Page 22 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
The bird on the left lets out a low croak, the sound muffled by the glass.
I’m not sure why, but I feel safer with them here, like their presence is a shield against the cold and the dark. Maybe it’s because they remind me of the clearing, of the men who foundme, who called me theirs. It’s like I can’t separate the men from the ravens or the ravens from the men.
But the memory of the men sends a shiver down my spine.
I picture them as they were. Shade, all black and shadow, his voice a command. Bran, gentle and golden, with a smile that threatened to break my heart. Onyx, quiet and careful, but always watching. Talon, ferocious, his laughter a weapon. Rune, with eyes like silver and words to match. Sable, who never stopped moving, never stopped smiling. Grim, the darkest of them all, the one who haunted my sleep and made me wish I could dream forever.
I see them now in the faces of these birds, their shapes a kind of memory, a joke only I’m in on.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“You’re not them,” I say, but the words are hollow. “You can’t be.”
The birds don’t answer, but the way they lean in, the way they never break their stare, it’s like they’re waiting for me to say something important.
“Are you…watching over me for them?” I try, feeling stupid and childish. “Or are you just waiting for me to feed you again?”
The center raven blinks, slow and deliberate.
A laugh escapes me, brittle and strange. “Well, you’ll be waiting a while. He’s not going to let me go.”
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold floor, my knees hugged to my chest. The birds follow my movement, three heads turning in sync.
I stare up at them, letting the silence stretch.
For a moment, I want to tell them everything. I want to tell them how the room feels smaller every day, how the air is thin, how the memory of hands on my skin makes me ache for something I don’t have a name for. I want to confess the guiltthat needles me every time I think of Father, and the shame that comes with wishing he would just let me rot.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, watching the birds as they watch me, locked in a standoff with no clear winner.
Eventually, the room grows colder, the moon higher. The birds remain, as black as the space between stars, and I wonder if maybe they really are more than just birds.
Maybe they’re the only thing in the world still listening.
I tilt my head, matching their pose.
“If you are them,” I say, “I’m not afraid.”
The birds don’t move, don’t make a sound. But something in the air changes, like the room is suddenly full of words I can’t hear.
I wrap the blanket tighter, lie down on the rug, and wait for morning.
When I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel their gaze, soft, hungry, and impossibly patient.
Like they’re waiting for me to figure out who I am.
Or what I want.
Night stretches long andunbroken, a fathomless expanse that presses harder with each passing hour.
I lose track of time, of the shape of my thoughts, until I’m shivering on the floor with the blanket drawn tight around myshoulders. My eyes sting with the effort of staying open, of refusing to sleep in case my dreams turn ugly again.
The ravens are still on the ledge, standing as witnesses to my misery. I watch them, the way a drowning girl might watch the moon, knowing it’s the only thing left to mark her place in the world.
I lean against the wall, the chill of it seeping through my nightgown. My body feels strange, untrustworthy, just a collection of aches and raw nerves.
At first, I think it’s just the cold. But as I wrap my arms tighter, I realize it’s something else.
