Chapter 19 A Broken Curse
A Broken Curse
Shade
Sunrise at the edge of the forest is always red. Today, it’s the color of blood on new snow, a line of fire that burns through the mist and finds every scar and ragged feather on my body. I stand in the shadow of the tree line, my brothers arrayed around me, basking in the chill like it’s holy.
We haven’t seen a real battle in weeks, but none of us has lost the edge. If anything, we’re sharper now, honed by the freedom we never thought we’d earn.
The curse is gone, but the instincts are welded to our bones.
I flex my fingers, watching the claws fade in and out, muscle and talon switching places without the old agony.
The shift is a breath, a blink, a choice.
It never used to be like this.
Before Raisa broke the world and remade it in her image, every shift felt like dying.
Skin peeled away, bones splintered and rebuilt, nerves screamed until I forgot my own name.
I remember the taste of blood—my own, most days—pooling at the back of my tongue as my body lost its mind and rebuilt itself from the wreckage.
Now? I can feel the change just under the surface, always there, ready to answer the smallest twitch of will. I could shift a thousand times in a row and never break a sweat.
It’s perfect. It’s terrifying.
It’s mine, a gift from the woman who was willing to die for me and my brothers.
I turn my head, scanning the tree line.
Onyx stands to my left, massive and silent, his breath ghosting in front of his face. He’s always the first to spot danger, but today he just stares into the distance, arms crossed, waiting for my signal.
Grim is to my right, picking at the leather strap around his wrist with claws that never fully blunt. He’s smiling, but there’s no humor in it, just a hunger he’s never learned to hide.
Bran, Rune, and Sable fan out behind us, a perfect triangle of menace.
Sable looks bored, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but his eyes are sharp and glittering.
Bran bounces on the balls of his feet, twitchy and eager, glasses fogged from the cold.
Rune stands perfectly still, his tattoos crawling over his skin in a way that’s almost alive.
Talon lingers at the rear, pacing, turning the hilt of his knife over and over in his palm. He glances at me, nods once, then returns to his slow circuit, always keeping an eye on the woods. Always hunting.
This is our family. Our flock.
A breeze shifts, and I catch the scent of sweat and steel. There are men in the underbrush, maybe a hundred yards off. Not villagers. No farmer in his right mind would be this close to the castle grounds without Raisa’s permission.
These are soldiers, the last loyalists. The fools who think killing us will bring back the old order and unravel Raisa’s will.
I don’t have to speak. I just cock my chin at the trees.
Onyx stiffens, his nostrils flaring. Grim starts to laugh, low and mean. Sable’s face lights up like a kid as he cracks his knuckles in anticipation.
The whole flock shifts closer, as if pulled by a magnet. Even Talon drifts in, silent as a shadow, his knife reversed in his hand and ready.
I drop to a crouch, digging my fingers into the frost-bitten soil. The pain is sharp and electric, but it feels good. It reminds me that I’m alive, that I have a purpose beyond survival now.
I can hear the soldiers moving closer, their boots crunching in the snow, their voices hushed but frantic.
“They’re coming,” Rune whispers, not bothering to hide the excitement in his voice.
I don’t reply. I just breathe in, slow and deep, letting the air fill every dark corner of my chest.
There are five of them, maybe six. Not enough to survive us.
I look at Onyx, who nods.
I look at Grim. He bares his teeth.
I give the signal.
We move as one, a black ripple through the trees. The shift is instant—half-wings, half-legs, claws and fangs, and bloodlust. It’s pure and clean, an eruption of power that’s as natural as breathing.
I hit the first man in the chest, driving him back into a tree so hard the bark explodes. His ribs collapse under my grip. He dies with a grunt, no time for a scream. I rip out his heart and drop it in the snow, just to see the color. It’s almost beautiful.
Grim tackles the second, rolling him to the ground and tearing out his throat with a single, savage bite. The blood sprays across my face, hot and fresh. For a second, I want to howl.
Grim does, a war cry that’s still more monster than man.
Talon and Onyx flank the rest, moving in perfect sync.
Onyx grabs a man by the legs, lifts him overhead, and snaps his spine across his knee like a stick.
Talon shoves his knife into another’s eye, then yanks it free, blood and brain matter misting the air.
He wipes the blade on the dead man’s cloak, then smiles at me like we just shared a joke.
