The Cup (The Moroccan Empire #1)

Black Feathers

They were so bright, these feathers. So bright. She loved the birds, perhaps they were easier for her to love than her husband, her daughter. The birds made her smile, a rare sight. Their chirrups and songs lightened our heavy house.

I wander the rooms, returning again and again to their cages. They could not escape their fate and perhaps neither can I. Now their feathers are black with the force of the fire and when I touch them, they crumble beneath my fingertips, ashes falling to meet the ashes on the floor.

I did not mean for this to happen. I was a child with powers too great for a child when this began. I am not even sure when all this began, whether it was one moment or another.

My father was a trader of slaves when I was given the cup. That is as much of a beginning as I can be sure of.