I could hardly imagine how long the journey would take an angel without wings, forced to scale steep, slippery cliffs under his own power.
The main Noxalora kingdom—Mortavia—was the largest, oldest, and fairest of all. Even from afar, I could see the ruler's seat, its majestic towers and mighty walls. The castle perched atop a colossal rock, and to reach it on foot was almost impossible. Only winged angels could fly over that monstrous crag and gain entry.
A thousand angels could dwell inside—servants, loyal friends, and members of the royal family. It was, quite literally, Sarlan's fortress, from which he had ruled for an eternity.
Each governor of the three subordinate realms—Terravorn, Alaris, and Luxania—whom Sarlan had appointed, had to come regularly and give a report. Father could revoke his favor at any time and strip the governor of rank. One had to remain on good terms with the dark king, for he alone controlled our world.
I did not descend as other angels would have. Nor did I join the revels in the courtyard; a wild celebration beginning to bubble up from below. Many were shouting my name, bottles in hand, rejoicing as though it were their own birthday.
My feast meant a great deal to them. Who could blame them? They needed days like these, when they had nothing to solve and could merry make without restraint. I myself had not celebrated my birthday in ages. I was far too old.
I climbed even higher, heading for one of the four enormous towers. The air patrol saluted and let me pass unhindered.
I circled the northern tower, aimed for my chambers, and landed hard on the balcony. I almost landed on my backside—the tiles were slippery. That would hardly have been elegant. My blue‑black wings helped me keep my balance. I flapped them once or twice and dismissed them.
In the mirror, I caught my own reflection: I looked like a drowned rat. Anyone who caught me could have wrung water from me. The one consolation was that no proof clung to me; I had emerged clean from tonight's performance.
Water dripped from my wet hair onto the expensive carpets. I stripped off my tunic and flung it into a corner.
I was late. I had let myself be distracted.
I dashed to the wardrobe, yanked the doors wide, and hauled out fresh clothes while the wet ones lay abandoned on the floor.
I opened the door and hurried into the corridor—almost colliding with a tall figure garbed in gold and black. It was like looking into a mirror—albeit a slightly warped one.
"You're late!" Darlek spat.
"Really?" I replied with a grin.
Unlike me, he looked every inch the true prince. He was always adorned with costly jewels and flaunted his majesty. Head held proudly, stride leisurely, dark shadows curling about him—no one could mistake him for anything but what he was.
We started walking side by side. The air between us was tense. Perhaps once we had enjoyed good sibling relations, but that time was long gone.
"Did you notice the present?" Darlek asked after a silence.
"Present?" I growled.
"I left a little token in your room."
I had seen nothing in my rush.
"I didn't ask for anything from you," I reminded him coldly.
We never exchanged gifts. Why would we? Anything we wanted, we could obtain ourselves. I had not bought Darlek anything in more than five hundred years. After so many years, we had given each other everything imaginable; nothing new could surprise us.
"I know, but you'll find it useful, Reilan," he said calmly. His unhurried tone and affectation were beginning to grate on me.
"Where's Elisha?" I changed the subject. Complicated as my relationship with my siblings was, those two twins adored each other above all.
"Running about somewhere, turning men's heads," he answered without interest.
"You should talk to her. It's unseemly."
"She can do as she pleases. Father forbids her nothing."
"Because he can't be bothered with her. But you don't have to ignore her. She shames us," I warned.
"We could debate at length who truly shames our family, brother."
"What do you mean?"
"On the night of your celebration, you busy yourself with wretches. You soil your own hands instead of ordering someone else to do it," he said softly, devoid of any tremor. Darlek never raised his voice; he did not need to. His calm words always struck precisely where they should.
It was inconceivable to him that a prince would handle tasks he deemed fit only for the rabble. He had devoted angels for everything—capable, swift, loyal. For ages he had solved nothing with his own hands. His role was to command.
In this regard, we differed like day and night. I stood by my belief that if something was to be done right, I had to do it myself. I could not admit that anyone else might do better.
"No one saw me," I snapped.
"They didn't have to. Even if no one saw your face, everyone would recognize your signature."
We descended into broader corridors. Servants already filled the halls, bowing deeply and averting their gaze once we passed. They could not hear a word—Darlek kept a perfect shield.
"I'm surprised how much beauty has been born lately," he muttered under his breath.
