Page 162 of The Last One
My skin chills as the death bird’s obsidian eyes fix on me with an unsettling intelligence. The wind carries a whisper, a faint echo of foreboding that sends shivers down my spine. Anxiety knots in my stomach.
Is this the raven that warned me at the entrance of Caerno Woods?
This raven caws, his cry echoing through the stillness of the forest.“Prepare, Lady.I see death. Close.”
This is not the same raven.
“Is there danger ahead?”I ask.
“Always.”The raven jumps from the boulder and hops along the road in my direction, his beady eyes fixed on me.“There is only death here.”
“For which one of us?”My pulse races. I’ve already lost Veril. Losing another one of my companions—my friends—would destroy me.
“Him. In the end.”
My mouth dries, and my eyebrows crumple.“The end of what? This road? This trip?”
The raven spreads his wings and takes flight.
I track the bird until he disappears into the night sky.
Jadon says, “What’s wrong?” He looks to the sky, too, but the raven is long gone.
“Be on guard,” I say.
Philia says, “Okay.”
Jadon narrows his eyes. “Aren’t I always?”
I swallow, flick my gaze at the sky again. I can’t tell him what the raven said. I find it difficult to believe it myself. I turn back to the road and lose myself in thoughts, trying, though, not to think of the raven’s warning, but to force my mind to rest, force the dull thuds to ease.
Pushing past the food and tonics, I search my bag as I walk, finding the leather journal that Veril left behind. The faded black leather is silky soft, the pages between thick and bleached white. Drawings and sketches of birds—including cardinals, ravens, and daxinea. Recipes to treat melancholy and anxiety, sore throats and toothaches. And several pages dedicated to a poem written in his hand.
In a land where stars make pearls,
A heroine awakens; her soul unfurls.
Through realms unknown, her path lies bare,
A future that she cannot share.
There are four separate poems and fifth he’d just started—a single line on its own page:
In the realm where shadows pale,
I trace my fingers over Veril’s assured handwriting. Even if this is the last of the stanzas, this elegy must be completed.
I’ll do it.
I push my hand through my hair, and my hand comes away with a clump of curls caught between my fingers. I stare at this bundle of dry and loose hair, gulping and shuddering as I let it drift from my hold. My mind stalls, blown out by thinking about all the exertion to come, thinking about what else is dying, not just my hair, but my spine and my heart.
Stop. Don’t think about that.
“Hey,” Jadon says, walking beside me now.
“Hey.” I keep my eyes fixed on the road.
He holds out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here.”
