Her ravens do not scream. They give to her willingly, because they seem to know no other way. As if they were born to serve her and only her. Certainly there are others that can command the ravens (the real ones, anyway, the ones she calls from the sky). But she can create her own ravens as well, her own personal army. And those ravens are hers and hers alone. They do not answer to others, do not waiver in their love of their Queen.
Even when she ceases to be Queen of the Chamber, Queen of Ash and Ruin, she will always be Queen of the Ravens. That title will follow her to the grave. Should she choose to die, of course. Feathers are not the only things that her ravens give freely.
He can hunt her ravens all he wants. But hers, the ones made of her dark magic, will not scream or writhe in his flames. They will simply burn in the sky behind him and live on.
His words don’t surprise him, but she does not smile. It is not so easy now. She cannot send a raven to the Deserts and call the girl away. Oh, how like Eight that would be. His crow that called her away to the meadow, where he gave her a crown of flowers. That was the beginning of their friendship. And then he gave her a throne. Now, she can give herself a crown.
“She’s gone,” she says, her voice still smoky as always, though so much else has changed. But she turns her eyes up to the sky then, and the ravens come. All manner of them, made of smoke and ash and ice and fire. Some are real, made of feathers as they should be. But it doesn’t matter, because they are everywhere, blocking out the sun. The Chamber is cast in shadow for a moment, but then they are gone, flooding out in every direction.
“If she’s within this realm, I will find her. But if not, then there’s little I can do till she comes home.” She had promised she would try. But that was all she could do for the boy who had disappeared for so very long.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber