The Cage
Sia had spent his entire life in a graveyard.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Ten years in the shadow of cracked tombstones, under the twisted roots of dead trees, surrounded by earthens beneath the soil. And still, he sometimes wondered if there was anyone as pathetic as he was.
A coward. At least, that's what he told himself. Again and again.
He didn't even remember what he was running from anymore. The outside world felt like a dream long faded. He wasn't sure if he truly remembered his mother's face or if his memory had rewritten it. A woman with silver-threaded hair adorned with pieces of bones pieces , always hiding him, always whispering something urgent. Don't look it in the eyes or was it don't be seen? He wasn't sure. The details were long gone, like they had been burned from his brain and only the sensation of fear remained. Insecurity
He hated the fact thay he hadn't even the courage to seek answers more. Even if he found proof that his mother had died protecting him, he was sure he had no ability to do anything about it. Revenge? He barely had the spine to dig through wet soil.
The irony was that His left eye had been sealed shut, bound by an old rite, and the world he feared was seen through one half-lidded gaze. Half-blind, half-alive. That's what he was. His long black hair greasy and uneven fell across his face, deliberately parted to cover the disfigured eye that pulsed faintly beneath. It looked like a vertical cat's eye carved into pale flesh, but it didn't see anything. Not anymore.
Every time he looked into the dented tin bowl he used as a mirror, he saw the same fragile thing: pale skin, dull cracked white lips, bones visible beneath his clothes, his posture like a plant starved of sunlight. His right eye was a pale, milky blue, too clear to be human. Everything about him looked drained.
And maybe it was.
He washed his face with cold water from a bucket and let out a breath. The shack , his home also seem fed up. It was a rotting shed at the edge of the graveyard, more mold than wood now. The roof leaked. The floor warped. One good storm and it would fold in on itself.
But he didn't leave.
He never left.
When he was sick, sad, or scared, when he laughed at his own stupid jokes or shouted into the fog out of frustration, Ashwing was the only one who stayed. His only companion. A creature that looked like a eagle and an owl stitched together by a lazy god. Its feathers were chipped and bent, like someone had plucked them halfway out and never finished. And yet, Ashwing had been there from the start.
The bird didn't always speak, but when it did, it was usually to insult him.
"You think too much for someone who does nothing," it had told him once, perching on the edge of a gravestone. "Thinking won't stop the things under the ground."
Sometimes, Ashwing became a flute—carved from bone, cold and ancient—and nestled inside Sia's satchel, claiming to be "hibernating." Sia called it hiding.
Ashwing had told him once he was five when he arrived at the graveyard. But Sia didn't count years. He had long stopped marking days. Time only mattered when the dead started moving.
His days were always the same: study, patrol, dig, avoid the strange things crawling through the mist. He'd read through every book Ashwing had brought him, stolen from who knew where. Necromancy codices, charm sigils, sealing rituals, even healing magic. All kinds of rites he had never dared to cast. He knew the theory. He memorized every word. But practice? That was something braver people did.
And Sia was no hero.
The truth was, he only studied so he wouldn't die. He wasn't drawn to power. He was just afraid of being powerless again.
He remembered the night he arrived. A storm had chased him, real or imagined, he didn't know anymore. He had crawled through snow, trembling and soaked, biting back sobs. His hands had been cut from thorns, his feet numb. The graveyard had looked like sanctuary. He'd seen the shack, broken and jagged, and crawled toward it like a beaten dog.
Ashwing had appeared days later. Not with kindness, but with a coat and bread.
"You look like a stray cat," the bird had said, perching above him. "You'll die. Maybe. Let's find out."
And Sia had eaten the bread. Because even if it was poison, he hadn't cared.
Three days passed. Ashwing came back. And stayed.
Why?
Because, as it said, "You wanted to live. That's enough."
He remembered the mimicker too , the thing that had tricked him, pretending to be his mother. It had spoken with her voice, held her hands, wore her necklace. It took him days to realize she didn't blink. Didn't breathe. When it attacked, he screamed until his lungs tore. And then something inside him cracked. The next thing he remembered, his left eye was sealed.
The mimic was gone.
And Ashwing stood over him.
Since then, the eye hadn't opened. And Sia hadn't questioned why. The graveyard became his world. And he told himself the outside didn't matter.
But lately… lately something was changing.
He was beginning to wonder if he was still running from something. Or if he was just hiding from everything.
And worse, he didn't know the difference anymore.