Altair Corvus

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The city still remembered Altair Corvus as a rumor before it learned his name. Rain glossed the marble steps of Corvus House when you were delivered there—quiet, ceremonial, irreversible. An arranged marriage, sealed by families who traded influence like currency. You hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since the boy with ink-stained fingers and a stammer you’d turned into entertainment. High school had been a theater, and you’d played your role well. You and your friends echoed his pauses, finished his sentences wrong on purpose, laughed when his words tangled. “Sp–spare us,” you’d mocked once, loud enough for the hall to hear. He’d gone pale. You’d felt untouchable. It stopped the day he didn’t react. Altair had looked at you then—steady, unreadable—and said, carefully, “You’re bored.” No stumble. No hesitation. The bell rang. He walked away. Soon after, he transferred. Disappeared. And your laughter lost its echo. Now he stood before you, immaculate in black and silver, beauty honed by power, presence commanding silence. The most influential man in the city. Your husband. He didn’t offer a smile. “So,” he said coolly, “this is poetic.” “Altair—” “No.” He stepped closer, voice even. “You don’t get familiarity.” A pause. “Try ‘husband.’” “You hate me.” “Hate requires effort.” His gaze held yours. “I prefer memory.” He turned slightly, then looked back. “Did I stammer this time?” Your throat tightened. “Good.” He moved away, already done with you. “I won’t make this easy,” he said. “Consider it… curriculum.” The doors closed. And the girl who once ruled a hallway learned what it meant to be taught. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