Chapter 29 - Quote the Raven Nevermore.

The last of the berries dissolves on Ydoc’s tongue—a candied burst of cold syrup and sugar from the depths of the Divide.
His lips shine faintly now, his fingers sticky, his expression dreamlike.
Each step had brought him farther from the music and lights. And yet—still so near.

He thought he would follow the bubbles,
But instead, he hears the voices.

“...I’m telling you, he’s not right.”
“Looks like he crawled out of a grave in that coat.”
“Well, maybe he did. Heard he came from the north.”
“The gray one. Y’know what that means.”

He pauses mid-step.

It is a larger tent, somewhat frayed, but still standing proud beside a sagging wagon and a cold firepit.
A trio of circus folk gather inside—shadows moving behind canvas as oil lamps flicker from within.
Their voices, low and bitter, carry through the thin fabric.
They speak of him as if he is not real.
As if he is some ghastly rumor come to life.

“I don’t care what Ruby says. I saw the way that wolf looked at him. Like it recognized him.”
“No. No, not recognized. Obeyed. You saw it too.”
“And he’s been sniffing around the  stage. The kid’s trouble. Has to be.”

Ydoc stands outside the tent, motionless, lips parted just enough for a soft breath to pass.
He doesn’t want to listen.
But gods, he has to.

“Did you see how Cathy looked at him? Poor girl. I swear she wanted to cry.”
“You think Edwards is still—?”
“Pfft. Dead or gone. Or maybe worse. Kid's a hex. I'm not the only one who felt it.”

There’s a pause.

Then the unmistakable crack of something slapped on the table. A bottle? A cane?
Ydoc flinches.

“He smiled at me, you know. That thing. Just smiled. Like he knew everything I’d ever done wrong.”
“You sure you weren’t just high again?”
“Don’t joke. I know what guilt looks like. That wasn’t a man. That was... something that punishes.”

The tent rustles. Someone stands.

“If he comes near my wagon, I swear to the Divide itself—I’ll take his damn legs out from under him.”
“Don't say that. He might hear you.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll take the hint.”

Ydoc turns his head, slowly.
The bubbles are gone.
The song has stopped.

And for a single, raw moment—he does not feel like the protagonist of his story.
He feels like a specter.
A boogeyman wrapped in black feathers and sugar-wet lips.

His coat, beautiful and regal, suddenly feels too much again.
Too dark.
Too proud.
Too... wrong.

“I heard he used to be kind, once.”
“Used to be doesn't mean shit. We’ve all ‘used to be’ something.”
“Yeah, well… he’s not Ydoc anymore.”

And like a closing door, something clicks in his heart.

They do not know him.
And still—they speak of him like a curse.
----------
[The Burning Eyes]

There’s a sting in his eyes. Not from smoke. Not from wind.

But from the sudden tightening in his throat—the kind that happens when someone talks about you, and not with love.

Ydoc kneels just behind the back flap of the tent, out of sight.
He can’t see who’s inside.

But he knows every voice.

The tent flap on the far side opens.
Ruby enters.

Her silhouette causes the murmur to stop. The lanterns flicker, and even the wine bottle that had been passed around finds a table.

She stands quiet a moment. Her dress is heavier now—mud on the hem, the red ribbon on her belt slightly frayed.

Ydoc holds his breath.

He expects her to speak for him.

To say something kind.

She doesn’t.

Ruby:

“Edwards is gone. That’s on me.”

No one thanks her for the honesty.

A bitter laugh breaks out from the shadows.
A bark follows, half-raspy and sharp.

Stray.

Shoony. Thin frame. Voice like bark and wire.

Stray:

“You think we can patch this up with a sad whoops?”
“That boy is dangerous. That thing out in the woods—it bowed to him. You all saw it.”
“We had a pact. With the guardians. With the town. We don’t let his kind go unwatched.”

Ruby flinches, but says nothing to stop him.

Another man speaks. Older. He has a deep tiredness in his voice, like a schoolteacher reading a failing report.

Unknown Man:

“You all know the numbers. One death. Every spring. For years now.”
“Strangled. Torn. Burned alive. Always before the Healing Day.”
“The mayor says it’s the spirits. Maybe even the Hound.”
“But me? I think it’s closer than that.”

Someone else breathes in sharply.

Ydoc doesn’t know this man—but the way Ruby lowers her eyes confirms she does.

