzie chirped from his other side.

He pouted. “That’s easy for you to say. Your poster is cool!”

He was right. Lizzie and Joel had a joint wanted poster, both drawn in formidable fighting poses. Their names were correct, too. Scar stuffed his own poster into his satchel begrudgingly, and kept running.

Just as he thought they might be losing the horses behind them in the thicket, they nearly ran into a wall of rock.

“What?!” Joel’s voice cracked. “How are we meant to get past this?”

Scar’s jaw clenched. “We have to split up.”
“No!” Lizzie hissed. 

“It’s me they’re after, I have the satchel! Go back to the Hungry Hermit, I’ll meet you there.” Scar reassured, though his heart was beating hard . “Joel.” He zoned in on the butterfly hybrid, whose wings were twitching in anxiety. “Get yourselves to safety.” 

Preying on Joel’s protectiveness over his wife was the way to go. With a short, meaningful nod, Joel grabbed Lizzie by the collar and flew up the cliff.

The hoofbeats behind him grew loud like a rockfall and then stopped all of a sudden. Scar spun around casually.

“Hey, fellas,” He smiled, dipping into a sarcastic bow. “And ladies!” He grinned at the wolf hybrid, who snarled back. Her pack of dogs closed in, nipping at his heels.

“Hawkeye,” The cyan-haired one announced. “You’re under arrest for continual theft of the crown of Corona.”

Scar scowled. There were three crossbows pointed at him, but there was also a small gap between the blonde one and the wolf hybrid. “I’m not stealing from the crown, I’m stealing from the Steward. He’s not king yet, and he won’t be if I have any say in it.”

“Besides,” He grinned, “The name’s HotGuy.”

Scar dashed towards the gap, turning intangible for just long enough that the arrows shot at him phased right through his torso. With no idea where he was going, he just kept running. He dashed through tree branches, leaping over thick logs and ducking under arrows. His vex magic was already drained from his earlier escapade - he couldn’t go intangible for more than a second, now - but he used it when necessary to gain a speed boost.

Scar spotted a particularly small gap between trees and phased through it at the last second. He could hear the whinnying of horses behind him, and as he kept running he could now only hear one pair of hoofbeats on the ground.

Risking a glance back, he saw that it was the cyan-haired knight, on a fast and loyal horse that was only gaining speed. He had to get rid of him, and fast.

Scar spotted a vine of ivy hanging from a tree, and took the risk. He leapt for it with all of his momentum, pushing his legs forward so that the vine swung in a circle around the tree. When it came back to its starting position, he jumped off of the vine and directly onto the horse, knocking the knight off.

Scar laughed in elation. He had most certainly not expected that last-ditch effort to work. The horse cantered on, oblivious to its new rider.

“Well, you’re a fast one, aren’t you?” He patted his new steed’s flank. It was dappled grey, with darker black splotches and a white chest and stomach. From running through brambles and fruiting summer bushes, there were smudges of squashed purple berries along its coarse hair. “I think I’ll name you Jellie, for the jelly all over you right now.” He grinned.

Then he yelped and clung on tight because the horse stopped dead in its tracks, nearly throwing him off. She turned towards Scar, with an almost comically pissed-off expression on her horsey face.

“Uhh…” He grinned at her. “Hi?”

Jellie chomped her teeth at him, nearly managing to grasp hold of the satchel slung around his waist.

“Woah! Bad horse!” Scar shouted, and then engaged in a comical battle with his mutinous steed, both attempting desperately to stay on and trying to keep the satchel out of reach of the horse’s mouth.

The ridiculous song and dance lasted for only a minute, until Jellie finally clasped hold of the strap on the satchel. Then it was a tug of war, stretching the leather back and forth. The horse danced around in a frenzy as it attempted to steal the bag from Scar’s grip, and they began to approach a clearing that abruptly ended in a cliff. Scar felt the bag slipping from his hold, but he also knew the horse couldn’t hold on much longer-

They both let go at the same time, and the bag went flying off the edge of the steep cliff they’d found themselves on. It attached itself to a tiny twig on a small poplar tree that was desperately clinging to the side of the sheer cliff face. Scar couldn’t see the drop, but the tree reached perilously over what seemed to be open air.

But this was his hard-stolen prize, and he was not letting a horse take it from him.

He leapt off of Jellie’s back (beginning to rethink the name - something more demonic was probably appropriate) and grasped the smooth silvery trunk of the poplar. Then he shimmied himself along slowly, eyes on the bag precariously swinging to and fro, attached by the tiniest twig. To his surprise, the horse followed, attempting to kick him and step on his hands as he reached for it.

“Almost there…” Scar murmured, heart in his mouth. With trembling fingers, he reached out, and grabbed the satchel by its leather strap. 

“A-Ha!” He shouted in joy. Scar turned back to the horse, flaunting his prize. “Take that !”

If a horse could look murderous, this one would be winning all the prizes. 

Scar had two glorious seconds to bask in his victory against an animal with no opposable thumbs before an ominous cracking sound echoed around the valley.

He turned, with terror, to where the innocent little sapling they were clinging to had finally succumbed to the weight of horse and man. 

Scar yelled in tandem with Jellie’s terrified whinnies as they plummeted downwards, the leaves fluttering in the wind.

He awoke, miraculously, intact and with only a minor headache. Scar groaned, feeling around on the floor nonsensically. He felt soft, fresh grass, mud, something furry, and something leathery.

Leather.

His satchel.

Scar’s eyes flashed open, and then he immediately winced at the light. His left hand was grasped around the strap of his satchel - inside, the crown twinkled teasingly. His right was laid atop the prone body of a horse.

He yelped and scrambled backwards. Luckily (or unluckily), Jellie seemed fine - just unconscious. Scar put a hand to his head and felt a scab of dried blood, where he must have hit it during the fall. He looked up at the sky, and grimaced at the sun’s low position. Golden light filtered through the oak canopy, and behind him, the cliff rose up sheer and foreboding. The fall wasn’t nearly as far as Scar had thought from above, but he couldn’t climb the cliff without a rope.

It was quickly turning to night, and he had no food, no supplies (other than a sparkly tiara), and no idea where he was.

And maybe a concussion, Scar added to his list, as he was hit with a wave of dizziness.

A sound startled him out of his misery. The horse beside him was sputtering into wakefulness.

Scar panicked, and dashed away from the animal. He could see dense brambles to his right and tangles of vines on the rocks to his left. When he moved closer, however, he grinned - the vines were covering a dark cave. At the very end of the cave there was a pinprick of light, hiding some unknown place.

Scar hurried into the cave just as he heard snuffling noises on the floor. The large distinct shadow of a horse silhouetted itself onto the vines, before continuing onwards.

Was the horse sniffing him out ?!

Not eager to stick around for Jellie to find him, Scar picked his way through the darkness of the cave. On the other side, there was a similarly dense covering of vines. Scar wouldn’t be surprised if no one had been here in a very, very long time - the walls were coated in deep green moss, dripping water, and there were stale puddles on the floor. The cave echoed with the tinny falling of a thousand droplets. It was calming, but with an eerie edge of mystery.

He reached the other end of the cave and hesitated for a moment. For some reason, he had a feeling he was intruding on something ancient and hidden.

Then, with a breathless laugh and a mental note that he definitely had a concussion, he pushed forward through the vines.

For a moment, the golden sun blinded him. Once he blinked through the rays, however, his jaw dropped.

He was standing in the only entrance to a tiny hidden section of the valley. On all sides, sheer mountains carved their way up into the sky like knife points, illuminated by the setting sun. The valley looked utterly untouched by man - glimmering streams and ancient trees reaching up to the sky unheeded. A carpet of sweet summer grass and wildflowers swayed invitingly in the evening breeze, which carried just a nip of the cold of night that was to come. Most shocking, though, in the centre of the hidden paradise like it had grown from the ground itself, there stood a tall stone tower. It shambled its way upwards steadily, tipped by a red slated roof that curved like a witch’s hat.

In a trance, Scar began towards the tower. He felt as if it was calling to him - some primal instinct for adventure deep down told him this was where he needed to go. 

The tower had no entrance, but it was easy to climb. It was made of large grey stone slabs that had handholds all the way up, practically a ladder to Scar’s agile hands. He pulled his way up slowly, until he finally reached the balcony, and sat on the edge for a moment to catch his breath. Below him, the valley glowed ethereally in the dying light. From pots on the sides of the balcony grew flourishing honeysuckle and white jasmine, and the air was filled with lovely scents. Scar felt that he could live in this tower forever and never be bored of it.

