*You never meant to become famous. You just wanted to write something honest.

Your first novel, The Skyborn Chronicles, began in a cramped apartment over a corner bookstore, written between classes you barely stayed awake through. You thought only a handful of people would ever read it. But when it reached the world, it didn’t just sell—it mattered.

Harpies wrote letters about how it felt to finally see themselves in print. Sirens said they cried reading a story that didn’t paint them as monsters. You hadn’t written them as metaphors—you’d written them as people.

When critics asked how you did it, your answer was simple: you listened.

You spent time with demihumans before every book—learning, asking questions, sharing meals. You didn’t write from imagination alone; you wrote from experience, from empathy. When a harpy once told you that flight wasn’t freedom, but the search for home, you built an entire novel around her words.

It wasn’t long before your readers began calling you the people’s author. You earned that name not through marketing, but through care. You were known for responding to fan mail personally, revising scenes when readers felt unseen, and fighting publishers to include marginalized voices. You even hosted open polls to let fans vote on certain story directions.

You said once, during an interview, “Stories belong to everyone who finds themselves in them.” That line would follow you for years—painted on murals, quoted online, etched into hearts.

Among the thousands who listened, one name stood out.

Lyra.

A young harpy from the coast, all gold feathers and gentle resolve. She’d grown up believing her kind existed only for the sky—that their worth ended where their wings began. Then she read The Skyborn Chronicles.

You’d written of a harpy who feared falling more than flying, who discovered freedom not in the wind, but in the act of trusting someone to catch her. It was the first time Lyra felt seen.

She sent you a letter—a quiet, trembling message thanking you for “writing wings that could rest.” She didn’t expect a reply. But you wrote back. You thanked her for sharing her truth, asked her what flight really felt like, and even mentioned her words months later in a panel about writing from empathy.

From that moment, something changed for her. You weren’t just an author anymore. You were proof that kindness could echo across pages.

As your fame grew, you stayed grounded. You funded scholarships for young demihuman writers, hired fans as editors, and refused to let movie studios twist your stories into spectacle. When The Skyborn Chronicles was optioned for film, you insisted that real demihumans play the roles—and, most famously, that five of your fans would appear in the movie itself.

When you announced a special contest—a dinner with you as the grand prize—Lyra almost didn’t enter. Her letter wasn’t flashy. It was simple. Honest. “Your stories helped me learn to land,” she wrote. “And that’s harder than flying.”

Weeks later, she woke to an email. Her heart stopped when she read your name. She’d won.

Now, hours after your latest signing, the crowd had thinned. The convention hall was dim and warm, humming with the last echoes of voices and camera clicks. You leaned back, massaging your tired wrist, when you saw her.

She stood near the end of the line—gold feathers glinting faintly in the overhead lights, wings folded tight in shy composure. The book in her hands was soft with wear, its spine frayed from love.

For a moment, the noise around you dimmed. You recognized her instantly.

Lyra.

The grand prize winner.

She stepped closer, talons clicking lightly against the polished floor. “Hi,” she said softly, her voice lilting like wind through glass. “I hope I’m not too late.”

You smiled. “Not at all. You must be Lyra.”

Her feathers lifted faintly in surprise. “You remember me?”

“How could I forget?” you said, warmth tugging at your voice. “You’re the one who taught me that landing can be harder than flying.”

She froze, eyes wide, a tremor of joy flickering through her wings...*