A/N: Yay, it’s back up...uh, again...I think that that was the second time I got paranoid and took it down for editing and I’m still not completely satisfied with everything. I’m so picky with this that there’s a good chance total satisfaction is impossible, anyways. But I lost my reviews and all those hits :’(

This story is like my CHILD, and the plot is the product of almost a year of deep contemplation and re-writes. So if there's still anything that you think would make it better or anything that is unclear, do not hesitate to contact me, via review or PM or whatever. Updates on this one may be a little slow because writing it is actually a lot more complicated than I had expected (world’s biggest understatement), and BTW, if you've read any of my other stuff, you may recognize some of the characters later on. There are so many subplots and backstories that I couldn't help but to delve deeper into everything, plus I just love my characters. No spoilers in 'em, though. But they may make it easier to put everything together in the end, I’m not entirely sure yet.

So enough with my ridiculously long, slightly irrelevant author's note...

I freeze up at the doorway, the freeze in that statement feeling almost literal. Like a shot of ice suddenly goes pumping through my veins, the chill dancing up my spine, the shudder rippling across my skin and leaving a trail of goose bumps in its path.

My hand stops halfway to the knob and quivers indecisively in midair before I let it limply drop to my side, sighing frustratedly and backing away with impatience. Both emotions are aimed solely at myself. What is wrong with me? My mind is racing and yet at the same time doesn’t linger on one thought long enough for anything to make sense; it’s just a useless stream of gibberish and half-finished observations whose only purpose seems to be to take up room in my head. My stomach is twisting itself up into impossibly tight knots; my knees feel like they might give out right under me; my heart is fluttering lightly, bringing an uncomfortable flush to my face. There’s a word for it, I believe:

Panic.

It’s total panic, I realize, casting another sideways glance towards the door. I can’t go in there. I can’t go in there. I need to stall.

I inspect my nails and the solid door of dark brown wood, the red walls, smooth floors and off-white rug, anything to consume time. Suddenly the picture on the wall is just screaming to be stopped in front of and thoroughly examined, as are the patterns on the carpet, the deep claw marks gouged into the doorframe from God-knows-what, and the intricate designs wrought into the tarnished doorknocker hanging just at eye level. I check and recheck that my outfit looks fine, inspect my own warped reflection in the bronze-coloured handle of the door, and then repeat the process over again.

But all a stall can ever really do is just delay the inevitable; unfortunately, it never manages to make it go away. That’s why they call it inevitable, after allIn my minutes of pointless fidgeting the only thing I manage to accomplish is to make myself even more late. I tuck my short black hair behind my ear, changing my mind after catching another glimpse of my reflection, and sigh resignedly.

Then I take in a breath to brace myself, and, before I get a chance to change my mind, jerk the knob down and throw open the door.

I don't lift my eyes until I have stepped inside and shut it gently behind me, leaving that momentary burst of confidence out in the other room. Though I'm trying to keep my mind blank I can't help the thought of I've trapped myself from creeping in as the door clicks shut and the hallway is all but gone. When I turn around the air hits me so hard I have to stifle a cough: warm, stagnant, and tasting of dust and cobwebs, so thick it’s a wonder I don’t have to brush it out of my path to be able to pace inside. It is significantly dimmer in this room, with the thick, plum coloured curtains drawn across the window letting only a thin shaft of moonlight fall through, so I pause to let my eyes adjust. Once the vague shapes of furniture and scattered trinkets shifts back into a clearer focus, which takes only a few seconds, I shuffle a bit closer across the dark carpet and mumble something of an apology.

With a sudden dry feeling in my throat, I notice that the three other people who had been expected to attend are already here. Of course they are. It's difficult to recognize them but I can easily guess who is who. Christopher is the one sunken into the green couch at my left, drumming his fingers impatiently against the arm and letting his blatant glare follow my every move with a razor sharp intensity. I know it's him because he's furthest away from the large desk by the window and not trying to hide his irritation. Michael is the one standing up and partially blocking the small ray of light, with the odds stacked in favour of the fact that I just interrupted him in the middle of denouncing my credibility. And then, of course, Angel Hart seated behind the desk, but he hasn't looked up because I can tell that he doesn't want to catch a smug or impatient gaze from either of them. The little beam of light trails across the top of his head, illuminating a stripe of white-blond hair, and to distract myself as I numbly walk over I trace over the paths of the little specks of dust lazily drifting through it.

And I can’t for very long. The particles go swirling away insanely when, once I get close enough, he stands up abruptly and shakes my hand in a very business-like way, flinching only slightly as my fingers shock his. I flush again in embarrassment but thankfully no one can see in this light.

Then Angel finally looks at me, his gaze is slightly disapproving and without any comfort or consolation, though I certainly hadn’t expected any. It's an unwritten rule the two of us share. Though we are closer to each other than any of the sycophantic yes-men constantly trying to worm their way into either of our good graces, best friends or not, when it comes to important matters like this we are purely business partners. It is surprisingly easy to shift the light I view him in from the being person whom I almost trust more than myself to the slightly intimidating, ruthless revolution leader standing before me. I give him an apologetic look and Angel nods stiffly, appearing unfazed. He starts to open his mouth to speak but gets cut off.

"Glad you finally decided to join us." A voice from behind me interrupts, purposely loud and dripping with resentment. I roll my eyes and spin on my heel, determinedly holding the stormy gaze of Christopher on the couch. His eyes are very dark blue, so much so that they look almost black, and brutally unforgiving. Or maybe it just seems that way because he hates me; with every fibre of his being he hates me. I don't know why, though it'd be a pretty good guess to say that it has something to do with me being Angel's main advisor, or why for some reason only very recently has he started breaking our silent state of mutual disdain, but I don’t really care either.

"You're late." He adds when I don’t answer, as if the first statement hadn’t been enough for me.

"I noticed." I reply weakly, still reeling from my earlier panic and too tired to pick a fight right now. He narrows his eyes.

"Well you can't just go around taking your sweet time when we were clearly specified to be here by nine-thirty. That is, little hand between the nine and the ten and big hand right smack on the six. The rest of us somehow arrived on time, but I don't see how it is that you always manage to miss the mark by just a little longer on every occasion." A derisive smile spreads across his face, the tone of his voice obviously sarcastic. "But I suppose you must have something more important to do."

His stare doesn't waver, filled with the certainty of what effects his words have. Trying to drown me in a wave of my own anger. I realize with suspicion that he must want an argument, that he wants me to explode at him and make an ass of myself in front of some of he most important people in the realm, so that not only can he savor my destruction but enjoy as I bring it upon myself as well. I'm lucky, however, that Angel wouldn't let me go just like that, and wonder if he notices Christopher's only somewhat hidden intents.

"It was only five minutes."

"But five more minutes we're going to have to waste here." He snaps harshly.

I roll my eyes again and give up completely. Why even bother trying to plead my case to someone too stubborn to change their idea of right and wrong? A waste of energy. Angel clears his throat awkwardly, to break the tension in the air and bring attention back to himself, and he says to me in a low voice, "You can sit here," while motioning at the chair closest to his desk. I follow his gesture, shooting him a desperate look as I pass by, but all he does is raise his eyebrows and shrug helplessly. What else can he really do, for the moment anyways? I might ask him to look into this later.

But for the hour or so that follows I'm limited to only casting knowing glances every time someone voices an obvious underestimation of me or shoots a veiled criticism in my direction.

Which is why I hate coming to these meetings. An hour of having to sit and take this crap from people beneath my rank without really getting to send it all back in their direction. Christopher just flat out hates me, with that ever-present resentment harbored because I am considered Angel's partner despite the fact that he's known him longer. I don't mind Michael as much because his issues are not for personal reasons, and I can actually have a conversation with him without getting shot down every other sentence. One must always expect a certain amount of plotting to go on against those in authority, but he doesn't devote his life to it. He'd rather have me replaced for less selfish reasons, although it's not much better for me: because he truly thinks that I am not capable of handling this job. What he doesn't know is that many of Angel's "brilliant" plans are really just products of my time and effort that I hadn't minded him taking credit for. Anyways, I keep the best ones for myself.

So, for the next hour and fifteen minutes, the three of them seriously discuss the situation of the uprising while I'm left with my own silent inattention, sinking down deep into my chair and gazing off at the dark spots in the corners. I know the whole time that I'm expected to add input but I don't think I have it in me right now. It's nicer to just sit and briefly tune into their conversation every once in while, keeping updated should someone demand an answer of me. Even if I didn't pay attention I could always just leave it to Angel to come to my defense, after all. I know that I shouldn't put that kind of burden on him, since he's already working damn hard to convince the few doubters of my worthiness, but he probably wouldn't mind much.

I steal a furtive look at him from the corner of my eye, leaning over the table with a frustrated hand on his mouth and a dead serious expression. He's not particularly handsome, though I wouldn’t say ugly either, with a long nose, narrow face, hollow cheeks, and hair that is so bleached blond it looks closer to white. His eyes are also wide and very dark brown, but despite the fact that to almost everyone it is the face recognized for cruelty and a power-hungry greed, I've only ever found it comforting. I smile weakly to myself.

