Those things do not change.
They take the silk of her scarf—blue as veins—and tie it around their throats.
This is their shackle.
They trade the magic of their names for enchanted venom.
For vengeance.
And they act as all vengeance acts:
Blindly.
A BIRD WITH SCALE FEATHERS
A serpent prince slithers beside the riverbanks, caught on a song.
It lulls him from the winter waters.
Smitten, he longs to walk beside the singer, not crest over the waves where she sits.
He yearns to speak in her tongue.
A trade.
Legs for enchanted venom, language for vengeance.
He does not think twice.
The Kapila River regards him with pale eyes
So pale and bright, they rival unfinished stars
So clear and knowing, they see straight through his tainted blood
And into his heart
Where neither blood nor ichor fills his veins
Only her song.
A BIRD WITH GOLD FEATHERS
Blue-silk around their throat
Death at their touch
A group of kings slain
One villainous
The rest innocent
Killed not for their treachery
But their timing.
In a realm tucked in the Kalidas Mountains,