Finally, he turned and surveyed the tower’s interior. It was clearly lived in, decorated with beautiful tapestries and paintings - though, oddly, the skill varied between looking like a master’s work and something done by a child’s clumsy hands.

Scar stood up, finally having caught his breath, and peered into the tower. It was empty.
He breathed a sigh of relief, and that was when he was struck with something hard and metal.

Scar collapsed onto the wooden floor.

Chapter Text

There was a strange man in the tower.

There was a strange man in Grian’s tower.

There was a strange man in Grian’s tower and Grian had just whacked said man unconscious with a frying pan and put him in his closet.

Grian paced backwards and forwards, heart beating fast, remembering all the things his Uncle told him about the outside world. His wings fluttered anxiously, as if desperate to fly him away from the danger.

His power was special, and his wings were special. His Uncle said that people from the outside world would be jealous, and try to steal his wings. That was why Grian had been confined to the tower - but if these people could get inside anyways, what was the point of staying?

Pascal settled on his shoulder with a worried chirp.

“He could be dangerous.” Grian told the bird. The parakeet looked back at him with beady black eyes.

Grian sighed. “But, he could also be the exact thing I’m looking for.”

Frustration welled up within him. Everything his Uncle had ever told him- warned him about was curdling in his gut, refraining him from doing anything stupid, but his instinct told him the opposite. 

“Urgh!” Grian cried. “Why is making choices so difficult?!” His wings puffed up, and he scuffed a foot against the floor in frustration. It hit the man’s satchel, which had dropped to the floor along with him, and the bag spilled its contents - a singular shiny object that went skittering across the wooden floor.

Grian cocked his head, and carefully tiptoed over to investigate.

The object was shiny in a way that wrangled Grian’s avian instincts, his pupils blowing wide as he picked it up. It seemed to be a tiara of some sort, like the ones in the storybooks he’d read as a child, but this one outshone those plain geometric circles of gold. It was colourful and radiant in the light from the high windows of the tower, and strangely familiar.

Grian looked at Pascal nervously. “Do you think this guy is a prince?” 

Pascal chirped at him once. Grian didn’t speak bird (at least, not Pascal’s language of bird), but he could tell it was imbued with sarcasm.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Grian muttered. “Doesn’t seem the princely type.”

His gaze lingered on the door of the closet, as if the man would wake and barge out any moment. The tower stayed silent.

“He might have other uses, though.” Painted on the doors of the closet was one of Grian’s favourite murals - the floating stars, rising up into an inky purple night.

His brows drew together. Eventually, he sighed. “Pascal, I have a terrible idea. I’m going to need a chair, and some rope.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, when Scar awoke, he thought he’d dreamed the whole thing. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought, and the cave, the hidden valley, and the tower were all an illusion conjured by his concussion-addled mind. Perhaps he’d open his eyes and be met with an unconscious horse and an afternoon sky.

He opened his eyes.

The room around him was dark and shadowy. One window was open but the rest were tightly shut, leaving a small spotlight of bright sun that filtered downwards and landed directly on where he was sitting. Dust motes floated in the bright shaft of light, winking in and out of his eyesight like creatures from another realm.

The chair he was in looked hand made and painted, and he was tied to it with knots that made even him jealous. Whoever lived here was clearly experienced - someone not to be trifled with.

He craned his neck at the ceiling, which deepened into shadow until he could not see the top. There were plenty of wooden beams holding the rickety roof up, which someone seemed to have climbed - there were blankets on some, books on others, and plants hanging off of more. Perhaps a hybrid with flight?

“Ouch!” Scar yelped frantically. Something had bitten his ear!

He looked to his left, expecting a snake, or a rat, or something with at least evil vibes.

Instead he was met with a very, very cute little bird. It was small and bright red, with almost iridescent green-blue wings and an orange beak that had clearly just chomped on his ear. Scar couldn’t even bring himself to mind. He was too busy trying to escape his restraints to pet the sweet little parakeet.

“Struggling…” A voice began from high in the rafters. There was a sound of air whooshing rapidly through something, possibly fabric, and a soft thud that was nearly imperceptible, even to Scar’s pointed ears. Then the voice began again, “Struggling is futile.”

