The festival had ended hours ago, the last of the partygoers stumbling along the lantern-lit walkways until they’d sobered up enough to find their way home — or to a comfortable clearing. (It had been great fun watching the Terrastellan healers drag them away to rooms in the castle specifically dedicated to these occasions.) But like the retreating tides of an ocean storm, Terrastella was once again a kingdom of dreams and misty moors, lavender sunsets and evening dew. 

Cyrene plucked a stray branch from her curls as she walked through the dark streets of the inner court. Snow lingered in the crevices of her skin, tiny snowflakes upon a crimson sea — she’d stayed for hours in the frigid shadows of the fields, trying, and failing, to curb the pounding of her traitorous heart. Eventually, she’d lost count of how many slender branches she’d snapped in her warm-cheeked daze. Enough to stoke a hearty fire for a night or two. 

Amber eyes flicked from alley to shrouded alley as she kept tightly to the weakly lit path in front of her. There was not a soul left so late in the night, and even the moon had vanished behind a blanket of clouds, plunging everything into ominous shadow. 

It was too quiet.

The splash of a hoof hitting water echoed through the air, yanking wide leonine eyes sharply downwards  — what had she stepped in? 

A shallow pool of rainwater. Heavens. “Get yourself together, Cyrene,” she growled to herself as she pushed a rattled breath from her lungs. Her brain had probably frozen along with the rest of her. But… when had it rained? Perhaps it was wine that had been spilled from a careless glass? “A lot of good wine wasted, then.” Shrugging, the girl continued cautiously forward. Her hooves clicked rhythmically against the stones until — a splash, yet again. What is this? Had a barrel leaked into the streets?

It took her a bit, to see it — to see him.

The night was suddenly as black as death. My eyes deceive me. Tell me they deceive me. “Sir?" her voice frayed, stolen by the nightmarish sight that greeted her when she neared. A river of red flowed from the man's crumpled form, viscous and slow. Only then did Cyrene realize what she had stepped in. 

Blood.

She could see nothing but red, red, red as she sank down to his mangled body. As she searched frantically for a pulse. Trembling, she exhaled in relief when she found it; but it was weak, so weak. His life hung by a gossamer thread. 

It was no use shouting for help, because none would hear. Instead, Cyrene ripped her worn satchel from her shoulders and dumped its contents out, vials of tempered glass hitting the ground with a clink. It had become a habit for her to travel with bandages and healing potions always in tow — trouble seemed to tail the girl like a plague.

Amber eyes hardened as she pressed the cloth into his sides, against the gaping wounds she could find. But there were too many, too many — his ribs were broken, his finely angled face sliced beyond recognition. A piece of velvet antler lay against his head, its shadow a scythe against his throat. “Who did this to you?” she whispered, as she tipped a small vial into his bloody mouth. 

But she would not know. Not until days later, when the news would spread like wildfire of the Crows and their King of Shadows. And she did not care. Because he was dying, and she couldn't save him. Not here. 

Summoning the last of her strength, Cyrene slung the unconscious man across her slim shoulders as she heaved herself to her hooves. Blood dripped from her wings to the cobblestones like a metronome — drip, drip, drip. 

They whispered to her: hurry, hurry, hurry.