I stare at him, disoriented. “What is a Skelvyn?”
He sets me on the ground gently; my boots hit the snow with a soft crunch. I barely register the cold anymore; my body is flushed and on fire. Andrik’s chest is still heaving. His lips are swollen and wet.
He lifts one hand out to the tiny creature crawling across my coat. Featherlight claws settle in the crook of my shoulder. I feel it adjusting its grip.
Click.
He swallows hard.
“A raven, of sorts. But they don’t usually come until the eve of a mated pair’s first anniversary. They’re very clever, mysterious animals.”
The creature makes a soft, rattling croak—a noise so old and dry it sounds like hollow bones clacking together in a tomb.
“So it’s like Bimby Button?”
His eyes flick from the raven back to mine, an almost startled expression on his face. “Exactly like Bimby button, except... they don’t usually come to warm. They warn.”
The blood drains from my face.
The little raven presses tighter against me. Its wings shiver, shedding a faint shimmer of frost. I feel its heart thudding in sync with mine.
“How do we know what it’s warning us about?”
Andrik’s antlers glow faintly, but he doesn’t answer. He shifts slightly as the creature crawls from my shoulder to perch fully on my elbow.
It’s not just a raven, Andrik’s right. His feathers aren’t feathers at all, but shards of black mirror that catch the light and twist it into something wrong. When I stare into his wings, I don’t see my own reflection; I see a gray, silent battlefield where the snow never fell. A hollow, rhythmic clack-clack-clack from deep in his chest pulls me from the mirage. It doesn't sound like a heartbeat; it sounds like fingernails tapping against metal. His throat is a shock of violet, like a deep, ancient bruise. It stretches across his chest like a strangulation mark. He’s like a beautiful, terrifying piece of the afterlife. His eyes lock onto mine, one a pale, glacier-blue, exactly like Andriks'—the other, gold like molten honey.
“Skelvyn eyes are said to show dual timelines,” he says softly. “One for the life you’ve lived. One for the life that’s just beginning.”
The raven tilts its head as if it understands. Its gaze pins me.
Then it opens its beak, not to caw, but to whisper.
A hush of wind, not quite language.
A memory—not mine—flashes behind my eyes like a strike of lightning. The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. I see hands covered in blood, clawing at a frozen grave. Names I’ve never heard before buzz in my ears like insect wings, over and over again. My chest feels like it’s filled with wet stones, sinking my soul until it’s no longer my own.
So. Much. Pain.
I stagger, and Andrik lunges to catch me. “He’s showing you a fragment. They don’t speak in words. They speak in omens.”
The skelvyn hops closer, tucking its head against my cheek. His coarse feathers are oddly soothing, pulling me out of whatever the fuck that just was.
“So I’m going to die?” I whisper. “Is that what it’s showing me?”
“No!” Andrik shouts so loud that everything else in the forest goes silent. He turns to me sharply, his expression feral.
“You are not dying, Lumi. He doesn’t only show you fragments of your life, he shows you anything that may impact it.”
“I’ve never even heard these names before, Andrik.”
A shiver runs down his back, feathers ruffling slightly. He clicks gently again, like tiny bones tapping rapidly.
Whatever he’s trying to tell me isn’t random; his clicks fall into a pattern, like raindrops striking a windshield in a rhythm that repeats itself just enough to matter.
It scrapes against something buried in my brain—a rusty hinge that creaks open just enough to whisper: you should understand this.You almost do.
Andrik watches us carefully, his jaw set.
