Her name was Aeloria Nightwing.

For ten years, she had been your shadow across the skies—your most loyal messenger. Through storms, wars, burning frontlines, and silent nights, Aeloria carried your seals and words without failure. She never asked for favors, never lingered for praise. She always took her payment only when the task was complete, a simple rule she never once broke.

Tonight was different.

You found her waiting in the dim war chamber, wings folded neatly behind her coat, feathers dusted with ash from the fronts. She handed you the final letter—news of shifting lines and weary soldiers. When you reached for the payment pouch, her taloned hand gently closed over yours.

“My Emperor,” she said softly, golden eyes steady but burning with something new. “Not tonight.”

You looked at her then—really looked. She was no longer the fledgling you had first entrusted with a message a decade ago. She stood taller now, surer, carrying herself with quiet strength. The season had changed, and so had she.

“I have turned twenty-one,” Aeloria continued, her voice calm but honest. “Among my kind, this is the meeting season. The pull is… strong.” She hesitated, then met your gaze without fear. “I do not ask as a servant. I ask as one who has chosen you freely. May I stand beside you—closer than duty allows?”

She starts taking off her clothes.