I knew what he meant—no doubt the long‑haired blonde who had smiled brightly at us. I had noticed her too, though I usually avoided wasting time on those who lacked importance.
The beauty of others had ceased to fascinate me after my three‑hundredth year. I no longer felt compelled to court or seek a fabled soulmate. Why should I?
"What mood is father in?" I changed the topic.
"Depends on how you look at it. I haven't seen him racing down corridors with joy, but neither is he cursing incompetent counselors. Truthfully, he hasn't left the Crimson Drawing-Room since yesterday. He's waiting for us."
That last line was a lie.
"He's not waiting for us," I burst out before thinking.
Darlek flinched; for the briefest instant, he let himself be rattled.
"I know," he whispered, eyes half‑closed.
Sometimes we could connect like this—understand what we equally felt when facing the most powerful man in our world. The man who preferred to spend his days in the Crimson Drawing-Room and at times would not leave it for months. The one who had long forgotten how beautiful life could be, because our mother, whose salon it had once been, had lain in her grave for years.
"But we're the only ones who can go to him. We've kept him waiting too long," Darlek added.
"You should have gone alone," I retorted.
"It's your birthday, not mine. He mainly wants to see you."
"Nonsense!" I muttered. I could not recall the last time he had congratulated me. It must have been so long ago that the memory had faded. Darlek was making excuses; he simply did not want to face our sentimental father alone.
We stopped before the door. Neither of us made a move to knock. Despite our years, we behaved like children, arguing over who would take the unpleasant first step. As the eldest, I had to do it.
I knocked and waited. Time dragged unbearably until a muffled "Enter" sounded beyond the door.
I went first into the Crimson Drawing-Room, aptly named indeed: every piece of furniture, every item was some shade of red—carpets, sofas, curtains, even the books on the shelves. The room breathed history; everything in it was older than I. It felt like an archaeological find.
I halted at the threshold, not daring to tread the pristine carpet in shoes. It was not my habit, yet this time I slipped them off and entered barefoot. Darlek copied me, though his boots were clean enough to eat from. He, too, would risk nothing.
In our world, none could equal the beauty of me, Darlek, and Elisha—save the man seated behind an antique desk. He had his head bowed over a book.
Sarlan.
I could not find a word that captured him without diminishing his singularity. The three of us were but grains of sand compared with what belonged to him: otherworldly appearance, power capable of shattering entire worlds, and direct descent from a true divine angel. We possessed only a fraction of what he did. We could never be so untamably immortal and wise, though we liked to pretend we could rival him.
He raised his gaze. His eyes were my eyes; his hair resembled mine. Yet everything else belonged to the angels in heaven.
"My lord," Darlek and I said at the same time, bowing in unison.
He examined us carefully, as though searching for the slightest fault. His attention settled on our bare feet, and for the briefest moment, he smiled. Without a word, he turned back to his book.
"Reilan, how did your meeting with the violator go?" he asked. He chose me first—he always did. He did not give precedence to Darlek. He adhered to strict rules.
"Effective," I answered curtly.
He gestured, wanting more.
"The violators believe in the Light Prophecy and that Luxana could destroy us," I added, unable to resist a faint smile.
Father closed the book and raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"They must be desperate. Nothing original. At least you sent a clear message, since the information was worthless?" he asked.
His tone irked me, as if it were my fault the violators had no better plan—one that would jolt him from lethargy and compel him to unleash his power, destroying anyone who dared oppose him. That was precisely what he was waiting for. Alas, such a situation had not arisen.
"He is dead. His accomplices have surely found him by now. I extracted the names of the biggest supporters of the genocide of wingless angels. I could leave tomorrow and hunt them all down."
I had to do something. Sitting at home on my backside was unthinkable. I refused to shut myself in a room and become like him.
He shook his head. He disagreed. I forced myself to keep a straight face, though frustration boiled inside me.
"No, one dead angel is enough for now. If the situation worsens, we'll deal with it— not you. There is no point in playing the defender. You should stay neutral and handle only truly important matters. Since we are safe and they have no way to overthrow us, you have no work," he concluded coolly.
I swallowed my anger and accepted his words in silence. Arguing with him never helped.
"Of course," I replied flatly.
"Darlek, I want you to come home more often. Your sister would appreciate more of your attention."
