"When the body falls and the spirit weeps, do not pray for wings. Pray for teeth."— Ella the Silvertongued Princess
Dove.
The queen lay pressed against the cold marble, a soldier's armoured shin driving hard between her shoulder blades. Her body strained uselessly against the weight pinning her down — proud even now, even broken.
Her blonde hair spilled across the stones in a tangled halo.
Hair like mine.
Above her, Erik, the Usurper, grinned — all crooked teeth and cold blue eyes. His voice coiled through the ruined throne room like smoke.
"My queeeen," he sang mockingly, bowing low with a flourish so theatrical it made bile rise in my throat. "You'll grant me your daughter's hand now, won't you?"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
The queen's voice was low but steady, her chin tilted in defiance despite the boot grinding her ribs.
"I won't."
The soldier pressed harder. A sickening crack splintered the air.
She gasped — a small, wounded sound — but her eyes stayed hard. Unyielding.
Another rough shake on my shoulder.
"Dove. Dove."
The nightmare snapped like a taut thread. I screamed before I remembered where I was — who I was. The sound came from somewhere deep, raw.
Raven loomed over me, her damp hand still clutched to my shoulder, her dark hair dripping water down her cheeks like tears she didn't shed.
"You're safe," she murmured.
A lie.
I knew better now than to believe in safety.
I shook my head wordlessly, unable to trust my own voice not to crack open with the next breath.
Raven gave me a tight, aching smile. The kind of smile you gave someone already drowning.
I swallowed hard and forced myself upright a fraction, ignoring the way the room spun.
"Is there…" My throat burned with the scrape of unused words. "Is there any way out of here?"
Raven's smile faltered, hollowing at the edges.
She pointed upward toward the stained-glass dragons circling above. "You'd have to ride one of them out."
Then she dropped her gaze, her lame leg shifting awkwardly. "Or..." She shook it once. "You could try the way I did."
She didn't have to say it: broken and half-crippled for the rest of her life, lucky to be breathing at all.
The silence pressed between us, heavy and unkind.
Raven cleared her throat, trying to stitch it shut. "Are you hungry?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
Hunger.
Choice.
I'd forgotten what it was to be asked.
My stomach answered for me with a low, traitorous rumble.
Raven's smile wobbled but held. "Alright. Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She dressed quickly, slipping back into the simple, battered clothes of the Aviary, then slipped through the iron door like a whisper.
I listened until the sound of her footsteps faded.
And then, for the first time since I'd woken in this place, I allowed myself to cry.
Silent. Bitter. Unforgiving.
Not for what had been done to me.
But for the small, stubborn part of myself that still wanted to live.
--
Raven.
The halls of the Aviary were mostly empty at this hour, but that didn't make them safe.
I walked fast. Head down. Shoulders tucked tight.
Make yourself small. Make yourself invisible.
Rooms flickered past in the gloom, doors cracked open just enough to let the sounds leak out: low moans, sharp cries, the rhythmic slap of bodies forced together.
I breathed through my nose and kept moving.
It wasn't until the heavy kitchen door came into view — battered driftwood, blackened with the smoke of countless fires — that I dared to breathe easier.
The cook didn't look up when I entered. She rarely did. Her gold eyes flickered once in my direction, then settled back on her chopping block.
"Breakfast's not for another two hours," she said without pausing.
I plastered a polite smile on my face and folded my hands demurely.
"Madame's orders," I said sweetly. "The new girl. She's to have the best."
At that, the cook did look up. Her lips peeled back in a snarl, baring crooked teeth.
"She don't deserve anything," she spat, tapping two fingers to her shoulder in the old warding sign — an accusation and a curse all at once.
I kept my expression pleasant, repeating dutifully, "Best of everything."
The cook cursed under her breath but relented, tossing a basket together with violent motions. Fresh bread, honey, soft cheese, dried fruits — more food than I'd seen in one place in months.
When she shoved it into my arms, I didn't linger.
I slipped back into the halls, weaving through the Aviary's crooked arteries toward the baths.
And that's when I heard him.
"Where's the girl? Bring her to me, you useless sow!" he bellowed.
The monster who haunts my dreams.
His voice chased me down the stones like a lash.
I almost dropped the basket.
Instead, I bolted — my bad leg slowing me, dragging me — but I ran.
I heard the madame's sharp, poised reply behind me: "Occupied. But Pigeon is available."
Pigeon — another poor soul who wouldn't see tomorrow the same way.
I didn't look back.
I didn't breathe until the door to the baths slammed shut behind me, cutting off the sound of his fury like the guillotine blade I sometimes wished would fall.
I pressed my back to the cool stone and slid down it, basket clutched tight to my chest.
When I finally raised my head, Dove was watching me.
Her green eyes were wide, too wide, the gold flecks in them catching the light and making them seem almost unnatural. Almost... ethereal.
A different kind of fear flickered through me.
She didn't belong here. She would burn brighter than all of us, and it would kill her.
It would kill us all.
I forced a smile onto my face and crossed to her.
Her injuries were too raw for movement, but I gently fiddled with the knob under the heavy table she was laid upon, propping her into a half-sitting position.
She gasped sharply, pain flashing across her face, and guilt twisted my gut.
Still, selfishly, I thought: Good.
The longer she took to heal, the longer I could stay in this room. Safe.
Safe for a little while longer.
I hated myself for it.
I set the basket down and began to unpack it onto a small side table: hunks of bread, softened fruit, wedges of pale cheese.
I heard her whisper — dry and hoarse — a single word:
"Thank you."
My hands stilled.
A thousand ugly things coiled up inside me.
But I pushed them down, tucked them under my ribs like broken wings.
"You're welcome," I said aloud, my voice surprisingly steady.
For tonight, she was alive.
For tonight, we both were.
And maybe — if the gods were kind and the dragons merciful — that would be enough.