Chapter 7 #3
I bite my lip, my eyes locked on the vial as memories surge—restless nights in an unfamiliar place after my father’s abandonment, a life stolen too soon by my own recklessness.
All of it because of me.
Each seed had been a shield against the nightmares of betrayal from those I should have been able to trust, and the loss of those who shouldn’t have trusted me.
Letting go of that crutch is like stepping into the unknown, unarmed and exposed.
But here, on this ship, I have to be stronger.
While the somniseed grants me a deep, dreamless sleep, it comes at a cost. It leaves me vulnerable, trapped in a heavy lethargy, unable to wake until its effects fade.
Vulnerability is a risk I can’t take, not when the safety of my kingdom and my closest friend are at stake.
Muttering a soft curse under my breath, I shove the vial back into my pack, pressing it deep into the bottom.
Needing to remove myself from temptation, I rise from my bunk and make my way to the deck.
The night air carries a faint cooling touch against my skin—a subtle reminder that we are leaving summer’s grasp behind.
Seeking solitude and a better view of the horizon, I climb the rigging to the crow’s nest, letting the muted expanse of the night surround me.
From this vantage point, the lights of the Sorrows twinkle faintly, gradually fading into the distance, much like the life I’m leaving behind.
I settle into the nest, wrapping my arms around my knees as the vast expanse of sea and sky surrounds me.
The stars scatter across the velvet night like distant eyes, silent witnesses to the secrets I hold.
Below, the sea stretches endlessly—a dark, uncharted abyss that mirrors my own uncertainties: vast, daunting, and teeming with unseen perils.
Up here, perched above the deck, I feel both isolated and exposed, a poignant reminder that even in solitude, the weight of the unknown lingers.
The faint creak of strained ropes breaks the silence. I stiffen, clinging to the hope of solitude, only to spot a familiar silhouette. Raven hauls himself up into the crow’s nest, and I scowl as he settles in across from me.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice rough with exhaustion, sending a shiver across my skin.
I shrug, keeping my gaze on the horizon. “Something like that.”
We sit in silence, the only sound the soft, rhythmic lapping of waves against the ship’s hull, accompanied by the occasional creak of wood as the vessel sways.
The air is cool and heavy with the scent of salt, wrapping around us like an invisible shroud.
As the moments stretch on and his presence lingers, an uneasy tension coils through my shoulders, spreading up my spine and tightening my jaw.
I find myself acutely aware of every breath, every shift in the air, as if waiting for a storm to break.
Raven’s voice is hesitant, careful. “You know, we’re going to have to work together if this mission is going to succeed.”
I narrow my eyes at him, surprised by the sudden sincerity in his tone. His gaze locks onto mine, probing, like he’s trying to see something I’m not ready to show.
“I’m aware,” I say dryly, my voice edged with defiance.
“Are you?” he presses, leaning forward, his gaze unwavering. “Because it seems like you’re still trying to do everything on your own.”
I bristle at his words, a familiar defensiveness rising within me. “I’ve always had to rely on myself,” I admit, my voice sharper than intended. Memories flicker through my mind, unbidden and raw. “It’s hard to let that go.”
Raven nods, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I understand that. But we need to trust each other.”
I cross my arms over my chest, my voice hardening. “Trust isn’t exactly my strong suit, Raven. And, frankly, I don’t see why it has to be. I’m doing my part. Isn’t that enough?”
He exhales, frustration flashing across his face. “Doing your part isn’t the same as working together. You can’t just keep everyone at arm’s length and hope for the best. That’s not how this works.”
I clench my jaw, turning back to the horizon. “I’ve managed just fine so far.”
“Have you?” he counters, his tone sharper now. “Because I know you, and this isn’t you.”
The words hit a nerve, the weight of the past year pressing down on me.
It’s been a year since I last saw him—since Raven vanished without a word, assigned to Alpha Flight and gone before I could give voice to all the things I’d been holding back.
Before I could ask if it had ever meant anything at all.
We spent nearly a decade together in the Aviary.
He was a Songbird already—seventeen, sharp as a dagger in the dark, with a quiet confidence that made others step aside without knowing why.
