Page 11 of Maneater

I still hear my mother sometimes, calling for me as she once did on those quiet mornings in Brier Len.

“Odessa,” my mother’s voice rang out from the window of our small cottage, bright with warmth. “Where has my little raven gone?”

Her voice drifted faintly through the canopy as I wandered deeper into Brier Len’s forest, swallowed by its tangled wooden maze.

My bare feet padded across the moss-covered earth as I chased a darting black shadow weaving through the trees.

I giggled as it flitted from branch to branch, inviting me to play.

The shadow paused.

I crouched behind a towering pine, pressing my small palms to the bark. Peering around the trunk, I spotted it. Perched on a high limb, feathers glinting like onyx in the light. I counted softly to myself.

One, two, three…

With a squeal of delight, I sprang forward from my hiding place, laughter tumbling from my lips as I pointed up at the feathered shadow.

“Found you!” I shouted triumphantly.

Kraa, kraa, kraa !

The raven cawed and began to circle overhead.

One by one, six more ravens joined, spiraling above me in widening arcs.

Their cries, sharp, wild, and harsh to most, blended into something soothing to my ears.

I tilted my head back, smiling as their shadows passed over my face, dark wings slicing the light.

“They’ve come to visit you again!” my mother called gently from a few feet behind.

“Look!” I pointed with my small finger, eyes wide. “There’s seven! I’ve never seen it before!”

My mother approached, her smile soft and strange. She twirled me around in a slow circle and sang in a low, melodic hum, “. ..another raven born anew just for you…”

Then she stopped, pressing her hands to my cheeks, her eyes alight with something I didn’t yet understand.

“Happy seventh birthday, my sweet.”

With me on her hip, Mother carried me deeper into the forest, the seven ravens soaring behind us. She glided through the woods, stepping over rocks and roots with ease, leading us to a stream bordered by stones. She moved as if she had traveled this path countless times before.

We reached a quiet stream, its banks ringed with pale stones, and she set me gently down. Crouching before me, her eyes glinting with mischief, she said, “Did you know a group of ravens is called an ‘unkindness’, my little love? Isn’t that curious?”

My brow furrowed. “Ravens are unkind?”

“Only by name,” she chuckled, tilting her head toward the birds overhead. “But names are deceptive sometimes, aren’t they? Do these ones seem unkind to you?”

I shook my head firmly. “No! They’re my friends.”

She tapped my nose lightly. “Exactly. Don’t let something as silly as a name make you doubt what you already know in your heart.”

“Right,” I said boldly.

“Names have great power, Odessa,” my mother murmured, pointing to the stream ahead. “Before you were born, the waters spoke to me. The currents carried a name. Your name.”

She gazed at the stream with reverence, as though it still whispered secrets only she could hear.

“The waters foretold I would bear a child of ravens.”

I tilted my head. “What does that mean, mother?”

“You resemble them in many ways,” she replied, voice soft, her eyes never leaving the current. She didn’t answer the question, not really. “Ravens are smart, my love. Incredibly so. They are bold, cunning, and ever so clever.”

My eyes lit up, swelling with pride.

She dipped her fingers into the stream, letting the water slip through her hand as if to stir the memory again. “The waters whispered your name. Odessa, they said. A girl with hair like midnight and eyes darker still.”

I listened closely as my mother tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“Odessa,” she murmured. “Child of pain, woman of wrath.”

My brows knit in confusion. The words felt strange, too heavy for my seven-year-old mind.

“I hoped the waters were mistaken…” My mother pulled her hand from the stream and softly stroked my cheek. “But the waters never lie, my little raven.”

Child of pain, woman of wrath.

I traced the spot on my cheek where my mother had touched it fourteen years earlier. Her answers had rarely been straightforward. She had a way of speaking in circles, leaving you only partially satisfied.

She had been right, at least, about one thing: a group of ravens is called an ‘unkindness’. I learned later that these birds were long associated with death, darkness, and ill omens. In Brier Len, skirtsfolk whispered that the gods created them to herald doom, to carry sin on blackened wings.

But I didn’t see them that way.

It had been a year since I’d last seen one of these dark-feathered birds from my childhood. It was as if my ravens sensed that Hyrall was cloaked in a darkness that surpassed even their own grim reputation.

I still didn’t know if my mother had been mad from the start. There were days when she danced barefoot under the moon, chanting nonsense, and others when her eyes sharpened, lucid and knowing. When she spoke of the waters in the forest whispering to her, she had looked certain .

And something about that certainty still haunted me.

Footsteps approached and I didn’t need to turn to know who they belonged to. Leya’s entitlement always preceded her, like perfume worn too thick.

“What is it you want?” I asked, not turning around.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, voice falsely light. “I’ve come to tell you something.”

I turned. “The prince has chosen to take you to Torhiel.”

Leya blinked. “How do you know that?”

“He mentioned it to me yesterday.” I tilted my head. “It wasn’t a secret, was it?”

“Oh.” Her tone faltered, the irritation curling around the edges.

“I take it you just received word?”

Leya crossed her arms. “Yes.”

“So then, you’re here to gloat?”

“No,” Leya answered sharply, her fists clenched. “I’ve come to ask you something too.”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What is it?”

“If I’m being sent to a foreign land for six months, I want to know what to expect. And yes, I’ve already checked the library, there’s nothing about Torhiel.”

It seemed like her tone implied I might have said otherwise, but I wouldn’t have.

“Of course the libraries are empty. Hyrall would never willingly share information about Torhiel.”

Leya’s nose twitched. “So I’ve found out. If the library can’t help, I have to turn to you.”

“What could I possibly offer?”

“You know as well as I do that I can’t talk to anyone else about this,” Leya said, voice lowering. “I’ve never left this kingdom. Hyrall is all I’ve ever known. But you’re an outsider. You’ve seen life beyond these walls. You have devil blood in your veins.”

“For the gods’ sake,” I sighed, “my town is called Brier Len. I’m skirtsfolk, not a devil-worshiper. Since I arrived, you’ve done nothing but make my life miserable. And now you’ve come seeking my help. Why should I give it?”

“Because—” Leya started.

“It’s irrelevant.” I cut her off. “Truly, I don’t care how your journey to Torhiel goes. But I imagine you’ll make the most of reacquainting yourself with the prince.”

With that, I turned and left.