Page 7 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
She meant it. I could taste it in the air.
I should’ve hated her for it. Instead, I found myself wanting to be the one to give her what she wanted. Or maybe just wanting to be the one to take away her pain.
I still do.
I didn’t know then what the king did: that she carries the same powerful magic he does. That knowledge came later, the day she whispered humanity back into our hearts. But where his magic is corrupted, hers is pure. And it’ll be the thing that heals what he destroyed.
Bran landing on the mossy stone beside me breaks me from my thoughts. He’s already got his wire-rimmed glasses in hand, pushing them up his nose like some memory of a human habit he refuses to let go. He’s handsome in the way farmers’ sons are—broad-shouldered, sun-browned, eyes a trick of light between green and gold. He dresses quickly, shirt buttoned to the throat, not a wrinkle or fleck of dirt in sight. You could put him at a banker’s desk, and no one would guess what his hands are capable of.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “You’ve been watching her again.”
I don’t bother answering. Of course I have.
He smirks, but there’s hunger in it. “She grows more beautiful by the day.”
Next comes Sable, materializing at a sprint, not bothering to dress. He tumbles to the ground with a rumble of laughter,rolling naked through the wet leaves. Mud streaks up his back and down his thighs. Of all of us, he’s the one who never learned shame. Or maybe he just likes to show off.
He’s the youngest by a day or a year, depending on which lie he’s telling. He’s all limbs, laughter, and trouble just waiting for a reason.
He sprawls on his back, his arms flung wide, and grins at the sky. “What did you see tonight, Shade?”
I bare my teeth. “Get dressed.”
Grim appears next, silent and already clothed, even his boots laced tight. His hair is long and as black as a funeral veil, his skin ashen from too many years without sunlight. The only color on him is the tattoos winding up his arms and over his collarbone: ravens, skulls, and things too twisted to name. He doesn’t look at me or the others, just picks a tree and leans into the shadow, crossing his arms and watching everything with that flat, dead stare of his.
Onyx and Rune arrive like two phantoms in the dark. Onyx is first, as silent as ever. He looks like he’s carved out of granite, but there’s a patience in his stride that separates him from the rest of us. He wears his hair cropped tight to the skull, blond under the moon. There’s a softness around his eyes that most mistake for weakness. That’s a lie. Onyx could break you in half and not break a sweat.
Rune trails after, a study in contrast. The night loves him. It softens his sharpness and makes his gray eyes look nearly silver. There’s a quickness to his movements that’s hard to miss, but he’s always been more shadow than substance. He’s already cut the sleeves off his shirt, baring the tattooed runes that climb his arms and shoulders, black and blue as bruises. Magic whispers in the air around him, a weak trickle compared to the flood Raisa is capable of, but impressive, nonetheless.
Talon comes last, a spectacle as always. He shifts in mid-air, goes from raven to man while still falling, and lands with a bone-rattling crunch. Six-four, all muscle, with hair coppery in the moonlight, and a jawline hard enough to split firewood. He’s naked too, but Talon makes nudity a threat. He stands tall, his hands on his hips and his steely eyes sweeping the clearing like he’s already counting casualties.
“You’re late,” he says.
“No,” I say, “you’re impatient.”
He snorts, but the challenge in his eyes is tempered with something like respect.
Sable cracks his knuckles. “What’s the word?”
“She touched the gate on her own.”
“Let’s just take her and be done with it,” Talon grunts.
“She needs to believe leaving is her idea,” Bran says. “It’s the only way she’ll trust us.”
Stealing her would be easy. We could have done it a thousand times by now. But there is no artistry in theft, and no lesson, either. Real pain is having the one thing meant to be broken under your thumb defy you. Lessons like that linger.
I intend for the king’s lesson to sting for eternity.
“She already trusts us,” Sable argues.
He’s partially correct. Her trust is innocent and pure, given because she knows no better. But if she had an inkling that the ravens who carry her secrets are more than mere birds? If she knew what we did? What we wanted? No, she wouldn’t whisper her secrets to us then.
“She’s smarter than you give her credit for,” Grim rasps to Sable. “You saw the way she spoke to us today. She senses more than she says. Even if she doesn’t understand why, it makes her nervous. Forcing her will shatter what trust we’ve built.”
“Then we’ll make the castle intolerable, give her a reason to want the forest,” I say.
“How?” Onyx asks.
