The Pale Circus
The bird was dead. It lay on the floor of the throne room. A raven. Black as a bruise. Its eyes were open. Wide and white. It did not blink. Elara knelt beside it. Her knees pressed into the cold stone. She did not breathe. She held the bird in her lap. The feathers were wet. Not with blood. With rain. Or perhaps sweat. The smell was sharp. Ozone and rot. The King sat on the throne. He was old....
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