The Bleeding

My wings will not stop shaking.

I fold them tighter, willing the tremor to pass, counting heartbeats until my breath slows. The stone beneath my talons is cold and smooth — unmoved by the chaos beyond these walls.

Beneath the silence, only then do I feel it.

The bleeding.

A cold and hollow depth grows at my core, reaching far into my gizzard. Unravelling what I am. Erasing who I could be. The tips of my wings blur, as if the threads weaving my body together are fraying at the edges.

Dissipating into nothing. Forever trapped in the stale currents of these dead halls.

A shiver snakes its way through my feathers, and the reality of my situation clamps down hard.

“Am I… fading away?” I murmur.

“Yes, little one.”

My heart skips a beat. I tense as the low, gravelly voice hacks through the silence like the dull edge of a talon through flesh.

The wolf’s eyes break from the shadows first — two glowing stars that almost make me believe I am on the surface once more. They seem to grow as he draws nearer, his great body following, detail swallowed by darkness.

He does not leave the wall.

He walks from it.

As though the stone itself has learned to move. A painting come to life, striding within its own dimension.

His eyes burn steadily now — not bright, not dim, simply there.

“You are fading.”

I draw in a sharp, unsteady breath. “Why?”

He studies me for a long moment, as though weighing how much truth my bones can bear.

“Because you are far from the wind that holds you together.”

The words strike deeper than any talon.

“Your kind is not forged the way flesh is,” he continues. “You are woven. Thought, memory, motion — all bound by something older than you.”

His gaze flicks to my wings, to the places where the air around me shivers and blurs.

“That bond is stretched thin. Each time you fly, each time you strain against what hunts you, more of it slips away.”

My feathers prickle.

“Rest, little one,” he says. “It slows the unravelling.”

He bares his fangs — not in threat, but in something like regret.

“But it will not save you.”

The words land heavy.

“You can hide. You can rest. You can survive a little longer,” he says. “But without the wind that anchors you… eventually, there will be nothing left to return.”

“And if I keep flying?” I ask quietly.

His eyes narrow.

“Then you will burn bright,” he says. “And burn short.”

“But not yet. You still have life in you. Recover what strength you can, while you can.”

Despite the wolf’s attempt at reassurance, I don’t dare take my eyes from him, a creature born of the shadow could never be an ally. Yet he saved me… twice.

I meet his gaze as his shadow slides along the wall — assessing, not retreating.

“Why are you helping me?” I mutter, trying to conceal the tremble in my voice.

The wolf stops circling.

For the first time, his shadow stills.

“Because long ago,” he says, “I swore an oath to the wind that is leaving you.”

His eyes flick away, just briefly.

“I do not remember the words,” he continues. “Only the weight of them.”

He looks back to me, gaze sharp.

“And I do not break my oaths.”

Silence stretches between us once more.

Then the wolf exhales — slow, measured — as if releasing something held for far too long.

“I met her long ago,” he says.

His eyes dim, not fading, but turning inward.

“She was not of this world.”

The words settle heavily in the small chamber.

“She fell into it,” he continues. “Caught between winds that were never meant to cross.”

His shadow shifts along the wall, stretching, remembering.

“They imprisoned us together.”

My feathers prickle.

“I was only a pup then,” he says. “All hunger and instinct. I did not yet understand what I was.”

His gaze drifts, unfocused, and the stone behind him seems to darken.

“They bound me with light.”

“Torches,” he growls softly. “Fierce ones. Planted close, circling the cell. Their flames burned bright enough to lock my shadow in place.”

His lip curls at the memory.

“Every time I moved, the light followed. Every time I lunged, it burned.”

He pauses.

“She was there too.”

The chamber feels suddenly smaller.

“She did not fear me,” he says, and there is something like wonder in the admission. “Even when she should have.”

His eyes lift to mine again, sharp once more.

“She spoke to me through the fire. Through the pain. She told me stories of skies that turned the wrong way, and worlds that breathed differently.”

A low rumble stirs in his chest.

“And when they came to break her — to remake what did not belong — she bound me instead.”

His shadow tightens.

“With a vow.”

He pauses.

“That I would escape.”

His eyes narrow, reflecting something long past.

“That I would save myself.”

The words come slower now. Heavier.

“And that one day, I would see the world she described in her stories.”

He exhales softly.

“That is why I am here, helping you, little one.”

His gaze holds mine.

“I escaped the cell — but not the prison.”

He lifts his head, sniffing the air.

“If I am to fulfil my promise, I will need the aid of one not bound to this place. One who can slip through the cracks of this reality.”

His eyes burn brighter.

“The scent of her power surrounds you. I have no doubt she is the one who sent you down here.”

He turns his gaze toward the walls, where the stone seems to watch us in return.

“And you…”

His eyes return to me.

“The white owl — who watches over halls that reach back to the first turning of this world.”

“You and I are going to find her,” he says.

His eyes lock onto mine.

“And when you go… you will take me with you.”

His words hang between us, heavy as stone.

For a long moment, I do not answer.

My wings ache. My core feels thin, stretched, as though a single strong gust might scatter me into nothing. Every instinct screams to refuse — to cling to this blind, forgotten place and let the world pass me by.

But the wind has never been kind to those who hide.

I think of the threads within me, fraying. Of the stories he spoke of — skies turned wrong, worlds that breathed differently. Of a girl not of this world, and a vow that still binds a creature of shadow.

I am not meant to remain here.

Slowly, I straighten, forcing my trembling wings to still. The effort costs me more than I care to admit.

“If I leave,” I say quietly, “what awaits me beyond these walls?”

The wolf’s eyes do not waver.

“Whatever comes, comes. We will face it — side by side, little one.”

I hear the hesitation in his voice, as if he knows what to expect, but does not dare say.

I draw a steadying breath.

I lift my gaze to meet his.

“Very well,” I murmur. “When I fly… you will come with me.”

The wolf inclines his head — not in gratitude, not in triumph.

In acknowledgement.

And somewhere beneath the bleeding and the fear, the wind stirs.

Just enough.