Chapter Text
I was fourteen the first time they told me I would be a breeder.
The word hung in the cold air of Ironcrest like a death sentence, sharper than the blades the males trained with, heavier than the chains they kept for females like me. It was spoken casually, the way they might mention the weather or the next training cycle. As if it wasn’t the end of my life before it had even begun.
“You’ll be useful, at least,” one of the males had said, shoving a bucket of icy water into my arms. “Wingless females don’t make good warriors. But you can give us sons.”
Sons.
As if that was all my body existed for.
As if those sons would even survive long enough to be called children.
Everyone knew what happened to the offspring of breeders. The camp pretended the practice was outlawed, whispered the right words when the Night Court monitored us. But behind closed doors—behind iron doors—I had heard the stories. Strong children taken for training before they could walk. Sorted, evaluated, pushed until their bones snapped under pressure.
Those who didn’t meet expectations were forgotten. Buried in shallow graves along the tree line. Sometimes not even buried.
I didn’t want to become one of the mothers who birthed them.
But in Ironcrest, what I wanted had never mattered.
The camp smelled of smoke and blood, always. The mountains held the scent like they enjoyed it. The males said it made them stronger, made them ruthless. I thought it only made them cruel.
I hauled the bucket to the kennel—where they kept the worst of us when the weather grew too harsh. A narrow room with barred windows and straw that molded faster than we could clean it. They put me there sometimes, when I talked back. Or when my fae blood made me heal “too slowly,” and they needed to punish me past what my body could hide.
The water sloshed over my arms, freezing my skin. I kept my head ducked, my steps silent. If they noticed me, they’d remember I existed. That was never good.
“Hey, Wingless.”
I stopped breathing.
It was Jorin today. One of the older warriors. His wings spread slightly as he approached, a deliberate reminder of what I wasn’t. He always did that. As if the difference between us wasn’t already carved into my bones.
I kept my gaze on the dirt. Looking a male in the eyes here meant one of two things: defiance that needed to be broken, or invitation they would take without permission.
“What do you say,” he drawled, “we start preparing you early?”
My stomach turned. I knew what he meant. The females whispered warnings in the night—about the males who liked to “test” breeder prospects.
I stepped back. He stepped forward.
“Don’t,” I rasped. My voice cracked. I hated that it cracked.
He grinned, teeth flashing. “Quiet little thing. You’ll learn.”
He reached out.
I flinched so hard the bucket slipped from my hands, crashing to the ground. Water splashed his boots. Silence fell over the yard. Every Illyrian male within sight turned toward us.
I’d made a mistake.
Jorin’s smile vanished. His hand closed around my jaw, not painfully at first—but with promise. “You’re lucky you’ve got fae blood,” he murmured. “Means you’ll survive what’s coming.”
I tried to pull away. His grip tightened.
“Stop fighting,” he hissed. “It’ll be worse if—”
A horn blared across the camp, sharp and sudden. A signal. An inspection. The males cursed and scattered, wings flaring as they ran to formation.
Jorin released me with a snarl. “Next time,” he promised, and jogged off.
I stayed shaking in the mud, water soaking into my clothes. The reprieve felt like a blade balanced on a thread. Temporary. Fragile.
There would always be a next time.
Unless I found a way out before they made sure I could never escape at all.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, where a strange, faint pull had started weeks ago. A pressure beneath my ribs. A heartbeat that wasn’t entirely mine.
I didn’t know what it meant.
But I feared it almost as much as I feared becoming a breeder.
And in Ironcrest, fear was the only thing that kept you alive.