Where is the expected ship?
The one on the schedule?
A flock of pigeons bursts into the sky in a flurry of wings and feathers, startling me as much as I’ve startled them, and I slow. The feeling of loss, the mourning I denied myself moments ago, quickly grows in my chest as I watch the pigeons cross the city, their wings beating against the sky.
My back tenses.
I want to do the same.
I want to fly. To stretch my wings, feel the sun upon my feathers.
But… I can’t. Not like this.
It’s been months.
Five to be exact. Five months since the night of the eclipse, five months since I’ve seen my wings last. Without my innate, withoutmagic, the glamour I created remains in place. And yes, while it’ssaferfor me to have them hidden away—parading around Ollora with a feathered set of wings would draw far more attention than I want—that doesn’t mean Ilikebeing without them.
My chest heaves as I attempt to catch my breath.
And finally, now nothing more than dark specs against the vibrant sky, the pigeons dip below the eaves of a building and vanish altogether.
While it’s been five months since I’ve seen my wings, it’s onlybeen three since my return to the living realm. In the hells, I was left alone. I isolated and wallowed. I could mourn.
I mourned Ryc.
Eve.
Cora.
My wings.
But here… here I’m rarely left alone long enough to think, let alone contend with the pieces of me I’m still missing.
My wings.
My innate.
No longer being able to control and manipulate umbral energy—shadows—has left me ruined in a way I can’t put to words.
The living realm contrasts the hells in so many ways, but one thing remains the same: possessing an innate, especially one perceived as rare or strong, is valued, respected, and in specific cases, feared.
Without mine, I’ve become nothing more than a liability for Ryc. The council will inevitably learn of my return, but they must never learn I’m innateless. I will not become a source of scrutiny he’s forced to endure. Nor can I stand being protected as if I’m some fragile creature.
Simple things are now impossible.
Can’t ferry.
Can’t defend myself.
Though I will admit, no longer having to resist the demonic urges of my innate is an unexpected benefit. My blood doesn’t sing as often as it once did, it doesn’tcravedeath, to kill. But no longer having my shadows to feed my emotions means having to face them myself.
Or ignore them.
Which I’ve found is easier.
And I think Eve understands this without me having to say as much. It’s why she continues to tangle herself along on trips like these, knowing I shouldn’t be behaving this way. I’ve fallen apart in front of her, put her through enough—and throughout these last few months we’ve grown incredibly close.
Close enough for me to know she fights with her own mourning.