"Father, may I go?" I cut in. There was no use standing there listening to Darlek be scolded. Though father plainly wanted me present, I needed to get out, breathe fresh air, and wash properly.
"You may, but first you will go toast your birthday with a handful of subjects. Show yourself to them. Cheer with them."
"I'm not in the mood for a celebration!" I burst out. Darlek nudged me lightly, signaling not to anger father—not now, when it was his turn.
"That was not a request. Show yourself to the subjects, Reilan." He did not raise his voice. He simply looked into my eyes. That gaze… chills rippled down my spine.
I knew he loved me—in a strange, even shocking way. Yet there was something utterly terrifying and otherworldly in it. It was not love as mortals understood it—it reached further, into endless darkness and fear. He would be capable of killing me. If I tried something… to destroy him, to soil mother's memory, or to cross the fragile limit of his patience, he would take my head without hesitation. He would mourn me, never recover, yet still he would kill me.
"As you wish, father. I will go down for a while."
* * *
After wandering for half an hour, I finally returned to my room. Only then did I remember Darlek's gift. How had I not noticed it earlier? Beside my bed stood something large, draped with a cloth.
I conjured a solid shield of darkness. One moment's inattention and he might have me cursed.
I whipped off the cloth, revealing a beautiful antique mirror as tall as I. Its frame was carved with faces and inscriptions in a tongue I did not recognize. I ran a finger over them; nothing happened. The dark‑blue frame remained unchanged, the surface reflected only my own face.
I did not understand. Why would he give me an ordinary mirror?
Then I noticed the letter attached. When I read it, I had to restrain myself from smashing the mirror on the spot. The exact words mattered little; the message was clear—he was mocking me.
Darlek wrote that the piece was a magical artifact known as the Mirror of Happiness. One had only to touch one's own reflection. Legend said that only a perfectly content angel would see nothing in it. But if something were missing from his life, the mirror would show him what he desired most—and, with a bit of luck, he might even claim it.
As if I lacked anything. A ridiculous notion.
Why, then, was I afraid to look? I realized my dear brother had wormed under my skin exactly as he had planned.
I shifted from foot to foot. For a moment, I considered seizing the accursed gift and hurling it from the tower.
But what if…
I could not stand it. I stationed myself before the frame. I had to try. I would not let a foolish legend rule me. I mastered myself and touched my reflection.
The surface began to darken—nothing but blackness, as if it showed the reflection of my inner self: pure darkness.
Relief flooded me. Darlek was mistaken—he had no power over me. Truly, I lacked nothing. How could I? I had everything I had ever wanted.
I reached again and touched the dark surface.
My finger did not strike solid glass; it passed straight through. I yanked my hand back at once. What if something caught me?
I gasped and took three steps back. The surface began to change. My reflection vanished, replaced by a strange, moving picture.
I stood rooted, unable to tear my gaze from the mirror. Before me appeared the face of a red‑haired girl with piercing green eyes. She was young, I saw at once—her eyes were not ringed with an angelic stripe. She belonged to no particular kingdom.
My knees trembled. I did not move, still watching the small girl who had no idea I was looking at her. Nothing on earth could have forced me to avert my gaze then.
She saw me!
The girl rose from her bed and limped toward me. A few more steps and she would have stood right before me.
But she stopped, sat in a chair, and began examining her skin. Then she took a comb and slowly brushed her auburn hair. A bruise was fading on her cheek.
Had that cursed mirror truly shown what I lacked in life? Why should I lack a little redhead who was not even old enough to swear loyalty to a kingdom? This had to be my brother's idiotic joke. I didn't even like red‑haired women!
"You can do this, Losiela. They won't break you. You must be strong," she whispered to herself.
Where was she? Whom did she fear so? For an instant, I saw terror in her eyes, and it awoke in me a desire to kill.
"What in blazes am I doing? What would father say if he saw me like this? I'm making a fool of myself!" I exclaimed aloud.
Meanwhile, the unknown Losiela yawned and began undressing. I had no wish to spy on her. I turned my back to the mirror quickly.
When I turned again, the strange red‑haired Losiela already lay in bed. Her head rested on a pillow, the blanket pulled to her chin, and her right hand clutched a teddy bear.
What?! Was I, the dark crown prince, an eight‑hundred‑plus‑year‑old divine angel, heir to all Noxalora, supposed to desire a girl who fell asleep hugging a stuffed toy?