The weatherling's stolen voice broke on its next call.
Jiang's fixed first note came out clean. Its own heartbeat struck early beneath the second, and the copied sound split into rain, frost, and a raw cry that belonged to neither.
Every white comb in the cradle opened at once.
Hooks tightened around the unfinished throat. Frost closed across the freed gill. Red roots rose from the dark hull and searched the chamber for whatever had disturbed the pattern.
Jiang felt imposed pressure gather beneath his feet.
It did not attack him yet.
The cradle wanted the older voice back. It wanted the clean note Jiang had made before pain, choice, and other people had changed it. Hearing that dead-perfect version of himself come from another throat made his feathers lift.
Across the chamber rim, an empty graft mouth unfolded beside the drained pollen cup. Soft white teeth combed the air, tasted one of Jiang's shed feathers, and turned toward him.
