"We bury our dead in silence,but we carry their songs forever."— Ella the Silvertongued Princess
Dove.
When I woke, the world was too still.
Raven's body lay on the treatment table beside me, her skin cold and waxy beneath the leaves.
Gone.
My only friend in this place — the only light in the Aviary's endless night — was gone.
I hadn't even been awake to hold her hand.I hadn't been there to comfort her.
I pressed a trembling kiss to her brow.She smelled of herbs and salt and something older, something leaving.
Her face was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
I stumbled from the bathhouse, half-blind with tears. My bare feet slapped against the stone floors as I fled, as if distance could undo what had been done.
I found the madame near the front gates, smiling and shaking hands with a pair of visiting soldiers.Despite the raw misery leaking off me, the older men still leered.
The madame waved them off and turned to me, frowning at the sight of my ruined face.
"Raven," I gasped, my voice a ragged whisper. "She's dead."
The madame only shrugged, lips curling in something almost like annoyance."There was a slim chance she'd survive," she said coolly, her gnarled hand flapping dismissively. "We did what we could."
I stared at her.
I wanted to scream.To tear at her.To claw the cruelty out of her skin.
But I didn't.Because my life — as fragile as spun glass — hung in the hollow of her palm.
"I'll call the undertaker," she muttered, turning away, her limp dragging her down the corridor like an afterthought."Get back to work," she tossed over her shoulder. "Floors won't clean themselves."
I stood there, shaking.
Everything felt wrong — too bright, too loud, too much.
The walls pressed inward, the floor tilted beneath me.The ache in my chest became a physical thing, a vice crushing my ribs.
I pressed a hand against the nearest wall and limped back to my room, feeling for the groove in the stone where the tapestry hung.
Safe.
Hidden.
I collapsed onto the floor, curling into myself like a child.Tears leaked hot and silent into the threadbare carpet.
I had promised her.I had sworn I would find a way.
And I had failed.
She had died here — alone, broken, afraid.
And I had done nothing.
Powerless.Useless.A failure even in hope.
The hours bled past in silence.
It wasn't until midday that the madame's cane banged against my door, sharp as a hammer blow.
"Filthy floors!" she barked.
I peeled myself off the ground, muscles screaming, heart hollow.
I moved because I had no other choice.Because grief was a luxury the Aviary did not allow.
I limped toward the baths first.
When I pushed open the door, her body was gone.
The sight — the absence — crumpled something inside me anew.
But I forced myself forward.Bucket. Mop. Water.
I cleaned because it was all I could do.Because work was safer than feeling.
The upstairs halls were mostly clear today.But the main floor — the performance stage — was a ruin of blood and spilled wine and shattered glass.
The stink was a living thing.
I gagged, one hand pressed against my mouth as I scrubbed, gathering broken goblets and soiled linens into a waste bucket.
By the time I finished, the sun had begun to dip low, spilling red into the windows.
I knew I was meant to clean the basement next.But my heart rebelled.
I couldn't face the shadows again tonight — not after yesterday's whispered nightmare.
Instead, I climbed the stairs and prayed the madame would not notice my omission.
I emptied the bucket, scrubbed my hands raw under the tap, and filled a chipped glass with water from the spring.
I didn't eat.I didn't speak.
I curled into the small bed under my dusty tapestry canopy and clutched the pillow tight against my chest.
In the silence, I sent up a prayer — the first true prayer I had dared to utter in years.
Please, I begged whatever gods or spirits still lingered in this cruel world.Please care for her soul.
Let her be reborn in a world without cages.
Let her fly.
I drifted into a broken sleep, the taste of salt on my tongue, and in my dreams, I saw her.
Raven, bathed in light, wings made of silver and flame.
Free.
At last.