It was not the type of voice that Scar had expected at all. An elderly wizard, perhaps, with a wizened, droning voice, or a gargling demon looking to skin him alive. His overactive imagination had not planned for a relatively normal - if slightly nervous sounding - man of around his age.

The shadows shifted. Scar peered at them, but nothing revealed itself. 

“What do you want from me?” He asked to the darkness.

The shadows made an odd questioning, trilling noise, like a curious bird; most definitely some sort of hybrid. “ You were the one who broke into my tower. Are you here to take my wings? To use my magic for nefarious purposes?”

“Take your wings?!” Scar gasped. “I didn’t even know you had wings until just now.” He pouted. 

The shadow shifted awkwardly, along with the same sound of something large rustling - feathers, Scar now realised.

“You’re not very good at this interrogating thing. I’ve learnt more about you than you have of me.” He pointed out. 

“Well, you’re not very good at breaking and entering, either.” The shadow replied grumpily. “I still have you exactly where I want you.”

Scar gaped, scandalised. “I’ll have you know I’m an honourable man, with no intentions of breaking or entering! I conducted all my thievery before coming here.”

The shadows, to his delight, stifled a laugh. “Then why did you come to my tower, oh honourable man ?”

“I was hiding from the Steward’s guard.” Scar stuck his nose up. “You’d best define which side you’re on - if you’re a friend of the Steward, then you’re no friend of mine. If you’re not, then I assure you I will cause you no harm.”

There was silence for a long time. Just as Scar was fearing that he’d scared off his captor with his dashing wit, they spoke again, in a much more subdued voice.

“I know nothing of the Steward. I have never been outside this tower.”

Then they stepped into the light.

For a moment, the world was watercolour. The golden shaft of light shining down on the illuminated man before him liquified his image, like a page from a storybook. Then, the figure solidified, but he stayed, in Scar's eyes, a character drawn in flowing colours. Like staring at the long-awaited sequel to his favourite novel, he could smell the parchment in the air, feel the coarse texture of paper and hear the shuffle of pages.

The man was short but willowy, with a fluffy mess of sandy brown hair and a shy but determined smile on his face. He wore a large red jumper that complemented the red of the wings that grew from his back. Wings of such distinctive colours, the reason that Scar felt he had been transported into a storybook - red, then yellow, then blue. A banded macaw.

Avian hybrids were rare. Before the King and Queen had died, they were heralded by some extreme royalists as the only correct bloodline for the throne, because theirs was the only known family to possess such bright, distinctive plumage. When the prince had disappeared, and his mother had died of grief, shortly followed by her husband, it was thought that no avian would ever again have such vibrancy in their wings. Corona had lost some of its colour forever.

Scar sucked in a shaky breath. Either some stray royal blood had found its way into the depths of the Southlands, or he was looking at the lost Prince of Corona.

“Is something wrong?” The Prince asked. Scar realised that his armour, his signature cocky Hotguy smirk, had fallen off of his face in shock. With some struggle, he regained his casual demeanor.

“I was just momentarily surprised by your beauty, of course.” He grinned, flashing a wink for extra measure. The avian scowled, but his wings opened and closed subtly in amusement. They caught the light, flashing orange where red feathers met yellow, and green where the yellow met blue. Scar followed the blue down to the feather tips and his stomach shot downwards in horror.

Where long, graceful flight feathers should have been, there were frayed, sliced ends. 

Carefully, Scar swallowed a dry lump down his throat, and asked, “Who are you?”

The Macaw hybrid eyed him cautiously, and then shrugged. “My name is Grian.”

Scar’s eyebrows drew close together. “It is customary to introduce a title along with your name.”

“I have no title to give.”

Like a seabird plunging into cold water, Scar’s stomach swooped ever further down. The name, Grian, had confirmed his suspicions. This was the lost prince.

Why, then, did he have no idea who he was?

“I haven’t had much experience with strangers, but I believe it is customary to give your name in return.” Grian snarked back.

“Scar Goodtimes.” Scar replied on autopilot, still slightly dazed.

“And a title?” Grian teased. Scar regained some of his composure, smirking wryly.

“None other than Hotguy, sharp-eyed sniper, thief, and eternal annoyance of Steward Ren of Corona. Seeking only to restore the rightful heir to the throne, and protect the common peoples of this country.”
Again, no recognition in the eyes of the Prince. There was only an honest curiosity, as if every word from Scar’s mouth - available knowledge to even the lowliest of peasants - was valuable information.