The last two try to run, but Sable and Rune are already on them.
Sable trips his prey with a sweep of his foot, then rolls the man over and straddles his chest, pinning his arms with his knees.
He leans in close, whispering something.
I can’t hear what, but the man pisses himself before Sable slits his throat, slow and careful.
Rune toys with his target, slashing at the man’s arms and legs, carving shallow lines until the ground is striped with red.
He hums as he works, a soft, strange tune that reminds me of lullabies.
When the man finally collapses, Rune just wipes his blade clean and steps back, admiring the artistry of it.
It’s over in seconds. The clearing is a mess of bodies, blood, and steaming viscera. We stand above it, panting, hearts racing, every sense screaming with victory.
“For Raisa,” I say, my voice barely more than a growl. It means more than victory, more than blood, more than freedom. It’s a vow.
We belong to her, and the world is going to have to learn to live with that. The curse is gone, but the power is real, and it’s never tasted better.
Onyx wipes the blood from his hands, then claps me on the shoulder.
“You’re getting slow,” he says.
Grim laughs, a rumbling, rusty sound. “Next time, I want the first one.”
Talon shrugs, sheathing his knife. “There won’t be a next time. Word will spread.”
Sable crouches next to the man he killed, poking at the exposed muscle with a curious finger. “You think Raisa will let us keep one?” he asks. “For decoration?”
Bran rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You’re sick, Sable.”
Rune stands apart, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “She’ll want to know we’re coming back,” he says. “We should go before she worries.”
We don’t argue. We never do, not when it matters.
I lead the way out of the clearing, feeling the old hunger replaced by something sweeter—a sense of purpose, maybe, or just the knowledge that we’ve finally won.
The castle is waiting. She’s waiting.
We move together, a single, perfect animal, and for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
Not even a little.
We fly the last mile to the castle, a flight of shadow streaking over fields and frozen streams. The air is so cold it burns, but nothing can dull the heat in my chest or the wild sounds of my brothers as we bank right and wheel above the ramparts.
The gates are open, the guards at their posts, but they don’t view us with the same terror as before. I never thought I’d see it: respect, not fear, on the faces of the men who once hunted and hated us.
We land in the courtyard, seven black ravens shifting to men in a ripple of magic and muscle.
My feet hit the flagstones first, and I stretch my arms overhead, savoring the pull of skin over bone.
My brothers shed their bird shapes beside me, each in their own way.
Onyx in silence, Talon with a cocky roll of his shoulders, Sable with a full body shake that sends his hair wild.
Bran and Rune look at each other and grin, a silent joke only they share.
Grim just cracks his neck, already scanning the towers, the walls, the sky.
We walk in together, heads high. The staff scatter before us, but only to make room, not out of fear. I catch a glimpse of a kitchen maid peeking from a side door, her cheeks bright with curiosity. A stableboy leans on a pitchfork and actually smiles when Sable winks at him.
The world is different now, tilted on a new axis. We’re not the enemy anymore. We’re legends.
Inside, the castle is lit with morning sun, the high windows spilling gold and crimson across the marble floors. There’s no blood, no sign of the battle that made this place ours. Just the cold hush of old stone and the faintest trace of her magic in the air.
She’s waiting for us. I can feel it.
I lead the way through the halls, my stride loose, my hands in my pockets. I could find her blindfolded, nose broken, heart stopped. Her presence is a beacon, hotter than fire, sharper than any hunger I’ve ever known.
We reach the throne room, and I push the doors open without slowing.
She’s on the throne, of course.
Her hair is down, flowing like a black river over her shoulders.
The crown sits perfectly on her head, like she was born with it.
She wears white today, the fabric tight over her breasts, cinched at the waist, the skirt fanning out in waves of silk and bone.
Her legs are crossed, one foot bouncing in time with her heartbeat.
Her eyes go storm gray and bright as the sky after lightning when they find mine.
She smiles, and my insides catch fire.
The room is empty, save for her. No guards, no council, no audience at all. It’s just us and her, the way it’s supposed to be.
We stop at the foot of the dais, seven monsters and their queen. For a second, I think she’s going to make us kneel while she wrecks us like she did last night.
She doesn’t.
She stands, the crown glinting, and descends the steps in three quick strides. Her slippers are soft, but I hear every step.
I can feel the others tense, the air thick with want and expectation.