She knows he’s here long before the stench of death finds her. Though truthfully, it is not all that bad. Like an afterthought, like the remnants of a cigarette. But that would make sense, because it wasn’t dead. Not now, anyway. The ravens had been watching as it died, as it lay there with maggots crawling (they do appreciate the maggots) waiting like the ashes of a phoenix. Though the ravens are certain to tell her that it is not so pretty as a phoenix.
They tell her that it is coming, when it has crossed the bored. There are so many ravens in the Chamber now, some natural, some of her own creation. Those that roam Beqanna are made of feather, though when they return to the kingdom they often become merely shadow. The one on her back is simply shadow, swirling in the general shape of a raven, but nothing distinct. She understands the caws that come from the place where the beak ought to be. But the shadow beak does not part, and the shadow does not disappear as she moves through the pine forest to find it.
It isn’t that hard. Though it is silent, the flashes of white talon are clear enough in the darkness of the forest. And though he may know this kingdom well, so does she, and it is not hard for her to cut him off. “Infection,” she says, her voice smoky, and the raven on her shoulder caws. “Welcome home.” Because she knows this is his home. She knows that like so many of them, the walls have been opened to the mythical that once thrived here.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission