Chapter Text
She has to lie.
It is not a habit, not a choice, not a thing she can fight with willpower alone. It is in her bones, in the spaces between her words, in the pause where honesty might have lived if it had ever been hers to keep. She lies like the ocean moves—ceaseless, inevitable, swallowing up truth like the tide drags sand into its depths.
She has lied for as long as she can remember. She lies to the baker when he asks if she’s eaten. She lies to the children when they ask if she’ll play. She lies to the stars when she whispers her wishes, though she knows they do not listen. She lies so easily, so constantly, that everything feels like another deception in disguise.
She does not get to tell the truth, no matter how much she wants to. No matter how much it burns in her throat like unshed words, pressing against her soul: something that wants to be spoken but never will. Even when she tries, even when she aches for honesty, her voice twists it into something else, something untrue, something not hers to say.
So she lies. Because she has to. Because she always will.
Honesty is the third step of the king’s ladder.
- ☽ -
He has to tell the truth.
It is not a virtue, not a choice, not some noble weight he carries with pride. It is a curse, a chain, a brand burned into his tongue. No matter how badly he wants to twist the facts, to slip around the edges of honesty, to spare himself just once , he cannot. The truth drags itself out of him, raw and unpolished, whether he wills it or not.
And that’s a problem. Because he’s a thief.
Lies are a thief’s greatest tool, but he has no use for them. He cannot weave false names, cannot talk his way past guards, cannot promise things he has no intention of keeping. He cannot say ‘ I don’t know who took it ’ when the stolen thing is hidden in his pocket. He cannot say ‘ I was never there’ when his footprints are still fresh in the mud. He cannot say ‘ trust me’ unless he means it. And he never means it.
So he learns other tricks. He learns silence, learns to keep his mouth shut, learns that omission is the only weapon left to him. He learns to answer questions with questions, to shift attention elsewhere, to bury the truth in plain sight and let people mistake it for something else. But even then, the truth still sits, patient and cruel, waiting for the moment he has no choice but to speak.
Because he has to tell the truth. Whether he wants to or not.
- ☽ -
Ellidee Meadows stands in front of the mirror every morning and prepares herself for another day of pretending.
She smooths down her tunic, straightens her shoulders, fixes her expression into something easy and effortless. She practices her smile — not too wide, not too eager — just enough to seem like she belongs here. Just enough to make them believe she’s content. The mirror doesn’t argue, doesn’t call her out on the act. It only reflects what she gives it.
Ellie.
That’s what they call her now. The nickname was born from one of her own lies — the simplest question of what her name was. Now it’s all anyone calls her, and Ellie likes it a bit more than she should. It’s short. Sweet. Rolls off the tongue. She may have even come up with it voluntarily if the curse hadn’t forced her into it.
Alright.
She steels herself. A quick decision has her climbing out the window rather than using the door: easier to get outside. Easier to move through the town without being stopped, without being asked why she’s always slipping away or why she never quite settles.
The morning air is crisp, the ground cool beneath her feet as she lands lightly, brushing dust from her hands. It’s another day, another lie waiting to be told.
Step one: humility.
She keeps to the edge of the road, stepping lightly over the packed dirt as the town stirs awake. A few early risers are already at work: farmers tending to the fields, bakers pulling fresh loaves from their ovens, shopkeepers sweeping the dust from their doorsteps. Ellie walks past them all, offering the occasional nod, the occasional wave, the occasional half-truth disguised as a greeting.
"Your bread is amazing today!" she calls to the baker, who beams at her. She doesn’t mention that she hasn’t eaten breakfast.
"Didn’t see you at home last night," remarks a neighbor.
"Must’ve been asleep early," she says easily, the lie slipping through her teeth. She’d been out, of course, watching the guards at their drills, studying their movements from a rooftop she wasn’t supposed to be on.
She quickens her pace, heading toward the outskirts of town. She has a plan today—one that involves a training sword she’s “borrowed” (permanently) and an empty field where no one will see her practicing swings she has no right to know.
Ellie shouldn’t dream of being a knight. Shouldn’t think about how the weight of a sword in her hands feels steadier than a life spent farming. Shouldn’t hope for something impossible.
But if the curse is going to make her lie about everything else, then at least she can be honest with herself.
- ☽ -
Nox Hatcher stands in front of the mirror every morning and—
Wait. No. He doesn’t have a mirror.
Mirrors aren’t useful in places like these, where survival depends on slipping past notice and not on looking at yourself a bit too closely. Appearance matters, but not enough to stand in front of a mirror every morning. And for a shadow like Nox, he shouldn’t be visible at all.
He surveys the building in front of him. The Stoneslayer, they call him. Some stuck-up guy, resting on his laurels because he killed one gargol and turned a blind eye to the rest.
A quick decision has him climbing in through the window rather than using the door: easier to get inside. Easier to slip away before anyone thinks to ask questions. He hates questions. He has to tell the truth, and one of these days, someone’s going to notice.
Step one: pride.
The Talon always taught him never to be too tense during one of these missions. They’re always so simple, just a quick in and out, no overthinking needed — walk in with pride and walk out with pride, but not so much pride you get stabbed because of your arrogance.
Be confident .
So Nox climbs in with a practiced ease. No one will notice his weakness as long as he keeps his answers short. Not as long as he chooses silence whenever he can. Not as long as he has his name.
Not his real one. That name would be a liability, a trap waiting to be sprung. But this one? Nox? That was given to him, not chosen, and that’s the only reason he can use it. It isn’t a lie if someone else says it first.
So that’s what they call him now. It’s what the Talon calls him, too. And Nox — well. He likes it more than he should.
The inside of the fortress is colder than he expected: stone corridors and dimly lit halls, the air thick with the smell of dust and the faint scent of iron. His boots make barely a sound on the cold flagstone floor, but the silence is unnerving, pressing against him like a weight. The walls are lined with old tapestries, faded and torn, and the light from the torches sputters as he moves past, casting long, dancing shadows.
He doesn't know exactly why he’s here (well, he does, and it’s because of his promise that he absolutely cannot break, but not here specifically, not this strange fortress with a rumored stone, but he’s learned not to question it) — he’s just doing his job. Find out where everything is. Get in and get out. Don't get caught. Simple.
Except nothing is ever that simple.
He’s been in situations like this one before — creeping through places he shouldn’t be, taking stock of blind spots. No one ever expects the kid with the shadowed eyes to be the one who can move through walls of stone unnoticed. It’s his gift, his curse, and he's learned to live with it.
But tonight, something is different.
There’s a strange sensation like he’s being watched.
That’s when the door opens behind him.
His heart skips a beat. He freezes, whirling around just in time to see the guard step out of the darkened hallway. The man’s face is hard, eyes sharp as he surveys Nox, his hand hovering near his bow and arrow. Nox stiffens, not making a sound, but his mind is racing.
“What are you doing here?”
The guard’s voice is low, demanding, but there’s something in his gaze that suggests he’s not sure what to make of Nox. He’s too young to be a soldier, too nimble to be a simple thief. There’s something off about him, and it’s something the guard can’t place. Something no one can place.
Nox just stands there, silent for a moment, his eyes flicking between the guard and the shadows behind him. He knows he has to say something. His mouth opens, but he only manages to choke out a half-truth. “I got lost.”
Really, Nox?
If only the Talon could see him now. He’d probably just get out some popcorn.
“Lost?” the guy asks. “Inside a fortress? This far from the entrance?”
Nox shrugs, trying to seem casual, but it’s too late. The guard steps closer, eyes narrowing.
“Don’t lie to me.”
The truth itches at the back of his throat, but he knows that revealing too much—saying anything that’s too honest—could land him in more trouble than he’s willing to face. So he says the only thing he can without giving himself away.
“I... didn’t think it would be so... difficult.” He gives a half-hearted smile, his lips twisting into something that isn’t quite a grin, but isn’t quite a frown either. It's a half-truth, but it’s close enough to the real truth that it almost feels right.
The guard studies him for a long moment. Then, without another word, gestures for him to follow. “You’re coming with me.”
Nox takes a half-step back, his heart hammering.
“I really don’t think you want to do that,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not a lie. It’s not really the truth either, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. He doesn’t know how long he can keep up the half-truths, the weak stories, but he knows that silence won’t save him.
The guard hesitates, just for a moment. The flicker of uncertainty in his eyes is all that Nox needs.
He’s already moving.
He’s free now. And the truth? Nox leaps off a ledge.
He’ll deal with that later.
- ☽ -
When Zain calls her over with an actually promising message about having found some old texts that mention the origins of her curse, Ellie doesn’t expect much.
That’s a lie.
It’s well past sunset when she reaches their meeting spot — and yes , no one is supposed to be out this late, but she can always spin up a few lies if push comes to shove — and Zain is already waiting for her. He’s the only other person who knows about her curse.
"Found something," he says, holding out a dusty, leather-bound book. The cover is old, peeling, like it’s been hidden for years, forgotten, and yet here it is, right in front of her.
She takes it from him, but there’s a knot in her stomach. "Is it real this time?"
Zain shrugs. "I think so. I found references to curses. Your curse. And someone else’s. Maybe even a connection between them."
Another curse?
She raises her eyebrows, glancing at the book. She’s never been one for hoping too much. She’s spent too many nights reading cryptic texts and finding nothing but dead ends. But this time? She has to admit, there’s a flicker of something inside her. Something more than doubt.
"I didn’t bring you here to waste your time," Zain says, almost defensively. "I swear, there’s something to this. Just read it."
Ellie flips open the book and the faint smell of ancient paper fills the air. Her fingers hover over the yellowing pages as she scans the faded writing. It takes her a few moments to focus, the letters a blur, but then one phrase catches her eye.
"In the days of the bound, when the curse of the liar meets the curse of the truth-teller, a destiny foretold shall come to pass. Two fates shall intertwine, neither able to lie nor speak plainly, forced to walk together through peril and truth, their bond the only key to their freedom."
Ellie gasps. Two curses.
“There’s someone else,” says Zain.
She can only nod, shocked, mind screeching to a halt and whirling all at once.
“A ‘truth-teller,’” he continues, beginning to pace. “I wonder where they are.”
Ellie rolls her eyes. “Right here in front of us, smart guy.”
Really, she has some theories herself. For years, it’s just been her — the girl who lies too easily, who can never be trusted to say a word that’s actually real. But now, there’s someone else. Someone cursed with the opposite: the truth-teller.
And suddenly, everything changes. If there’s another person like her, it means they’re part of the same system, the same puzzle, the same twisted fate. Maybe they’re bound by the same rules, the same magic, even. Maybe they're trapped just like I am, she thinks. Or maybe worse. Because while she’s learned to live with her lies, maybe the truth-teller hasn’t. Maybe they’re suffocating in the brutal weight of the truth, trapped by the unrelenting honesty of every word they speak.
For a second, a pang of sympathy rushes through her — what if they’re even worse off than she is? What if their curse is more suffocating? After all, lies are easy to slip into, to play with. But truth? Truth is raw. Unyielding. The truth-teller might never be able to hide behind a wall of half-truths like she does. They might be stripped down to the bare bones every time they speak.
But then again, would she really be an expert on truth? Maybe they’re living the dream.
“I could just leave them be,” Ellie begins, because she wants to go after them.
Zain watches her, waiting. Then he says, “The race is coming up.”
Ellie frowns. “So?”
“So, it’s your best chance to leave.”
She blinks. The Goldwing Trials, just tomorrow. Of course. She’s thought about it before— dreamed about it, even. The trials are the only event that lets people travel freely, no questions asked. It’s dangerous, grueling, and only taken on by the most brave or the most desperate. She just might be both.