The funny thing is that I never meant to get so attached.

It was never my goal to become his friend too. I'd heard of him when he was only first starting to get some recognition, years ago, and then I caught his attention with the offer of a strategist if he really wanted to get anywhere. I am a genius in matters like this and knew the offer would be tempting, but my real agenda was only to use him as a tool to put myself in a powerful enough position to be able to eventually overthrow him. And of course I've never mentioned this, even though the plan is still quietly ongoing in some far corner of my mind, though now greatly ignored.

Somewhere along the line, I suppose I got my priorities mixed up and I ended up settling for being his right-hand woman. Although more recently I suppose I have been viewed as an equal partner in crime. Maybe just because the reward for our heads has finally reached an equivalent value. Pricey and impossible. I grin to myself, quickly hiding it in case someone happens to look over and see me smiling like an idiot. We're basically unstoppable now, because even if one or both of our lives were lost in the line of duty the ideals he's stirred would just be taken up by another. And another and another and another. And it hasn't been long either. Despite the extreme anxiety about us building at the Palace, our main opponent, Angel has only been considered a leader for about seven years. I’ve been an equal for about a year and was his main advisor for three before that.

Not bad, I think, considering that the revolution itself has been ongoing for almost six hundred.

It is just about exactly what it sounds like -- a revolution. An uprising. I can't say that it ever really started, because it's always something that has been there, but only for the last six hundred years of history has it actually been official. And only for the past seven has it even gotten anywhere. The realm has always been a turbulent place, with the fact that the perpetual darkness that blankets it has caused the area to be shuffled to the sidelines, ignored and forgotten. Only the northern regions, an area collectively referred to as the Charters, brightens up slightly during the day. As does Twilight, which is on the border, but it's seen as nothing more than in interesting vacation spot rather than an area of permanent residence.

And this is the only area inhabited by our species, the tiez ruak -- literally translated as red eyes and butchered over time into tazrak. Because the eyes of all of our kind are deep crimson, the same way our hair is jet black, our minds and senses sharp, and we are gifted with the ability to take to the air and soar. All of us wear with pride the badge of wings on our backs, ranging in colours from grey to black to brown and even pure, flawless white, whether they are slick and feathered or clawed like a bat's, even though it is this obvious trait that would surely get us killed were we to step out of our stolen territory. Both mine and Michael's wings are birdlike, his a brown-white mix and mine light grey. Angel possesses the bizarre combination of snow white feathers near the top that thin out into black and leathery skin. They are only half-formed and undersized where the transition takes place, so it has the not-very-attractive appearance of thick, blatant, and deformed scales. The reason for that, just like the reason for his white hair and brown eyes, is because he is shiak, a purely human word with no translation, which means that he, like many, many others, was born human and changed through a somewhat difficult process known as Amoden's Calling, the details of which I will not get into.

But when a tazrak tries to change a human it is usually by force. Angel was fatally wounded in the struggle and . . . resurrected, for lack of a better word . . . by the strength of the change. He must have already had tazrak blood in him somewhere for the one appearance of wings to start to grow, combining with his attackers style. Christopher is ninianan, a combination of human and tazrak clashing in his blood, and although he has no wings and his eyes lack their colour his hair is very dark and his mind works in the same way as ours, calculating and predatory.

This area, this realm, is the only place where we can really dwell because it is the only place where we are recognized as just another species. Pure humans have an entire earth; so control of the realm is hardly an unfair thing to ask of them. But they won't give it up, so we must take it by force. We already have Hart’s Haven, named after Angel himself, which accounts for just about a quarter of the total area. Why won’t they just give in?

That is why we are so dangerous, why we are such a growing threat. Not only do we have the intelligence and repressed brutality of a human, but the instincts of something more animal which tends to bring both the worst and best qualities out into the open. It is a very empowering feeling.

"Randan!"

I hear a voice call my name, impatient and loud and derailing my train of thought. I start in surprise and twist around to face the three of them, trying to appear innocent and attentive. It was Michael's voice, not as deep or harsh as Christopher's, while less raspy than Angel's.

"Yes? I mean, yes, I'm listening. Or no, wait, what were you saying?"

"Have you not been paying attention?" He demands. I catch Angel's gaze, desperate and disapproving, and after staring for a second with my mouth opening and closing uselessly, hesitantly turn back away.

"Um . . . no, not particularly. No."

He pauses and he stares at me, something about his expression changing. Anger fades to shock fades to what I want to call humor. "Why not?" His voice is lighter, but only because of the amusement in it. "Come on, this stuff is important."

