"Even the smallest cracks in the cageare wide enough for monsters to speak through."— Ella the Silvertongued Princess
Dove.
The bucket felt heavier than ever as I carried it down the long, winding halls.Each step thudded through my aching shin, but it wasn't the pain that blurred my vision.
It was the fear.
The grief.
My face was blotchy, my breath thin and ragged — but the floors gleamed behind me.
"Raven will be fine," I repeated to myself. "The madame said so. She wouldn't waste one of her best girls."
I repeated the lie until it settled like a stone in my gut. A stone I could balance on, if only barely.
Upstairs, the sound of early-morning revelry was already beginning — the rhythmic slap of bodies, the muffled cries of pleasure and pain twisted together.I ignored it. I had learned not to hear things in the Aviary.
I kept to the lower floors, moving quickly.
The main level was a ruin of spilled wine, smashed glass, and trampled food.It was the show floor — where the madame paraded her human wares like trophies before the night's feasting began.
By the time I scrubbed it clean, the sun was low enough that the guests would soon arrive.I fled into the basement, where no one would see me, where no eyes would decide they wanted something from me after all.
The basement was cold and damp, lit only by scattered torches lodged in iron sconces.Blue-black stones lined the walls — old stones, older than the Aviary itself — slick with condensation.
It was empty, unused.
Safe.
I dropped the mop and soaked it again and again, stripping years of dust from the stones.The work was mindless, rhythmic.A mercy.
When I finished, I leaned the mop against the nearest wall and sank onto the cold floor, sliding down until my back hit the stone.
I let the chill seep into me.I needed the numbness.
A long, empty moment passed.
Then, as I pushed myself upright — a stone shifted beneath my palm.The wall groaned like a living thing, ancient and begrudging.
And a hollowed space opened behind me.
A breath of cold, dry air slid against my face.
And then — a whisper.Faint. Airy. Not entirely real.
"Child of the Light."
I bolted upright, snatching the mop like a weapon, my heart a frantic drum in my ears.
There was nothing behind me.
Nothing I could see.
I fled.
I fled the way only the hunted know how to flee — fast and silent, blood roaring through my body louder than the torches sputtering on the walls.
I didn't stop until I burst into the kitchen, chest heaving.
The cook glanced up, unimpressed by my entrance, then went back to her chopping.Business as usual.
I dumped the bucket and mop into the nearest corner and grabbed a plate, moving mechanically down the buffet.
Food.Focus on the food.
I dropped into a chair at the nearest table, barely tasting the bread and cheese I forced myself to chew.
Next to me sat a woman with hair like fire — a fall of red waves down her back, brilliant even under the poor lighting.She wore a white silk toga, cinched at the waist with a gold cord. She was one of tonight's displays — perfect and polished.
I turned, trying to catch her eye, to offer a polite hello.
She didn't meet my gaze.
Instead, she abandoned her plate without a word and swept from the room, her retreat as silent as a condemnation.
I returned to my meal, swallowing past the stone lodged in my throat.
When I finished, I pieced together another plate — this time for Raven.
I hesitated, then approached the cook, explaining in a low voice what had happened, asking what Raven liked when she was ill.
For the first time, the cook's golden eyes softened — barely.
"She likes the sweetbread and nut butter," she muttered, gesturing toward the far end of the table.
I packed the food carefully, securing it into a basket.
Before I could ask where to find Raven, the cook answered without looking up:
"She'll be in the baths. Always keep the broken ones close to the herbs."
I nodded mutely and left.
The bathhouse was quieter now, dimmer.
Raven lay swaddled on the heavy table, wrapped in slick green leaves just as I once had been.She looked... smaller somehow.
Broken in a way I knew all too well.
Her breathing was uneven — rasping through her still-healing nose.Her body was a canvas of bruises and fresh wounds.
I set the basket down and crossed the room slowly, afraid to wake her.
But I couldn't help it.
I kissed her brow gently — a sister's vow — and settled onto the floor beside her table.
Hours slipped past.I fed her small bites when she stirred, careful not to hurt her.
When she whimpered, I whispered nonsense comforts into the humid air.
When she cried, I held her hand.
"The madame said she would ban him," I whispered once, when she had slipped into a light, restless sleep.
"You'll never have to see him again."
A lie.
Another stone to balance on.
Her tears soaked the leaves she lay on, but eventually her breathing evened out.
I stayed there, stretched on the cold tile beside her, until sleep stole over me, heavy and inevitable.
And in that sleep, the golden eyes found me again.
This time clearer.
Sharper.
They peered from a darkness too thick for the moonlight to pierce, and they saw me — truly saw me — and found me wanting.
I woke with a jolt, the knowledge still burning behind my ribs.
And this time, I knew why.
Because I was already marked.
Because I had already been seen.
Because in the Aviary, even dreams were not truly your own.