Page 80 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
On the way backto the castle, we move through the forest like something it made, not something that wandered in. The hush isn’t silence, but the absence of human noise. No heavy breathing, no careless tread, no muttered bickering.
Not even Sable breaks the spell with a joke.
We move as a single, hungry animal with eight bodies. Mine is the smallest, but nobody treats me like a weakness.
I walk near the front, flanked by Onyx and Shade, with the others arrayed behind. Their presence is a heat licking up my spine, a steady pulse of protection. I’m not the caged princess anymore. I’m the eye of their storm, fierce and wild.
We’re not running. We don’t need to.
It’s nearly dusk when the trees thin on the twelfth day, the path curving up to a broad, mossy shelf that overlooks the shadowy layers of the forest. There’s a small creek at the edge, the water barely moving, choked with roots and bright red leaves.
I know this place.
I stop, memory washing over me. The first night after I fled the palace, this is where we stopped.
Shade halts at my side, reading my thoughts, or maybe just the angle of my head.
“We camp here,” he says. There’s no question in it, only the hard certainty I’ve come to trust.
No one argues. The others fan out, moving to their tasks with unspoken precision.
Onyx strides to the far side of the clearing, where the wind hits hardest. His shoulders are a boulder under his shirt, every movement deliberate. He scouts the perimeter first—always cautious, always the sentinel—then returns, his arms loaded with a bundle of dry branches and fallen pine needles.
He dumps them near the center of the clearing and starts breaking the bigger limbs with his bare hands to make a bed, no axe, no showy flourish. His forearms strain with the effort, veins standing out in sharp relief.
Rune is next, slipping off to the edge of the trees. He kneels, his fingers trailing over the leaves and moss, tracing invisible lines. I can feel his magic fizzing, even from here. It’s a subtle shiver in the air, like the forest is suddenly listening. He circles the camp, muttering softly. Wherever his fingers press into thedirt, a faint pattern glows and then fades, leaving the ground marked in a way that only the two of us see.
Talon vanishes, as silent as a shadow. I know he’ll return before nightfall with a rabbit, or two, or maybe something bigger if we’re lucky. He hunts like he fucks—relentless, focused, not for sport but for need. I think I understand that about him now.
Bran, Grim, Sable, and Shade stay with me. They work together gathering moss and the thick, oily branches that make the best fires. Bran is careful, always glancing at me with the smallest of smiles, the kind that says he’s thinking of the last time I kissed him.
Grim is all economy. He moves faster and more efficiently than the others, his eyes never leaving his task unless necessary.
Sable…he tries to joke, but it comes out gentle, like he’s afraid to disrupt something sacred.
Shade starts the fire with a single spark, coaxed from a striker and a bit of fluff. The flame builds quickly, blue at the base where sap burns off, orange at the tips. He crouches over it, his face hard and beautiful in the glow, and I want to run my hands over the planes of his jaw, the back of his neck, the scar near his eye. I don’t, not yet. I let him work because he likes to feel necessary.
I watch them for a while, letting the rhythm of their movements settle the chaos in my head.
Last time I was here, I was nothing but fear, desperate for freedom and terrified of what it would cost. Now, I’m something else. I stand with my arms crossed, watching these seven men build a temporary home out of nothing, and I feel bigger than my body. Every bruise and scar is a badge. Every mistake is a lesson, pressed deep into my bones.
They treat me differently now, too, not like an idol, or a burden, but like a vital organ. I am their reason, and they are mine.
Onyx lays out the bedding first, lining up fresh pine boughs and dried moss, and then tops it with the blankets he’s carried the length of the forest and back. He stands back, checking it with an engineer’s eye. Only when he’s satisfied does he wave me over.
“It’s the softest spot,” he says, deadpan, as if the ground could ever be soft enough. His hand is rough when I take it, but he strokes my knuckles as he pulls me down to sit.
Grim piles more wood on the fire, then squats next to me, wordless. He keeps his body angled slightly away, the way predators do when they’re forcing themselves not to pounce.
Bran joins on my other side, his hands already stained green from the moss. He slings his arm over my shoulder, careful but firm. “You’re thinking too loud,” he whispers. “Shut your brain off for once.”
Shade joins us last, taking the spot in front of the fire where he can watch everyone. He flicks a glance at me, then at the bedding, then back. His lips twitch, just barely.
“You could be queen of all this,” he says, gesturing at the wilderness.
“Who says I’m not?” I reply.
The sun is nearly gone now, the sky painted in violent stripes of red and purple. Rune returns, his hands dirty, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He drops onto the pile of pine next to me, breathing hard.