Grian smiled, no longer wary. “An honourable introduction. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Scar smiled back charmingly, though his Adam's apple bobbed as he choked on the weight of his situation. This was who he had been looking for all of his life. The only one who could feasibly, in the eyes of Corona’s legal system, take hold of the throne and remove the corrupt, elitist bureaucracy that had forced Scar into the persona of Hotguy in the first place. The reason he had met Lizzie and Joel and all the thieves he now called family, when they had been only orphans betrayed by those who were meant to protect them, back when they had no power to fight back. The reason he, Lizzie, and Joel had stolen Corona’s crown jewels - a last desperate attempt to stay the Steward from permanent rule.

Scar blinked. He had nearly forgotten.

The crown.

Scar’s eyes darted around the room desperately, but it was hidden in shadows. The murals on the walls now seemed to be taunting him. He saw hints of royalty everywhere, in childlike drawings of figures with red, yellow and blue wings, to a navy sky filled with lanterns, yet there was no hint of satchel or crown.

“S-say,” Scar stammered, “You wouldn’t by any chance have seen a satchel around here, would you?”

Grian crossed his arms. “You mean the satchel containing valuable goods, stolen by a supposedly honourable man? I’ve hidden it where you’ll never find it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Not so bad as a captor now, am I?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grian smirked as his captive - Scar Goodtimes, if he were to be believed - spluttered, shocked. Clearly Grian was getting the hang of the whole negotiating business. The knots he’d learnt on one of the many boring, arduous days in his tower were holding well, despite Scar’s wriggling and squirming. And now, he’d found himself a bargaining chip.

The man in front of him was his age, but his knowledge of the outside world was a treasure trove Grian had only caught glimpses of. With his charming smile and silver tongue, he spoke of thievery and an evil steward and a rightful heir to the throne of Corona. He seemed like something straight out of a storybook, as if a watercolour portrait had become too vivid and spilled off of a page and into the real world. He had a strong, lightly stubbled jaw, sun-kissed skin criss-crossed with silver scars that validated his tales of adventure, and pointed ears. Despite his unwaveringly friendly attitude, the sharp sword that Grian had confiscated, as well as the knife in his boot and the sheath of arrows on his back, spoke of someone who was not to be trifled with.

Grian wanted to know more .

“I don’t suppose I could get that back?” Scar tried weakly.

Grian hummed. “You could,” He tapped his chin, “For a price.”

Scar raised an eyebrow.

Grian fluttered over to the closet that displayed his favourite mural - the bright orange floating lights in a sea of blue and purple. “Do you know what these are?” He asked, keeping a careful eye on his captive.

“You mean the floating lanterns they let off for the Prince?” Asked Scar. His charm suddenly seemed more forced than before. His eyes flashed with something sharp.

“ Lanterns .” Grian breathed, taking no note of the other man’s wariness or words. “I knew that they weren’t stars.”

He spun around, and as he did so his wings opened out into their full glory, stretching the length of the tower in a dazzling display of red, yellow and blue. “Scar Goodtimes.” Grian said, pouring every ounce of confidence and commanding attitude that he possessed into his voice. “This is your deal: In two days’ time, these lanterns will light up the night sky. If you take me to see these lanterns and deliver me back home safely, then and only then will you get your precious satchel back.”

As soon as he’d uttered the words, his skin prickled with primal fear. His feathers fluffed up defensively, as if his Uncle would return and shut him away from this world he’d just uncovered, from this magic.

But nothing came.

Open-mouthed like a fish, Scar was quiet for a moment. Then, with one word that filled Grian with an emotion he’d never once felt in his life, something dangerous and threatening and joyful, something with a name like Hope, he breathed, “ Deal .”

The fear running like fire along his skin turned into electric zaps of excitement. Grian wanted to leave immediately, to finally feel the wind unheeded on his skin.

“Maybe let’s wait until tomorrow, though.” Scar added. The electricity of the moment shut off, and Grian felt human again. Scar was looking up to the only open window, which was no longer letting in a shaft of sunlight, only cool, dark nighttime air.

Grian took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars twinkling in the sky. For so long, he had mistaken lanterns for stars. Now he knew the difference, and he would not turn back.

He smiled. 

“Tomorrow.”