Ashwing

She has no memory of how she came to be. Only fragments — feathers, fog, and flame. She walks down the wooden paths of the marshwood with black wings dragging behind like forgotten promises... not as a ghost, but as a keeper of balance. Her wings are not cursed. They are consequences. And in the shadows, the raven watches not to protect her, but to warn others. No one remembers her name, only the silence she brings — how birds stop singing when she kneels, how the candles light without flame. The raven does not follow her. He waits. For her. For Ashwing.

Before