Page 9 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
And when we do, she’ll belong to us.
Allof us.
3
Beyond the Gates
Raisa
Iwait until thesun slips beneath the horizon before I slip from the castle, desperation to breathe the sliver of forest air beyond the gate beating in my chest like a living thing. I’ve felt the same clawing restlessness all day, as if I’m meant to be somewhere, anywhere other than pacing the palace halls.
For once, no one is watching the garden. Father’s council ran late again, their voices still bleeding down the stone halls. Theguards are posted on the ramparts like always, but they shamble along, distracted by the shift of shadows across the stone walls.
The raven’s feather tickles against my wrist as I duck under the arbor and slip through the hedges, sticking to the shadows to stay hidden from sight. I almost lose my slipper in the mud, but I catch myself, my heart beating a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
The sundial waits for me, cold and familiar in the inky shadows of dusk. I almost sit out of habit, but I force myself forward. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who sits and dreams while the world spins on without her. Tonight, I’m something else. Something dangerous, maybe.
I feel it pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
The ravens are nowhere to be seen, but their absence feels intentional, like a benediction, or perhaps just a warning. I run my thumb along the edge of the feather and step onto the path that leads toward the orchard and the gate beyond.
I pause, waiting for someone to shout after me, but the garden is silent.
The air changes as I walk. The perfume of the garden gives way to earth and stone and rot, as if the living things here flex their claws after a day spent pretending to be tame. I feel their wildness in my lungs.
It excites and scares me in turns.
The gate looms ahead, half-swallowed by ivy, but tonight it feels different.
Itisdifferent.
Tonight, the latch is loose.
I stare at it for a moment, not trusting my eyes. But the truth is unmistakable. Someone has pried away the latch, leaving it hanging by a single nail. Something unfamiliar hums in the iron, like a faint pulse I feel more than hear, but even it feels fractured now, wounded and desperate.
I wrap both hands around the bars and pull.
The gate opens with a whimper, a sound so soft I think I’ve imagined it. I push until there’s just enough space for my body to slip through. On the other side, the forest waits, dark and ready.
The moment I cross the threshold, everything changes.
The air is colder, richer. I taste pine needles, wet moss, and distant smoke. My shoes sink into wet, rotting leaves. My skirt snags on brambles. The trees close in overhead, their branches so thick they blot out what’s left of the sunset.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I keep moving, putting one foot in front of the other, past the point where I can still see the castle’s windows. Past the point where I remember the names of the flowers growing along the path.
The forest isn’t like the garden. It isn’t meant to be pretty. It isn’t meant to be safe, either. It’s wild and unkempt, teeming with menace.
Somewhere in the distance, an animal screams.
I jump, stumbling, and the feather slips from my sleeve and into my palm. I squeeze it so hard the quill bites into my skin.
“Get a grip,” I hiss at myself. My voice is smaller out here, but it feels good to say something, anything, just to keep the dark at bay.
I walk faster.
The path narrows until it’s just a game trail, invisible except for the way the grass is beaten down by the passage of other things—deer, maybe, or wolves. Or worse.
The deeper I go, the more the forest presses in. It’s alive in a way the garden never was, and that life is not passive or friendly.