Zain sees the shift in her expression and presses on. “If you enter, no one will stop you. You’d have a real reason to leave.”
To chase after the truth-teller.
To become a Goldwing .
And wouldn’t this mission just be the ultimate test of her knowledge of the King’s Ladder? She’ll be an adventurer once she wins next morning’s trials. Out exploring and searching for a way to finally end this curse. Searching for this other curse. This other curse that is connected to hers in a way she can’t quite grasp but really, really, wants to.
Her fingers twitch at her sides. The idea is reckless, it’s ridiculous, but for the first time in years, it feels like she has an actual way forward. She takes a deep breath, then exhales.
“I’d never make it in,” she says.
Zain snorts. “You’re a better flier than half the idiots who sign up. They’d be lucky to keep up with you.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m interested.”
“Right. Just like you weren’t interested in those old texts, and you definitely don’t care that someone else out there has a curse like yours.”
She glares at him. He knows her too well.
“I’d rather stay put,” she says instead. “Live out my peaceful, predictable life.”
He crosses his arms. “So that means you’re signing up first thing in the morning.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. It’s already decided.
Suddenly, the sky shifts. Clouds roll in from nowhere, grey and white and menacing. Ellie and Zain freeze.
“Nice weather,” Ellie stammers out, too fast, too forced. “I’m staying right where I am. Surely nothing horrible can happen to me out—”
“Go, go, go!” Zain hisses, and they bolt for the nearest awning.
- ☽ -
Sleep, as always, is a mistake. But sleeping in a storm?
The Talon would laugh if he were here, Nox is sure. Maybe he already is, somewhere high above, watching like a Hawk poised to strike.
Speaking of. The Hawk (and of course it’s a Hawk) finally catches up to him.
Wind rakes through his hair, rain slicing sharp against his skin, but none of it matters. What matters is the wings beating behind him, the glint of steel catching flashes of lightning.
He flies faster.
The storm was unexpected. The chase was not.
A figure drops from the dark, wings flaring wide, and he twists just in time to dodge. He snarls and kicks off the nearest tree, gaining altitude, slipping between the shadows of thunder and flashing steel.
He doesn’t look back.
Looking back means hesitation. Hesitation means capture. And if he’s captured, well—
He won’t be.
Another gust slams into him, a burst of wind and rain blurring his vision. Then—pain. Hot, sharp, tearing through his shoulder.
Nox chokes on a breath.
The arrow pins him for half a second, just long enough to send him tilting, just long enough for his wings to crumple under the shock.
Then the world turns sideways, and he’s falling, falling, falling—
Lightning flashes. The last thing he sees is the vast stretch of fields below, reaching up to catch him.
- ☽ -
The sky is clear. The air is crisp. And the moment her feet leave the ground, the world falls away beneath her.
Ellie had expected the stares when she volunteered — expected the murmurs and the raised brows. The hard part had been making her dream sound like a lie, but she’s pretty sure that’s not why they looked at her.
Not that it matters now.
The wind roars past as she streaks ahead. The race unfolds in a blur of wings and motion, the sun catching on feathers and glinting off gritted teeth. She’s got a lead. A real, solid lead—
Then a shadow cuts in from above.
Zain’s Hawk cousin, Ordo.
A sharp shove slams into her side. Pain flares into her alula where he grabs it. And then she’s spiraling, wind whipping, the ground rushing up far too fast.
Zain notices too late. She sees him shout, try to reach her (because this is their chance, this is their chance to finally leave—)
But the fields are already rushing up to catch her.
The moment she hits the ground, she jumps to her feet.
Pain hums up her spine, but she shakes it off. She can still make it. She can still fly. She can still—
A voice. Weak. Frayed at the edges.
She almost doesn’t hear it over the wind.
“Help.”
She whirls around. There, half-buried in the grass, is a boy. His clothes are torn, his breathing ragged, and a dark stain blooms across his shoulder—an arrow buried deep.
She should go. She should run. She should take off, catch up, fight her way back into the race.
Instead, she kneels.