Chapter 5 Chains of Darkness #2
For a moment, I want to tell them everything.
I want to tell them how the room feels smaller every day, how the air is thin, how the memory of hands on my skin makes me ache for something I don’t have a name for.
I want to confess the guilt that needles me every time I think of Father, and the shame that comes with wishing he would just let me rot.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, watching the birds as they watch me, locked in a standoff with no clear winner.
Eventually, the room grows colder, the moon higher. The birds remain, as black as the space between stars, and I wonder if maybe they really are more than just birds.
Maybe they’re the only thing in the world still listening.
I tilt my head, matching their pose.
“If you are them,” I say, “I’m not afraid.”
The birds don’t move, don’t make a sound. But something in the air changes, like the room is suddenly full of words I can’t hear.
I wrap the blanket tighter, lie down on the rug, and wait for morning.
When I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel their gaze, soft, hungry, and impossibly patient.
Like they’re waiting for me to figure out who I am.
Or what I want.
Night stretches long and unbroken, a fathomless expanse that presses harder with each passing hour.
I lose track of time, of the shape of my thoughts, until I’m shivering on the floor with the blanket drawn tight around my shoulders. My eyes sting with the effort of staying open, of refusing to sleep in case my dreams turn ugly again.
The ravens are still on the ledge, standing as witnesses to my misery. I watch them, the way a drowning girl might watch the moon, knowing it’s the only thing left to mark her place in the world.
I lean against the wall, the chill of it seeping through my nightgown. My body feels strange, untrustworthy, just a collection of aches and raw nerves.
At first, I think it’s just the cold. But as I wrap my arms tighter, I realize it’s something else.
I’m restless. Hungry in a way I don’t have a name for.
The memory of the men won’t leave me alone.
I see them as they were in the clearing, the way they moved, the way they looked at me. The certainty in their voices, the claim in their hands. The heat of their bodies close to mine, the threat and promise tangled together. It makes me flush, makes my heart pound so fast I worry it might break.
I shift on the floor, the fabric of my gown twisting around my hips. My thighs are damp, my breasts heavy against the thin cotton. I squeeze my legs together, trying to breathe through the sudden, hot ache.
It’s wrong, I think. I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’m not supposed to want the things I want.
But in the dark, with no one to witness, the wanting is bigger than the shame.
I glance up at the ravens again. They haven’t moved, but they watch me with an intensity that feels almost…intimate. Like they see the flush in my cheeks, the way my nipples stand out hard beneath the fabric, the way my breath comes short and ragged.
I pull the blanket up, but it does nothing to hide me from their eyes.
Memory crashes over me. Shade’s voice, low and commanding. Bran’s soft hands on my waist. Sable’s laughter in my ear. The way Grim’s stare made my skin burn. I remember the way they caged me in, the way I didn’t want to leave.
I rub my thighs together, desperate for relief, but it only makes the ache worse. I squeeze my legs tight and let my head fall back, my hair spilling over the stones.
The need hurts.
My hand drifts down my body, over all those places that ache. Touching them brings the hunger into screaming focus, but in a way that’s thrilling, and I briefly wonder if this is what it means to be alive.
A soft knock at the glass snaps me out of it. I look up.
The center raven has stepped forward, its beak tapping the pane. Its eyes are brighter than before, almost silver in the moonlight.
I sit up, pulling the blanket tight around my chest, my heart pounding. “What do you want from me?” I whisper.
The bird tilts its head, feathers ruffling. It looks like it’s waiting for something.
Grim said the forest listens, that I should be careful what I wish for. I let myself be reckless instead, let the truth whisper from my lips.
“I wish…”
The birds lean in, their beaks nearly touching the glass.
“I wish you could take me away,” I say, softer than a breath. “Take me to them. To the men in the clearing.”
My face is burning, but I can’t stop now.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” I finish, the words tumbling out before I can take them back. “I want to feel…alive. I want to feel everything.”
For a moment, the world goes completely silent.
Then, as if I’ve said the magic words, the ravens stir. The air in the room thickens, humming with a charge I feel in my bones.
The bird at the center leans close enough that its breath fogs the glass. Its eyes lock with mine, and for a heartbeat I feel the weight of it—ancient, patient, hungry.
The light in the tower flickers. The air smells of feathers and smoke and the sharp tang of midnight.
I stare at the bird, unable to look away.
“I wish,” I repeat, louder now. “I wish you’d take me from here. Please.”
The birds let out a single, synchronized cry, a sound that’s not quite a caw, not quite a song, but something in between. The glass shudders in its pane, and the darkness beyond feels closer, more alive.
I press my hand to the glass, my palm lined up with the center raven’s claw.
For a second, I think I see a flash of color in its eye, a swirl of green, a sliver of gold. It’s gone in an instant, but it leaves me shaking, my skin prickling with anticipation.
The birds fall silent again, but the feeling in the room remains.
I climb to my feet, resting my forehead against the glass, and let myself believe that something will change, that the forest will hear my wish. That somewhere, out in the wild dark, the men are waiting for me.
I close my eyes, heat and hunger and hope all twisted together.
In the silence that follows, I swear I hear a heartbeat that’s not my own. I feel it pulsing beneath my skin, and I feel powerful in a way I never have before.
I smile, even as tears slip down my cheeks.
Maybe tonight, I’ll dream of them.
Maybe tomorrow, they’ll come.