I was still raw from everything I’d lost, too soft, too silent, a thread of grief unraveling inside me.
The masters didn’t know what to do with me.
But the Eagle did. He assigned Raven to mentor me—to harden me.
He taught me how to fight, how to lie, how to bury what hurt. I clung to him like a lifeline, even when he tried to keep his distance. He left often—short missions that carved holes in the weeks between—but he always came back.
When he returned at twenty-four, after his first mission as a Nightwing, something in him had changed.
His gaze was colder, his touch more careful, like he’d learned just how much damage he could do.
That was the night I kissed him. That was the night we stopped pretending there wasn’t more between us.
For two years we existed in the in-between—never naming it, never claiming it. Just stolen nights and silences that said more than words ever could. And then he was gone. No goodbye. No note. And he didn’t come back.
And now here he is, acting like he still knows me, like he has the right to pick me apart. But a lot can change in a year. I’m not the same person who stood in front of him back then.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, the mix of anger and something deeper—something I don’t want to name—boiling beneath the surface. I force myself to sit taller, to meet his gaze with a steadiness I don’t quite feel. “You don’t know me anymore.”
He doesn’t back down, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Maybe I don’t. But this mission isn’t just about you. It’s about all of us surviving, and if you can’t see that, then you might end up taking us all down with you.”
This time, his words are a slap, and for a moment, I can’t respond. The anger simmering in my chest gives way to something heavier, something I don’t want to name.
“It’s difficult to earn trust, Raven. You should know that better than most.” I turn away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. The horizon is a safer place for my eyes.
“I do,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “But it’s a matter we have to work on if we’re going to survive.”
The tension in my chest tightens as his meaning settles over me.
My instinct is to push back, to defend the walls I’ve spent years building.
Trust isn’t just a weakness—it’s a liability, one that has cost me before.
Memories claw to the surface—hollow promises, betrayals, and nights spent mending wounds caused by others and my own blind faith.
Trust is a double-edged blade, and I’ve learned to keep it sheathed.
But then his eyes—steady and unyielding—meet mine, and I can’t ignore the truth beneath my defenses. He isn’t fighting me; he’s fighting for the fragile unity our mission needs.
I turn my gaze to the horizon, where the distant lights of home flicker like fragments of a past I’ve long tried to escape—yet now I resist, if only because the choice wasn’t mine to make.
The ghosts linger, their whispers a constant reminder of why I’ve kept my distance.
But tonight, their voices seem softer, almost subdued.
Perhaps Raven sees something I cannot—or refuse to.
The thought weighs heavily. What if keeping my distance drags us all down? I don’t have to like the idea of depending on him. But perhaps I need to try. For the mission—and for Nyssa, above all else.
I inhale, the salty tang of the sea grounding me as I nod. “I’ll try.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. A fragile truce.
Raven offers me a small smile, one that reaches his eyes for the first time since he returned. It makes him look younger, more carefree, as the wind tousles his dark waves of hair, tangling them over his forehead. “That’s all I can ask for.”
I stare at him, surprised by the cautious optimism in his words. For once, I don’t have a quick retort or deflective comment. Instead, something shifts inside me, a small crack forming in the hardened shell I’ve built around myself.
We fall into a more comfortable silence, the tension between us easing, and I return to watching the twinkling lights as they grow more distant.
Raven rises to his feet as if preparing to leave, but he hesitates, turning back toward me.
“You’re facing the wrong way,” he says, his voice calm yet pointed.
I look up at him, confusion knitting my brow. “And what makes you think that?”
Before I can react, he swoops down, seizing my hand and pulling me to my feet. In a single fluid motion, he spins me away from the Sorrows, guiding me toward the nest’s railing and positioning me to face north. His warm breath grazes my cheek, sending a shiver coursing through me.
“Never focus on what’s behind you, Starling. The future holds too much promise to be ignored.”
He pauses for a moment longer, as if ensuring his words have taken root in my mind. When he finally leaves, granting me the solitude I had been yearning for, I’m left wrestling with the ache in my chest, straining to find the promise he claims to see.