Page 136 of Lana Pecherczyk

Nikan gone.

One crow missing for months in human territory, the other fed up with Manfri’s descent into self-pity.

“Eat a fungus-crusted dick, Nikan,” he muttered, eyeing the space on his forearm—the very place they’d sworn would keepthem connected forever with a triad tattoo. Forever blank, mocking his weakness.

The morning after Nikan had departed for Cornucopia, Manfri woke with resolve burning through his hangover. He told himself that day would be different, that he’d travel to Crystal City, over desecrated ground where no fae belonged. If Cielo could do it, so could he.

How he’d been wrong.

At the wasteland where tainted land met the blessed, Manfri made it three steps before collapsing. Blood boiled in his veins. His lungs refused air. His wings writhed against his back, feathers trying to retreat into his flesh. He crawled back to the nearby dead forest’s shelter and vomited until nothing remained.

Three heartbeats. Three fucking steps.

Cielo had been gone for weeks by then.

Manfri had stopped counting days, remembering only moments: that final argument when he refused to acknowledge the secrets in his friend’s eyes. The tightness in Cielo’s voice when he mentioned his human lover. How Manfri had rolled his eyes, changing subjects rather than risking the truth—that he feared being left behind.

Now, a decade later, he’d been left behind anyway. He lifted his father’s moonshine to his parched lips and savored its burn, secretly hating the momentary solace it brought. The sting felt righteous, a deserved punishment for his cowardice.

The only solace that felt good was knowing Cielo must be happy with his human. Why else would he stay for so long?

Movement outside his window.

Manfri stumbled over and peered out into the first rays of dawn cracking the amphitheater’s horizon. A shadow dropped from the sky and struck his nest’s balcony floor with a wet, sickening thud.

A crow.

Not the glossy, healthy black bird from his murder, but a creature more bone than flesh. Raw, bleeding skin stretched over fragile wing bones. Its remaining patchy plumage hung dull and brittle, lacking the identifying iridescent shimmer all crows should possess.

He stepped outside and froze. His bottle slipped from numb fingers and shattered at his feet. Crimson puddles formed beneath the bird with each shallow breath. It shuddered, one wing twitching in weak, abortive attempts at movement.

The bird’s beak parted, releasing a strangled caw that sliced through Manfri’s drunken haze. He dropped to his knees, reaching with trembling hands.

Everything in him recognized what his mind refused to accept, until dawn splashed its first light across the balcony, bringing to life the unmistakable UV patterns he knew like the back of his hand. The crow lifted its head and fixed Manfri with familiar eyes.

“Cielo?” The name emerged broken, disbelieving.

The bird’s head dropped and paved the way for light to reveal something clutched in its bloodied claws—a dark strand of hair with a distinctive curl. Colors shimmered across its surface like an oil slick.

Manfri knew that pattern. Had once seen Cielo rotate it beneath the sun. It must belong toher.

His stomach lurched. “You circled back.”

Something flickered in the crow’s eyes—recognition, pain, something more complex that Manfri couldn’t decipher. The twisted remains of one foot uncurled, allowing the strand to drift into his palm.

All these years, Manfri had thought Cielo had eloped.

“She did this?” He couldn’t keep the rage from his voice.

The bird’s eyes fluttered closed. Its head slumped against Manfri’s palm.

Carefully, he gathered the broken creature against his chest, wings falling protectively around them both as he carried his friend inside. Blood seeped into his shirt as he lay the crow on his bed, placing the precious strand of hair in a small wooden box on his nightstand.

“I’ll fix this,” he vowed, voice rough with emotion. “I’ll make it right.”

The weeks blended together,marked only by the pattern of Manfri’s failed attempts to heal his friend. He tried everything—salves stolen from his mother’s supplies, ancient restoration rituals performed at dawn and dusk, begging the crow to shift back to fae form. Nothing worked.

Cielo’s wounds closed but never truly healed. He remained in crow form with raw patches forming scars that refused to sprout new feathers. The first three days, he refused food and water until Manfri resorted to mixing broth with healing herbs and feeding it drop by drop from a dropper.