The word is little more than a breath. A desperate plea.
“It will stop… eventually. Once… once the hateful thoughts of Calista are gone from my mind. The wounds from these chains,” he hisses, “they heal when it stops.”
I realize, too late, what this is.
This is his secret. The chains that bind him are the torture that comes with every ill thought of the goddess who controls him.
Even here, in a world far from her, Calista still holds him in chains, tearing at his flesh with every rebellious thought.
The realization makes me unsteady. Shadows spill from him like black roots, the same kind that tore through the plaza’s ground. They slither into the cobbled streets, curl around the buildings, twist up the lampposts. They grow more erratic, more violent, with every labored breath he takes.
Is that why he kept disappearing? To protect me and everything around him when the chains activated?
I have to stop this.
My mind scrambles, searching for something that will make him stop thinking about Calista. Something that will force her from his mind.
And then, without any regard for propriety, I throw my hands into the air and start waving them around. “There once was a chicken,” I begin singing, though the wordsingfeels far too generous for the sound that escapes me. Still, I’m desperate to fix my mistake, so I push on with the song I once heard the cook hum in my father’s estate when I was a child. “Who dreamed she could fly.”
My boots scuff and tap against the cobblestones, completely out of rhythm with each other. My movements are graceless.
Kaelzar doesn’t even look up. The chains keep tightening, grinding. His silence only steels my determination to help him.
“She leapt from the fence and flapped to the sky, but her wings were too small, her feathers too plain, and down she fell, again and again.” My voice cracks halfway through, but I keep going, hopping from one foot to the other, arms flapping so haphazardly I nearly strike myself in the face. My limbs move with no coordination at all, each one seemingly following its own rhythm.
Still nothing. Fine. If I must make a greater fool of myself to keep his mind away from Calista, so be it.
I thrust my arms out and start flapping—wild, graceless, desperate.
That gets his attention. His head lifts sharply, eyes narrowing.
I press on, unwilling to let the fragile distraction fade. I flap my arms wider, mimicking wings.
His brow furrows in what can only be horrified disbelief.
“But the chicken kept trying, and try she did still, till her feathers grew sharper and bent to her will. And one day she rose, the air in her chest, she learned she was never a chicken at best.”
The words tumble faster, my movements wilder, until I can practically feel my dignity shriveling. I can’t even bear to look at him as I continue.
“She wasn’t a chicken, all feathers and fear, but a hawk in disguise, kept earthbound for years. They told her she couldn’t, they needed her small, but she spread her own wings and she outflew them all.”
I finish with a reckless spin that nearly sends me sprawling. When I steady myself, breathless, I realize the grinding of the chains has stopped.
It worked. Gods, it actually worked.
I end with a low bow, dizzy and half-laughing, because the only other option is to cry.
When I straighten, Kaelzar is staring at me, the chains still, fading into their ink form. Blood beads along his chest, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He just looks at me.
“Be honest,” he rasps. “Did you rehearse that dazzling act, or are you simply a born performer?” His tone is serious, but the mischievous spark flickers in his eyes.
That does it. My composure shatters, and laughter bursts out of me so violently my knees give way. I drop in front of him, laughing until it borders on hysteria, the sound bouncing off the cobblestones.
Kaelzar’s hands find my shoulders, steadying me. His grip is firm and grounding. Then his forehead lowers to meet mine, and that quiet touch settles something deep inside me. My laughter fades, leaving only the tremor of a shuddering breath.
We stay like that, both on our knees, foreheads pressed together, surrounded by the metallic scent of his blood. One of his hands drifts upward, his thumb brushing along my jaw, most likely wiping away a droplet of blood.
The motion is slow and reverent. I inhale and hold my breath, unwilling to move.
