The heavy cage groaned at every jerk of the carriage. She was lying on the floor, cold and rough; her body was trembling beneath her exhausted weight and all those unbearable memories. Her past followed her like a shadow—a shadow that didn't leave her alone. Yet in this bleak and suffocating space, something stirred within her—fire she was not able yet to gain full control of, still burning with silent fury.
Her amber eyes flickered in the dim light, her gaze racing around the cage for any possibility of escape. Outside, the guards were still talking; their voices muffled through the metal bars, through the walls of the carriage. The hoarse cry of ravens circling echoed distantly in the air, their calls carried on by the wind. She had heard them before, flying high above, watching from the skies. A strange, flickering memory tugged at her—of connection, of an old bond she once shared with creatures like them. Could she still reach them? Could she still make them listen?
Her breath caught as she sat up, pressing her back to the cold bars. Her palms itched, the fire beneath her skin still restless, but she knew she wasn't ready yet to call upon its full strength. For now, her only hope lay in the ravens. They watched and waited, but could she speak to them? She had no idea, but she had nothing left to lose.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of their calls and the way the wind carried their cries. She reached out with her senses, trying to latch onto the feeling of their presence, trying to pull something—anything—toward her. Her hands shook with the effort, her mind strained, but no answer came. The ravens kept flying around, silent as ever. The cage felt tighter, more suffocating with each passing moment.
But then, a flicker—a shift, a little movement in the air. She opened her eyes to see a single raven hovering near the window of the carriage, black feathers aflame in weak light. Her pulse quickened as she locked eyes with it. She could feel something—a rope that tied her, just a thread of understanding. Not enough. Not yet.
Something rose in her memory then—an ancient instinct she once knew: ravenous birds loved bright things. Perhaps. If she could call them, they might deliver aid. She reached for the little metal clasp on her cloak and fumbled with cold fingers to unhook it. She drew it free, cupped the bright trinket within her hand, and then flung it toward the window.
In an instant, the raven launched for it, its sharp beak snatching up said object. She let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding. The bird flapped its wings in the confined space of the carriage, never looking away from her.
Her heart was racing in her chest. She leaned forward, her white-knuckled hands holding onto the bars as she whispered, "I need the key. Please."
For a long moment, the raven sat there, his black eyes shining with an almost palpable intelligence. Then, in an instant, it took flight, swooping out of the carriage and into the open sky. She followed with her eyes, breath hitched in her throat. Could it be? Was it really going to help?
Hours crawled, while minutes dragged along, alighting her mind with doubt until the raven returned. The bird settled onto the edge of the carriage and dropped something small and metallic into her lap in a single fluid, practiced movement.
The key.
Her fingers shook as she grasped it, the weight of it a promise of freedom. She moved quickly, carefully, her heart in her throat. The metal key slid into the lock with a satisfying click. Her hands flew to the bars, pulling them apart just enough to slip through.
She was free.
She didn't linger to celebrate. The ravens had saved her, but she knew this wasn't over. She needed to move fast. She crawled out of the cage, her limbs stiff from cold and fear, and crouched low, listening for any sign of the guards. The carriage was rocking softly, but the guards seemed oblivious to her escape. They were too distracted by their conversation, too far from her location.
Outside, the air was heavy with earth and rust, but to her, it was freedom—merely fresh and full of possibility. She could hear the ravens above, circling and calling; their voices carried far off—but they had done their work now, and it was time she saw that she wasn't caught.
She ran, swift and silent as a shadow, her heart pounding in her chest as she disappeared into the cover of the trees. The ravens flew overhead, ever watching, ever guiding as she made her escape into the unknown. This wasn't the end—it was just the beginning.
The forest stood quiet as she pushed further through the undergrowth, her hands brushing aside low-hanging branches. Each step felt heavier now, her limbs aching from the escape, but she forced herself to keep moving. The air was damp and cold, carrying the scent of moss and earth, but her sharp senses picked up something else—a faint, musty scent that didn't belong to the forest.
She stopped, golden eyes narrowing as they searched through the tangle of woods. Then she saw it: high above, nestled in the canopy of an enormous tree, was a faint outline of something man-made—a structure. It was ancient and crumbling, its slats of wood sagging with age and decay, but it was shelter. It was something.
It wasn't easy climbing up. The bark was slick, the footholds precarious, but she gritted her teeth and climbed higher, her wiry frame lending speed to her movements even with her exhaustion. At last she reached the edge of the platform and hauled herself over, arms shaking, and slumped down onto the warped wood.
The structure was barely holding together, a treehouse left to rot. Part of one wall had fallen in, leaving gaps through which cold wind slipped. The roof sagged in the middle, the planks thick with moss and holes that allowed shafts of light to pierce through. But it was a start. It was something she could make hers.
She stood, swaying, and took stock of her surroundings. The platform was larger than she'd anticipated, and while sections were weak and creaking beneath her weight, others felt sturdy enough to hold. There was even a pile of old wood and broken furniture shoved into one corner—useless in its current state but promising enough for repairs.
First things first, she had to stock up. Down the tree, she came slowly, her legs wobbly upon hitting the ground. The only store she knew was the forest, and her movements, though gingerly, did not belie her senses as every little sound or faraway rustling continued to meet her ears. Thick branches, vines—she pulled out from undergrowth. Some she stripped for rope; others she shaped into rude planks with a jagged shard of stone she found nearby. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Back at the treehouse, she set to work. Hours ticked by as she repaired the gaping holes in the walls with branches and corded them with vines. She tore apart the broken furniture, using what she could to support the sagging roof. Every nail was reused, hammered back into place with the stone. Her fingers bled from the splinters, her muscles screaming for rest, yet she continued. She had to.
By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, the treehouse looked less like a ruin and more like a home—rough and imperfect, but hers. She sat on the edge of the platform, her legs dangling over the side as she caught her breath. The ravens watched from nearby branches, silent and still, their dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the fading light.
It wasn't much, and it wasn't safe, but for the first time in what had seemed like forever, she had a place to call her own.