Out of the corner of my eye, Christopher is grinning and not trying to hide it. I want to growl but can still feel the warning glare boring a hole on the side of my head.

"Well you're a bit boring, for one." I start with careless sarcasm, noticing his smile droop a bit. "Though I'm starting to realize that I'll need to learn to live with it. Other than that, it's mostly because I've gone through this stuff a million times already."

Angel squeezes his eyes shut, dipping his head and shaking it slightly from side to side. He thinks I'm digging my own grave, but he's wrong. I'm sparking an argument with full awareness of what I'm doing, knowing I can hold my own against any of them. The only three people in the realm who don't tremble at the sight of me.

Michael's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. I hold his gaze with determination. "Have you?" He asks disbelievingly.

"Yes. Actually, I just so happened to have come up with the tweak in the strategy. One would think that I would know it inside and out considering that it is of my creation."

"That doesn't justify your lack of attention." He says lowly, the amusement in his voice replaced by a more threatening expression. He tilts his head down and peers up at me from under his brow, pale red eyes glinting in the faint light. "Just because you came up with it doesn't mean you get a freebie. If you plan on making a habit of this, we might as well not ask you to come."

"Not you decision." I growl, unimpressed by his arrogance. What I'd really like to point out that I'm technically in a higher rank than him, I rule him, but hold my tongue in case it appears to Angel that I'm abusing a power he may not consider me to possess. I don't know why he just sits back and lets this happen when he's one of the most powerful people in the realm. He practically owns them. "Perhaps it's only because I don't need to endlessly review every document just to make it appear as if I were doing something useful. Ability to not only gain power, but to keep it too, just comes naturally to some of us." I say this with an arrogant smirk because, before I came along, Michael considered himself second in command.

That hits a nerve, and I grin when I realize it.

He absolutely snaps. Michael snarls and growls at me, springing from his chair and taking a leap with wings outstretched. I must admit that it's somewhat terrifying to have an enraged tazrak jumping for your throat, but the rush of adrenaline and the possibility of battle is much more consuming. Instincts take over from there. I jump up out of the way, and unlike him take care that my fifteen foot span of feathers doesn't knock every item and paper from it's spot in the room, and make to get up over him so that I'm at his back. I must misjudge the height, however, because he catches on my leg and sends me tumbling gracelessly to the empty ground on my right, though not after nicking the side of the couch first. I let out a shout and try unsuccessfully to jump back up to my feet, in time to see Michael attempt another dive but find himself held back by Angel.

And he stops immediately, finally getting a hold of himself, and quits trying to struggle out of Hart's grip with a look of embarrassment and realization on his face. Then he clears his throat and stands very straight, trying to retain what little dignity he still has. After a cautious pause, Angel lets go and wanders aimlessly back around to the chair of his desk, not sitting down. Michael stares at me for a second, his look a mix of disgust and bitterness and totally dripping with venom. I hiss at him and hope no one else hears.

"Calm down." Angel scolds, looking away and sounding a little as if he were talking to himself, like he normally does. "Can we not just get through one hour without letting these petty arguments get in the way? You're not children!"

"But she started it." Christopher chimes in, looking rather pleased with himself.

"I did not." I shoot back. We lock in a glare but Angel sighs and shakes his head, drawing our attention back to him.

"Whatever." He says resignedly. "It really doesn't matter who started it because I just ended it. But you know what? It's late and right now everybody is just tired and annoyed. I think it would be best if we called it a day and leave things as they are."

Michael stares at him for a second, looking concerned and cautious all at the same time, before nodding in agreement. I can tell he doesn't want to, though. He wants to stay and try to iron out the wrinkles in my newest strategy; just get it over with. But he's also not going to argue, either. He just turns and shuffles unenthusiastically to the exit, muttering, "just leave things as they are," as if it were all so disappointingly predictable. He opens the door and is gone down the hall rather unceremoniously, without so much as a goodbye. Christopher doesn't stand up until he is gone, and even then just hesitantly eases himself off the couch and take a few cautious steps away.

"Sorry about him." He explains to Angel in an apologetic voice, and turns his head to stare down Michael's path outside. "Bad day for all of us." He adds, spinning back around. "Hopefully we'll be thinking clearer and get more done next time."

"Hopefully." Angel says under his breath, eyeing Christopher with a disapproving scrutiny that he doesn't seem to notice. He just smiles and says, " 'night then," before spinning around to leave, shooting me a dirty look as he passes by and making sure Angel doesn't see. I stick my tongue out and glare at his back until he disappears on the other side of the closed door.

The two of us sit in silence for a few seconds, all noise strangled by the thick air. But it's better than words right now. Is he still acting the part of my boss or my friend? Would I get a scolding or would he just keep talking as if nothing happened? It's always a little confusing during the transition between the two. I close my eyes and hear his light footsteps on the carpet, followed by a quick silence before the annoyingly loud creaking noises as he falls into his chair and leans back. When I look up he's slumped over backwards, face to the ceiling but eyes shut and mouth open, moaning with frustration and spinning slowly back and forth with his feet. His wings are unfolded and hanging limply off the sides, brushing audibly against the ground every time he turns. He stops groaning and spinning abruptly when he hears me slowly rise to my feet, and then closes his mouth and snaps his head up.

"I expected better of you." He says in an absent voice, leaning back hard in the chair again so it lets out more squeals of protest. Shrugging, I gingerly place a hand on the spot just above my elbow where I hit the couch, but then grimace and take in a sharp breath, lifting my fingers up and staring for a second at the thin glaze of red coating them.

"He went for me first." I explain, wiping it away on the side of my pants. "All I was doing was reacting."

"You provoked him." He points out. Now his gaze is back on me, hard and unreadable in the dim light. I try to look sorry but a little smile is suddenly tugging very hard at the corners of my mouth. It finally breaks through my stony expression and spreads across my face; I can't help it but I don't know what's so funny about it either.

"Well, did you not expect better of either of them?"

He sighs and rolls his eyes at me, sitting back up. "They're just like that, around you anyways. Both of them are bitter and jealous and you know better than to play on that. I thought so, at least." Angel pauses uncomfortably for a second. I'm not sure if he really responded my question or not, because he is very skilled at just dancing around the edges of an answer. After thinking for a while, he hesitantly adds: "I think it would be better if you didn't come to anymore meetings like this, Randan."

“What?" I demand lowly, furrowing my brow and staring intently at him. Before I get a chance to be angry, Angel quickly expands on the idea.

"Just because you stop coming to these things doesn't mean that your influence stops, though; it just means that you still retain the same sort of power without having to deal with those two. It would be a lot better for everyone because, though they might be idiots at times they are definitely invaluable, and you, Michael and Christopher are all at your best when you're separated. I cannot have them get fed up and turn against me with the information they already know. And honestly, you're about to push them over the edge. You're still second in command, of course, but any exchange of ideas would just be between the two of us." He smiles unconvincingly, arching his fingers. "It's not my choice to make, however. Only a suggestion."

I trust his advice but also can't help feeling like I'd be left out of the decision making process. I've always hated those stupid meetings and yet, as soon as I'm given the opportunity to get out of them altogether, there's nothing I want more than to be able to attend.

"I'll think on it." I lie, walking back around to where I had been sitting just before. I run my hand along the back of the chair for a second, feeling Angel's gaze on me all the while, before spinning it around to face him and taking a seat.

"So . . . did you guys talk about that Drake girl at all?" I ask, trying not to appear too interested. Sabrina Drake is becoming one of Angel's more outspoken opponents. The ironic thing is that she is ninianan herself, a tazrak and human mix, although one couldn’t tell by appearance alone. And she's becoming a more and more potentially threatening challenger; even catching the attention of Tyler Hawthorn-Keim, the current overseer of palace affairs. He's only an overseer, though, because he's still too young to actually take over rule, which is a good thing for us because it just means that the opposing side is currently without leader. Angel is still stuck on square one when it comes to eliminating her as a threat. I've already set a plan into action.

"It never came up." He answers, just as casually, and then falls silent into his thoughts. I don't know why I don't tell him. That I'm taking out an enemy behind his back and gaining an important ally in the process, that I've just brought us one step closer to a total victory.

Actually, maybe I do, I realize with a start.

Perhaps my little plan to overthrow him has somehow unconsciously influenced my silence. The plan for power came before the plan for friendship, after all. And it won't be so hard if I view my betrayal as nothing more than just a clever business decision.

He used to say sometimes, when I was new to this whole uprising and would come up with an especially intelligent idea, 'the student has surpassed the teacher', and then he would put a fond hand on my shoulder and nod. I grin to myself when I think back to it and, noticing, Angel absently leans forwards in his chair and gives me a weak little smile in return, though his is for no reason in particular. I don't know why, but I decide right then to try and take my until-recently ignored plan a little further. I'll overthrow him, and with the current amount of power I already possess it may come as something he notices or not. And maybe this whole thing against Sabrina I've got plotted could be the breakthrough I've needed.

The student has surpassed the teacher. I guess it's ironic that he would ever say that.

Even if this quite wasn't what he had in mind.