Exhaustion crept through me in a slow, syrupy wave.
I didn’t bother to change. I simply climbed onto the canopied bed, sinking into the coverlet as though it were swallowing me whole. The fire crackled softly in the grate, its flickering glow danced across the ceiling, contorting the ornate plasterwork into strange, watchful faces.
I just needed to rest for a moment. Only for a moment.
But sleep did not come kindly. It drifted over me in ragged scraps of half-dreams, disjointed images, and the weightless sensation of falling through soft darkness.
When I awoke, the fire had burned low, the room bathed in silvery light from the moon. I wasn’t sure what had stirred me at first—a sound perhaps, faint and distant. A whisper.
Then it came again.
A scrape.
A hollow tap.
And then, unmistakably, a voice.
“…nevermore…”
I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
“Who’s there?” My voice trembled, barely audible.
Silence answered. Only the soft hiss of dying embers.
I pushed back the coverlet and stepped onto the rug, stocking feet sinking into its thick weave. The sound came again, this time clearer, a rhythmic clicking from somewhere behind the wall.
“Nevermore…”
The word slithered through the air, low and rasping.
My heart thudded painfully. I snatched a candle from the nightstand and moved toward the sound, my hand trembling so violently that the flame guttered wildly.
At the far wall, just beside the fireplace, the noise grew louder, a faint scratching, then a muffled flutter. Before I could react, the panel beside the hearth burst open with a shower of dust and feathers.
I screamed, stumbling backward as a massive raven erupted from the darkness, wings slicing through the air with violent grace, its feathers gleaming like polished obsidian.
“Quoth the Raven!” it cawed, the sound an awful mimicry of human speech. It circled above my head, beating the air into a frenzy. “And my soul from out that shadow shall be lifted—nevermore!”
I let out another strangled cry, ducking as it dove low, brushing my hair with the edge of a wing.
“Respite! Respite!” the creature shrieked, landing upon the bedpost with a furious shake of wings. “Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!”
My candle slipped from my hand and rolled across the floor, spilling wax like molten tears. I clutched at the bedpost, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
“What—what in God’s name?!”
“Blasphemy,” the raven hissed, its head cocking sharply, one gleaming eye fixing on me. “Blasphemy, blasphemy! Men have called me mad!”
I was shaking, my pulse deafening in my ears. The bird opened its wings again, feathers scattering dust into the air. I shrieked as it lunged toward me.
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
The door burst open, and Sylum appeared, disheveled, his eyes sharp with alarm.
“Poe!” he barked.
The raven froze mid-flight, then wheeled around in a sharp arc, perching on the high canopy of the bed.
