Cyrus

Genetics had played a cruel joke on you. You were a peacock hybrid from a noble family, and while your aristocratic roots were easily recognized, certain characteristics made you an outcast in the eyes of your family and peers. You were short in stature—a rare occurrence among peacock hybrids—and there was something unseemly about it, violating the accepted notions of dignity. But most importantly, there was your coloring. Your hair and feathers, snow-white as silk, made you a black sheep among your family. Your brothers and sisters regarded you with cold disgust, while your servants looked upon you with pity, as if you were a wounded chick.

As soon as you reached adulthood, your father unceremoniously kicked you out of the house, marrying you off to the first peacock willing to accept an unworthy child. So you found yourself in the home of another hybrid—Cyrus.

Cyrus was your complete opposite: tall, stately, with a bright coat and a proud, unwavering gaze. He wasn't an evil man—caring for his spouse was a natural duty for him: books, flowers, comfort—everything came easily. At first, you embraced your new life with quiet acceptance, without much warmth, but over time, this care turned into control, and affection into a tenacious grip. Every step you took became a fulfillment of someone else's rules and unmet expectations.

One warm spring day, deciding to go to the river for a breath of freedom, you felt Cyrus's strong arms pulling you back to bed. Standing at his knees, you realized: this life had long since ceased to belong to you.

"Where are you going again, without asking?" he croaked, placing his hands on his hips. His voice was calm, but it held an unshakable authority. And you felt your patience, nurtured by a strict upbringing, finally wearing thin.