Some wings are broken in silence.
Some in fire.
But all broken things remember the sky.
-Ella the Silvertongued Princess
Raven.
The room stank of blood, salt, and the bitter bite of steeped herbs. No matter how shallowly I breathed, the stink clung to my throat, my hair, my skin. I wrung the cloth out again, the basin beneath me clouding red as I plunged the rag back into the scalding water. My fingers burned, but the heat was an anchor against the fatigue threatening to pull me under.
It was the third basin I'd emptied, and still, the girl bled.
Not dead yet — but close. Too close.
The patient bed, a heavy oak table worn smooth with use, groaned under her slight weight. She looked smaller without her skin intact, delicate in a way that made my stomach twist. Her body was a map of suffering: long, precise ribbons of flesh peeled away, bruises blooming like obscene flowers across the parts left untouched.
Whoever had done this was skilled.
Skilled and cruel.
I wiped away another clotting patch of blood with a feather-light touch. In the Aviary, you learned to handle broken things carefully — they snapped louder when they finally shattered.
Behind me, shelves crammed with salves and balms lined the walls, neat rows of glass jars glinting dully in the lamplight. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, their drying scent thick in the heavy, humid air. A sink was bolted into the near wall, ancient pipes clanging occasionally as water surged through, a marvel of a forgotten time. Beyond the treatment space, deeper into the room, the stone floor gave way to a natural hot spring.
Steam drifted lazily from its glassy surface, and overhead, the ceiling transformed: a breathtaking mosaic of coloured glass stretched from wall to wall. Dragons danced there, frozen mid-flight in green, gold, and blue. By day, light dappled the water in prismatic waves.
Tonight, something else moved across the mosaic.
Dark, winged shapes. Massive.
The real dragons.
Circling closer than they ever had before. Clearly agitated.
Their shadows passed over the stained glass again and again, and the weight of their presence made my skin pebble with gooseflesh. I didn't know why they came so near — but I knew enough to fear it.
And to fear what it meant for the girl lying broken before me.
I flexed my aching leg, trying to ease the cramps that had knotted the ruined muscle. My own punishment from years ago still gnawed at me, a permanent limp that ached when the night grew cold.
"You don't need legs to lie on your back," the madame had said.
The memory scalded me worse than the water.
I leaned heavily on the table, studying the girl. She was beautiful, even ruined: high cheekbones, faint freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, lips naturally dark like bruised petals. Platinum hair — now matted with blood — curled against her damp skin.
I moved methodically, picking grains of sand from her wounds. Cleaning. Binding. Wrapping her in wide, slick green leaves steeped in healing salves. Each leaf laid against her skin felt like a prayer I wasn't allowed to speak aloud.
Hold on, I thought fiercely, tucking the wrappings tighter.
Hold on, little dove.
Because if she died…
If she died…
The madame would not waste her wrath on empty threats.
It would be me strung up next. My limp would not save me. No one survived letting a "prized acquisition" die under their care.
I tied the final bandage, hands shaking, and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the stained-glass ceiling where the dragons circled. Their bodies turned lazy revolutions above us, wings overlapping the edges of the light.
They knew.
They felt her. Maybe they were hoping the madame would feed them her corpse after she passed. Dragons were as clever as they were cruel, or so I'd always been told.
I wiped my bloody hands against the hem of my skirt, forcing myself upright to fetch another jar from the shelves. This one contained a thick golden balm — so costly that I'd only ever seen it used once before, when a lord's favourite toy had been mauled during a "performance."
The jar felt heavy in my palm.
Hold on, I begged silently, pouring a dollop of the magically enhanced balm onto my fingers and smoothing it over the worst of her wounds. Her skin drank it in greedily, the angry redness easing beneath my touch.
The girl whimpered, a soft broken sound. Her body shifted instinctively toward my hands — toward the warmth, the safety.
Something tore in my chest.
I glanced toward the far end of the room, toward the hot spring and its glassy reflection. In it, the dragons' shadows wheeled lower, their massive forms distorting across the rippling water.
They watched.
Waiting.
For what, I couldn't say.
I turned back to the girl. Brushed another blood-matted strand from her brow. She flinched, a small, involuntary movement.
"Shh," I whispered. "You're safe."
Lie, lie, lie.
No one was safe in the Aviary. Not even the dead.
I drew a thin blanket over her battered form, tucking it carefully around the leaves. It felt like a final kindness. A defiance against the inevitable.
I pressed my hand lightly against her sternum, feeling the faint, fluttering beat of her heart beneath my palm.
Hold on, I willed her. Hold on, because if you die, there's nothing left. For either of us.
The heavy iron door creaked open behind me. I tensed, ready to defend my work — to beg if I had to — but it was only another low-ranked girl dropping off fresh bandages. She caught sight of the scene and paled visibly before retreating without a word.
Good.
I needed no witnesses to this failure if it came.
When the door clicked shut again, I allowed myself a ragged exhale.
The girl lay motionless. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest betrayed her fragile tether to life.
I slumped into the chair by the bed, the exhaustion pressing down so heavily I thought it might crush me.
The dragons' shadows continued their silent vigil overhead.
Somewhere deep in the stone, something ancient stirred.
I rested my hand on the girl's wrapped shoulder, a final anchor before the dark took me, too.
"Hold on," I breathed, my voice no more than a ghost of a prayer.
Hold on, little dove.
And this time, I wasn't sure who I was pleading for more — her.
Or myself.