Page 6 of Harbinger

When I was little, one came to Damalis, but it was so long ago that my recollection of her is more feeling than concrete memory. A pit in the stomach. A sense of being small and insignificant. A tugging alarm in the chest that’s impossible to ignore. All wrapped in scarlet.

This bishop’s hood is drawn, obscuring his face even more in the dim room. I take a step in his direction like he holds some invisible thread that I can’t resist pulling. He tilts his head, and the hood shifts just enough to see one corner of his mouth curve slightly, like he knows I’m walking toward him and no one else.

The movement breaks the spell. I stop, remembering that we’re not alone.

Two others flank him, dual weapons ready to strike. The silver embroidery on their uniforms marks them as knights, the highest rank someone without noble blood can achieve.

The first knight’s face is all sharp lines and brutal angles, like her skin was hewn from the black stone that makes up the Stygia Mountains. And with the sword strapped to her back, she looks as beautiful and deadly as their uncrossable peaks. The other knight is handsome despite the pale web of raised scars that mars one side of his tanned neck and continues to his cheekbone. His eyes keep flicking to the door with a restless energy that suggests he can’t wait to get out there and add more damage to his otherwise perfect face.

“Pretend they’re not here,” the vesper says behind me, and I almost jump out of my own skin. I’d forgotten about her. “They will only observe your ritual.”

Observe. The single word crashes into me. To my audience, I’m little more than a woman holding a knife pointed at the stars—and they’re waiting for me to use it. I force my attention to the altar. It’s a simple stone plinth that is empty save for a black silk cloth draped over the shape of a bird’s cage.

The vesper walks over and tugs the cloth off of—yes, a golden cage.

And inside it: an offering to the Stars. A sacrifice to earn their favor. Proof I’ve left my old life behind.

That I’m worthy of their magic.

The black bird tries to stretch its wings, sidling on its perch as it searches for room that isn’t there. It’s too large to be an ordinary raven. I take a single step, and it tilts its head, two beady black eyes zeroing in on me with unnerving curiosity. There’s something almost human in the way it stares, and a chill races down my spine.

The cage’s moon-shaped clasp is studded with pearly stones, and the bars don’t curve into a bell. Instead, they intersect like a trellis.

Not an ordinary cage. Not an ordinary bird.

And it’s still watching me.

When I was a child, my mother spun stories of witches who transformed into oscens. They flew to the heavens as the giant black birds to listen to the Stars whisper their secrets. When I was only a bit older, Broderic told me the witches turned into birds to steal children from their beds. I had nightmares for weeks. Mom made him sit up with me as punishment. She said they were only stories. Only birds.

Still, oscens have been hunted to near extinction. People believe they’re a sign of bad luck. I never thought I would see one.

I really wish I wasn’t seeing one now.

A cold sweat breaks across my skin, making me shiver in the night air. My palms grow slippery, and my grip on the knife falters. I catch it as it slips down without thinking and gasp, the blade slicing open my palm. I pass the dagger to my other hand. The wound is just deep enough to spill blood. Nothing serious, even though it stings like seven hells. I clench my hand tightly to stop the bleeding. I’ll deal with it later.

There’s a rustle of red cloak as the bishop shifts forward. He doesn’t come any closer, but heat blooms on my cheeks. Having an audience is only making this worse.

Get it over with.

I feel eyes boring into me as I inch toward the altar. It hardens my resolve, even though my stomach is still churning.

I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I’ve held a lamb while my father slit its throat, felt it thrash for survival, go still, and then helped cook it to feed our family. Before that day, we provided and cared for it. It didn’t know not to trust us when we came for the slaughter. But we made its end swift. A kind but necessary death. Everything about this feels wrong.

It’s a crime to cage a wild thing.

My chest tightens, trying to confine my racing heart like it’s inside that golden cage.

Trembling, I unlock the hinge with my injured hand and clutch the dagger behind my back in my other.

The clasp pops open with a slight hiss of released magic. Opening the door, I will the oscen to fly away, but it continues to watch me like it’s here to observe me as well.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur and reach inside.

The bird bumps its beak against the blood that’s now smeared across my whole hand.

What comes next is easy. Or it should be. I don’t even need the knife. Grab it by the neck like a chicken. A quick twist. Fast and clean.

That’s all I need to do.