The vision faded. The raven’s eyes dimmed. It sat on the branch, feathers settled, watching me with what seemed to be pity if birds were capable of it.
Every word she’d said to that bird was a knife I’d earned.
She was right about every syllable. A king who couldn’t walk through her door was sending moss and notes and medicine through a raven because facing her required courage that my long life hadn’t built.
The raven dropped from the branch to my knee, settling there. I looked down at the bird. The bird looked up at me.
“Don’t get comfortable,” I said.
It got comfortable.
I reached into the supply pack.
My fingers found the book I’d carried through the portal, a volume of Veyndral’s collected histories that I’d kept in my quarters. Between its pages, pressed flat and preserved by thedry mountain air, a single Starveil bloom. Translucent petals, paper-thin, veined with gold.
The flower opened once every fifty years. I’d found this one on the palace grounds the night of my coronation and kept it without knowing why.
Now I knew why.
Carefully, I wrapped it. Tied it to the raven’s leg.
“Same window. Tomorrow night.”
It clicked its beak. Launched itself skyward.
From the tree line, the bird disappeared east and I started composing the next note in my head. Not an apology. She wouldn’t accept one, and I hadn’t earned the right to offer it yet.
Just a fact. One fact per delivery. Small enough to carry, true enough to keep.
‘The flower opens once every fifty years. I kept it for two hundred, waiting for someone worth giving it to.’ - L
Percival materialized from the tree line. Wolf form, shifting mid-stride, pulling on the spare clothes he’d stashed in a hollow log.
“Was that your bird?”
“It’s notmybird.”
“It lives on your shoulder and you just sent it to our mate’s window with a glowing present.” He dropped beside me at the fire. “That’s courting. Through a raven.”
“Go run the perimeter, Percival.”
He ignored me. Tore off a strip of meat we have stashed and chewed with enthusiasm. “I’m eating first. The perimeter can wait. My stomach has opinions.”
“Your stomach doesn’t outrank your king.”
“With respect, Your Majesty, my stomach hasn’t had a proper meal in days. It absolutely outranks you right now.” He tore off another strip. “Besides, I want to hear what she said when the bird showed up.”
“She threatened to turn it into a feather duster.”
Percy’s laugh cracked through the forest.
It was my turn to ignore him.
Tomorrow Mira will get the Starveil bloom. The night after, maybe the pressed leaf from the Alderthorn grove where Solomon had taught Percy to track. Small pieces of a world she’d never seen, delivered one at a time through a bird she’d threatened to turn into cleaning equipment.
I would court her through a raven if that was all I had. Through moss and notes and medicine and a bird with no name and worse manners.
Until she forgave us.
