Cyliris

I.
No one here knew what Cyliris meant.
No, not the rogues, nor the thieves. Even the other Beastclan who made their home here did not know what he truly was.
Endless violet-gray twilight spread above the forest. Soon, the first stars would flare to life.
The stars always sent such painful thrills through Cyrilis’ body. They made his heart ache and sink.
His wings drooped in his perch in the pine tree. They were such heavy wings, too. He was a small dragon, of the smallest species. And yet…
Soaring effortlessly through the moonstruck black vault of night sky, wind whipping past his feathers.
Embracing the gelid, knife-like keen of the Southern Icefield’s howl.
Gliding from star to silver star, tracing his destiny…
In the cold pine tree, Cyliris the Fae Dragon shuddered, and he remembered.
II.
Even as a Prince, a high-born harpy was expected to learn the art of assassination.
It was like the knights in other regions. Knights were dancers, trumpeteers, weavers, and so on.
For a harpy, learning how to assassinate others taught many skills that came in handy. For the Prince, the craft taught patience, emotional detachment, grace, and silence.
The last part—silence—was the most difficult for any harpy to learn. They had evolved from birds, some said, and were used to chirruping and calling and laughing whenever their hearts beat.
But under the tutelage of his master, he learned how to be as silent as the snow before dawn.
He remembered, vividly, the two of them bowing to one another on the icy plain before dawn came. The pre-dawn snow sparkled, soft and gray, inviting. Cyrilis’ heart beat in excitement.
Then they flew far away from one another. They flew until the other harpy was just a dark dot in their vision. Then they waited.
The sun rose, and poured scorching red light onto the hilly snow. This was the most difficult, to approach the other in silence, when the sun was out.
Cyrilis flew low to the ground. The wind did not whisper in his feathers. He was silent, silent as the sun high above.
His master’s back was turned, scanning the horizon. This was the hardest part. Cyrilis slowed, crept forward. The wind was with him.
But Cyrilis did it—he struck his master on his back with the dull blade. The master’s surprised smile warmed Cyrilis’ heart.
He was ready.
III.
But was he?
The harpies are known for their viciousness. Like packs of magpies, they tussle, tumble, and fight for honor and rank.
Cyrilis was a Prince. He was entitled to rule over this harpy clan in the frozen wastes.
But the ruling power was passed on by his father—not gained by Cyrilis himself.
Unlike his brave, proud, strong father—with magnificent pluming ice-white wings—Cyrilis was small and dark. Behind his back as a youngling, there were whispers that his mother was a crow. He had short, stout wings and tight features.
Yet, all was well while his father ruled the icy wastes.
Then, his father died.
To die of old age was a great honor in harpy culture. Not many males made it. So Cyrilis’ father was buried with great ceremony in the side of a mountain. So many torches were lit in his memory that the Southern Icefield sparkled like the night sky above.
But he had left Cyrilis alone all at once.
The mourning period for these harpies was until the next snow storm.
The next snow storm came, and Cyrilis was exiled from the clan.
IV.
He thought those were the darkest days of his life.
Winter had fallen in those lands—the white sun had dipped beneath the mountains for months. Only the stars, with their clear soulful light, shone in Cyrilis’ eyes.
He became so weak that he crawled on his elbows and knees. His dark feathers were left in piles behind him. Bitter tears had frozen to his cheeks, full of salt and sorrow.
On the second month, he was startled by a warm touch on his shoulder.
His old master.
Knowing that the tundra does strange things to ears, his master knelt and whispered, “After you left, after your father sailed on, our clan was beset by strange things. Evil things. Our hatchlings won’t hatch. Eggs disappear. We fear it is a witch.”
Cyrilis’ eyes widened. The tear-glaze cracked.
“We need you,” his master whispered solemnly. Then his master pointed to the west. “Her abode is that way. Go without fear in your heart.”
V.
Cyrilis had to go.
He spent another week strengthening himself. Stretching his wings, fluttering, scraping the frozen tears from his face. His small, dark plumage grew back, stronger. He flexed his powerful feet and cleaned his cheeks.
He was ready, but was he?
He set out to the west with only the stars to guide him. They wheeled and danced overhead, oblivious to his fate.
Go without fear.
Cyrilis tried.
But there was fear deep in his heart, a black seed sprouting into a deep black flower.
The witch’s hut was made of polished ice and sorcery. The ice was glazed black, shaped like a mausoleum. In its reflection, Cyrilis saw his own fate awaiting him.
Fear overcame him, leapt on him with a thousand panting sets of jaws.
But it was too late.
The witch’s sorcery flailed out of the hut and wrapped around his wings and feet. Ten-thousand mocking black tongues of writhing black plasm cut into him, held him against the snow. Thorns ripped, rended, and tore, streaking toward his heart. The tentacles lifted him up, held him up to the night sky.
The stars blazed down without pity.
Then the black poured into his chest and saw his greatest fear.
He feared…never being able to rule his clan again. He feared never being able to lead the harpies.
The witch laughed into the night. This was too easy.
All at once, Cyrilis felt his flesh melting. His wings drooped, became agonizingly heavy. His neck uncurled and kept growing like a weed. His tail feathers dropped away, left a wriggling snake behind instead. His blood froze.
The witch dropped him. He landed with a puff in the ice.
He couldn’t move. The wind wasn’t with him. His limbs were too heavy.
He was not harpy, but Fae.
VI.
Since then, Cyrilis has wandered. His heart is too heavy for him to seek out a reverse-changing spell. Even if he were to become the Prince again, what kind of Prince would he be? He feels like a failure.
Now, in his pine tree high above the Hidden Haven, he looks at the stars.
No one knows this, but Cyrilis — it means the wind is with me.

Beastclan shapeshifter
Prince of a harpy clan that once lived in the Southern Icefield
Assassin?
Stuck as a dragon

-Written by Ximena

=== How he came to Wildclaw Manor ===

He actually came to Wildclaw Manor by mistake. He somehow got turned around in the Tangled Wood. It played with his mind, and made sure he was well lost. By the time he found the town, he was mad with starvation. The locals knew something was off about him and they avoided him.

When he'd approach someone, they'd back away in fear, shock or a mixture of both. He'd proclaim that he was a Harpy prince, and deserved recognition, but they all saw him as some mentally deranged Fae.

Except for Corval. He found the prince just outside the town, sitting by himself. He was shocked to see a Fae in this area, and had approached him. Corval listened to the story he offered. And instead of seeing him as crazy, he sympathized with him.

Corval offered to bring him home and give him a place to stay for a while. Cyrilis must've been pretty desperate, because he accepted. The residents of WIldclaw Manor were friendly and caring to him, even though he was a Harpy.

He was the same beast they ruthlessly kill and take land from. At first, he was distant. Why would they be so nice to him, if they kill his kind?

But he was one of them now. After months of chipping at his hard exterior, he finally caved and allowed himself to become part of the family.