Page 101 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
Sunlight slants through thenursery windows, crisp and gold, lighting dust motes as they spiral in the air above my daughter’s hair.
She’s only hours old, a tiny lump of warmth in my arms, and already she feels like the center of the universe. My universe, at least. Maybe theirs, too.
We named her Omen.
She’s perfect. She’s the color of milk, with hair as black as night already curling against her scalp. Her eyes are still that cloudy newborn blue, but when she blinks at me, I see the same storm that roils in Grim. Her skin glows faintly, an aura that’s more than just magic—it’s an announcement. A warning. A promise.
I run my finger down her cheek, marvel at the tiny, perfect mouth that a little replica of Shade, the fists she can’t yet unclench. The world should be terrified of this child, and maybe it is. But all I feel is awe. And love so sharp it’s almost agony.
The nursery has never known a baby like her. Or a mother like me, for that matter.
It’s a room built for royalty, a gallery of pale stone and polished wood, but the cold splendor is gone. The old tapestries—dusty, lifeless things—are banished to the attics. In their place, scraps of bright, mismatched cloth hang on the walls. A rainbow snake coiled above the cradle. A patchwork banner stitched with seven black feathers. A crude painting of a raven and a woman tangled in an embrace.
The floors are buried under soft rugs, plush enough that Sable can’t resist sprawling belly-down. Every surface is cluttered with toys. Some were whittled by Onyx’s enormous hands, others were scavenged from the village market, and a few seemed to have appeared out of thin air.
There’s a rocking horse with a wolf’s head, a set of wooden stacking cups painted with runes, a glass mobile that catches every scrap of light and flings it around the room like confetti.
The crib is a masterpiece. Bran spent a year designing it. It’s a fortress of carved ash wood, each spindle an owl or a raven or a curling vine. The mattress is stuffed with pine needles and feathers, soft enough to cradle dreams. And everywhere, tucked beneath the wainscoting and wound around the windows,protective runes glow blue-white, a lattice of safety that will shatter bone before it lets harm through.
The twins are three now—impossible, wild things who make the whole castle tremble when they laugh. They careen across the rugs, chasing each other on their hands and knees, the black wings on their backs flapping as they squeal. Their wings are still small, more decorative than useful, but every month they’re stronger, darker, sharper.
I know they’ll learn to fly before they learn to read.
Today, they’re pirates, or outlaws, or kings. It changes every minute.
Storm, the bigger of the two—he’s Shade’s in eyes, Sable’s in the lips, and Talon’s everywhere else—tackles his brother under the table and tries to bite his ear. Nyx, the bitten one, who is a little replica of the best part of Onyx, Bran, and Rune, shrieks, then retaliates with a perfect left hook, sending them both tumbling into the legs of the men arrayed around the room.
There are seven men in this family, and not a one is any less devoted for the fact that the babies aren’t fully theirs. Blood isn’t the point. Love is. Love and loyalty and the reckless, half-mad promise we made to each other in the ruins of our world.
Shade stands nearest me, leaning against the back of my chair with his arms crossed. His eyes never leave the baby in my arms, not even when he reaches down to smooth my hair. He does it with the rough gentleness of a man who once knew only violence and now lives in terror of breaking something precious.
Bran is on the floor, cross-legged and barefoot, his glasses already hanging by a thread. He juggles the twins with both hands, tickling them until they howl, then pulling them close to murmur something that makes them giggle even harder. They tackle him, and he pretends to be slain, sprawling backwards with a gasp that sets off fresh fits of laughter.
Grim lurks near the window, green eyes squinted against the sunlight, his mouth bent in a skeptical scowl. But every so often, he glances at the baby and a smile slips through, quick and shy as a secret. He hums a lullaby under his breath, so low I can barely hear it, but the devotion in it ripples across my skin.
Onyx is the first to notice when the baby wriggles, fussing. He’s already halfway across the room before I can move. He crouches next to me, enormous, his beard tickling Omen’s belly as he checks her swaddle. He’s still so quiet, but he’s the one I trust most with her. She quiets at his touch, one tiny fist grasping at the knuckle of his thumb, and he just sits there, holding her hand until she’s calm again.
Sable is in the window seat, pretending not to be interested but watching us all with a wolf’s sharp smile. The twins adore him, and when they break free of Bran’s grasp, it’s Sable they barrel toward, shrieking. He leaps over the back of the seat, lands in a crouch, and makes a face so ridiculous that both boys fall over, shrieking with delight.
Rune is perched on the edge of the toy chest, tracing symbols in the air with his fingertips. Every now and then, he glances at the baby and mutters a blessing, or a charm, or maybe just a joke, because the air fills with laughter and the scent of roses whenever he speaks.
When one of the twins whacks the other with a wooden sword, Rune tuts and heals the bruise with a snap of his fingers.
Talon stands guard by the door. Always. His arms are crossed, his jaw set, but I know he’s counting every breath, every heartbeat, every shiver in the air that might mean danger. He hasn’t touched the baby yet—too afraid he’ll break her—but he watches her like he’s memorizing every lash and dimple.
I love them all more than I think I know how to contain some days, but the way I love these children is different. Fiercer,somehow, as if all the love I never received as a child is pouring from me to them.
Omen stirs, opening her mouth in a wordless, wailing protest. The sound is small, but it scrapes every nerve raw. Before I can hush her, Shade leans in and cups her head in his palm, his thumb stroking the soft spot at her temple.
“It’s alright, little bird,” he says. “We’re all here.”
She blinks up at him, then at me, and I swear she sees something behind my eyes that makes her fall quiet.
She’s not like the twins. The boys were half-wild from the first, all tooth and muscle, nothing but need and hunger. They imprinted on the first warm body that fed them and never let go.
Omen is different. She’s watchful. Patient. She stares at the world with an old, old wisdom, as if she’s cataloging every flaw and appreciating every bit of beauty.
I don’t know which of the seven she’ll favor when she grows, but I hope it’s all of them. I hope she takes Sable’s quick tongue, Bran’s cleverness, Shade’s unbreakable will. I hope she gets Onyx’s strength, Grim’s fierceness, Rune’s laughter, and Talon’s protectiveness.
