Chapter 1 #2
The other two ravens drop from the sundial and follow, marching in single file after the larger bird. They stop at the path’s edge, where the stone meets the clipped grass, and wait. Not for me, I think. For something else.
I look up at the castle, where the windows glow faintly, and the guards stalk the ramparts like black ghosts. I look at the walls, so tall they block out the moon. I glance back at the ravens, who watch me with patience and purpose.
It’s a dare, I realize. They want me to follow.
And I’m just bored and lonely enough to accept.
I leave the bench and follow them, clutching the black feather like a talisman. The birds lead me along the path, past the orchard and the herb garden, all the way to an old iron gate where the ivy grows so thick it nearly hides the lock. They stop there, turning to face me.
I crouch down, my knees in the damp grass, and peer at the gate. “What do you want me to see?” I whisper.
The large raven taps its beak against the bottom hinge, then looks up at me. Its eyes are so dark I see my own reflection: pale, wide-eyed, stupid with hope.
A cold wind blasts through the ivy, and I shiver.
I reach for the latch, even though I know it’ll be locked tight. Father has keys for every door, every gate, every secret in the castle. And I’ve been locked behind them my entire life, unable to venture beyond. But he never has been able to keep me from hoping.
I grip the iron and give it a tug.
It moves.
Only a little. Just enough to let in a sliver of air from the forest beyond. I press my face to the crack and inhale. The wind on the other side is wilder, laced with the scent of woodsmoke and far-off rain.
I let the gate swing back into place, my hands trembling.
The ravens watch, frozen, before erupting into motion, with wings beating and feathers exploding into the night. They shoot past my head and over the wall, leaving me with the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, I can escape this place after all.
I straighten up, brush the dirt from my knees, and slip the black feather into my sleeve.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the empty garden, turning toward the castle.
But I don’t go straight inside.
The black feather itches against my wrist as I slip through the hedgerows, following the same winding path as before.
But this time, there’s an odd sense that everything has shifted a half-step.
The statues look different in the low light, less like gods and heroes, and more like petrified people frozen in mid-scream.
Even the roses are shivering, their open mouths trembling on the verge of something.
I almost make it to the orchard before the ravens find me again, all seven of them this time.
They descend in a chorus of wings, pouring from the trees and the shadows above the wall like ink spilled down a page. They don’t caw or chatter or even land at first. They orbit me in silence, like a storm of feathers waiting for permission to break.
When I stop walking, they stop flying, every single one snapping to stillness in the branches directly overhead.
I try to pretend this doesn’t unsettle me, but my body betrays the lie. My skin prickles, goosebumps blooming up and down my arms. My pulse rattles against my ears.
I brace my back against the trunk of a pear tree, glaring up at the nearest bird. “What do you want from me?”
The biggest raven, the one with the mangled white scar near its eye, hops down the branch until it’s level with my face.
The branch creaks beneath its weight, a soft sound slicing through the silence.
The bird looks at me with the same intense, predatory focus it had earlier, but I see the reflection in its eye—not just my face, but the moon behind my head acting like a halo of cold light.
It feels like an answer.
I stick out my hand, disconcerted. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
The raven doesn’t take my hand. Instead, it does something so deliberate and eerie that it takes my breath away.
It bows again, but this time with a little flourish; wings lifted, breast puffed, head dropping so low it almost touches my outstretched fingers.
Then, as if it’s satisfied some ancient etiquette, it straightens and hops onto my palm, talons digging into my skin with surprising gentleness.
I stare at it, my heart hammering.
“You’re not really a raven, are you?” I whisper.
It’s not the first time I’ve thought the same.
Even here, there are whispers of such magic beyond the castle gates, of strange creatures who aren’t quite animal or man.
I’ve always told myself they’re just that: whispers.
Rumors. But it’s harder to ignore the way intuition whispers now, though, like it knows something I don’t—something ancient and powerful.
The bird blinks, slow and unhurried. Then it taps its beak against my thumb, not hard enough to hurt but insistent, like a parent scolding a child. I have no idea what it wants, so I hold still and wait.
Behind me, the rest of the flock descends to the ground, landing on the grass, the stone walk, and the low stone benches that circle the orchard. They move with purpose, never colliding, never hesitating. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were arranging themselves.
They are.
One of the smaller ravens breaks from the flock and begins collecting twigs from the ground, snapping off the little dead shoots from the rosebushes that line the path.
It hops back and forth across the stones, laying the sticks in a careful, geometric pattern, with the lines all running parallel, then perpendicular, like the bars of a cage.
The others watch in silence, not even preening. It feels like a performance, and I’m the only one in the audience.
I glance back at the raven on my hand. It meets my gaze, then nods once—an unmistakable gesture. I follow its eyes to the pattern on the ground, then back up to the walls, and the windows, and the guards.
“You’re trying to tell me something,” I say, awe warring with suspicion. “You want me to escape. Or you want me to—what, join you?” My voice trails off, the idea so ridiculous I can barely finish following it through.
The raven clicks its beak once, sharp and emphatic.
I swallow, my throat dry. “If I could, I’d–” I stop, remembering the words I used before. They seem stupid now, childish. But the raven looks at me as if it’s waiting for me to finish the thought.
I draw a shaky breath. “I’d never come back,” I whisper. “I don’t belong here.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, the entire garden goes still.
The ravens all freeze, every last one of them. The air feels electrified, as if a storm is about to break right over the castle. Even the wind dies down, the leaves stilling in the branches.
The largest raven, the one on my palm, tilts its head at an angle so acute it’s almost obscene.
The gesture feels both challenging and hungry, like it wants to crawl inside my skull and see what’s there.
Its eyes glitter, impossibly black, and I wonder again—really wonder—if there’s a person looking back at me through that animal’s face.
I want to lean closer, press my forehead to the raven’s beak, and whisper something private and wild to see what it does, but before I can move, a voice shatters the silence.
“Raisa! Inside, now.”
Father’s voice.
It cracks through the hush with the force of a whip. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The raven leaps from my palm, its wings gusting the air so hard it stings my cheek. The rest of the flock erupts at once, launching skyward in a frenzy of black feathers.
I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Father stands at the far edge of the garden, just where the orchard gives way to the rose arbors. He’s in his evening suit, all crisp gray lines and silver buttons, his hair combed back from his face in a way that makes him look both regal and wolfish. His eyes, icy and unyielding, lock with mine.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.
“Now, Raisa,” he says again, his voice softer but somehow even more dangerous. The word “now” carries all the weight of law.
I step forward, not trusting myself to speak, praying he didn’t see the ravens with me. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I feel the flush on my cheeks and the wildness in my eyes.
He watches me approach with a patience that borders on menace.
When I’m close enough to touch him, he leans down and brushes a stray leaf from my hair. His hand lingers a moment too long, cold and heavy against my scalp.
“I’ve told you about wandering the gardens after dark,” he says, his voice pitched so low only I hear it. “There are things out here that would love nothing more than to taste your blood.”
I force a smile. “I’m not afraid. I like listening to the wind.”
He arches an eyebrow. “No,” he agrees, “you never are afraid. That’s the problem.”
He’s wrong, though. I’m afraid every day, of him and this place, of dying without ever knowing what it means to live. But I’m not afraid of the gardens or the ravens. They feel like peace and safety in a place sorely lacking both.
He takes my arm, not roughly, but with the kind of grip that makes escape impossible. “Come inside. It’s almost dinner, and the council is waiting.”
I glance back at the garden, half-expecting to see the ravens waiting for me. But they’re gone now, vanished into the night like they never existed. Except…they do.
And I’m more convinced than ever that they’re more than mere birds.