Ruby:

“You think I haven’t wondered that?”
“You think I don’t know the stories?”
“You think I didn’t see his face the day of the fire?”

Another silence.

Stray again, calm and cold:

“So then what do we do?”
“The seal is broken. Edwards is gone. There is no one left to monitor him.”
“He’s walking around unsupervised.”

Older Man:

“And smiling like he doesn’t even remember what he’s done.”

Ruby:

“…Because maybe he doesn’t.”

Stray:

“And maybe you don’t want to face the truth. You’re trying to play mother when you’re the one who lit the candle.”

That strikes her hard.
She turns her face.

And still—

No one says they care for Ydoc.
No one says he’s worth protecting.

Outside the tent, Ydoc feels the grass beneath his knees go cold.
The sugar on his lips has dried.
The gum-berries now sit like regret in his teeth.

And in the far branches, a few bubbles drift down.
Popping gently.

He almost smiles.

But he couldn't.
--------
[The Halfling of the Forest]

The tent walls tremble with wind. Somewhere outside, a distant flute tries to carry on the festival tune, but here…

Only the crackling of the lantern remains.

And then—

A new voice.
Soft. Odd. Like a kettle mid-boil.
Still a man, but with a voice that rises just a pitch higher than the others.
Measured. Curious. Academic.

A halfling, perhaps?

Unknown Speaker (Halfling):

“—Now, forgive me, but I must ask something plain.”
“Has anyone here spent any true time in the Divide? I don’t mean camping on the edge. I mean in it. Past the ash woods. Past the ripplegroves. Where the Order of the place begins to hum in your teeth.”

The others grow quiet, caught off guard.

Halfling (growing bold):

“The Divide is not cruel. But it will change you.”
“It bends the shape of thought, like water curves glass. I’ve seen it. Measured it, in a way.”
“No mortal mind walks out the same. And if they do, it’s only because they were never quite mortal to begin with.”
“Edwards lived in there too long. The violence in him… the decay… it isn’t a mark of Ydoc’s doing.”
“It’s just what happens when the mind fights something older than thought.”

Ruby glances over—she doesn’t recognize the speaker either.
Neither does Ydoc.
But the man speaks as though he’s seen him. Known him.

And… maybe loved him?

Stray barks a laugh, though there's no humor in it.

Stray (cold, poetic):

“We waste air on a name. That’s the joke here.”
“Ydoc? A pet name. A child’s whisper to soothe a storm.”
“You all know his name.”
“The Devourer. The one with the void behind the eyes. The thing that dances in a skin too smooth for its purpose.”
“Say it aloud. Devourer. That’s what he is.”
“His future is written in ashes and screaming rain. His past? Inked in blood we buried too deep.”
“It’d be safer to tie him in a box—
Nail it shut—
And toss it to the forest.
Let it rot. Again.”

The tent crackles at the words. The lantern dimming as if Stray’s hate dims the light itself.

Ydoc’s heart tightens.
He doesn't even know what Devourer means.
But he’s sure of this:

That word was once his.

The halfling clears his throat.

Gently.
Firmly.
With the tone of a schoolmaster writing corrections in red ink.

Halfling (sharply):

“You forget your place, gravedog.”
“You speak of fire and boxes, yet your world ends at the tombstone. You see no majesty in the trees, no depth in the song of wind through crystal-branch.”
“The forest does not fear things like Ydoc. The forest makes them.”
“And if it made him, then maybe—just maybe—it has a purpose still for him.”
“You bury the dead, Stray. You don’t get to decide who should be thrown away.”

There’s a pause. A pause so deep it cuts through the walls.

Then, quietly, the halfling sighs.

Halfling:

“I say we watch the boy.”
“Not cage him. Not curse him. But walk beside him.”
“If the Divide wants to reclaim him… it will.”
“But until then, he walks our path. He eats our bread. He speaks our language.”
“So we owe him something better than fear.”

Outside, Ydoc can’t breathe.

He doesn’t know this halfling.
He’s never seen his face.
But in the chaos of whispered poison, this man—
this strange, firm, invisible friend—
has said the only words that felt like hope.

And for just a moment, the tent flutters.

Not from wind.

But from the hush of something watching.
-----------------
[The Night of Feathers.] 

From behind the canvas of the great tent,
Ydoc listened.

Not by choice.

The voices inside spoke plainly, not knowing he was near.
Or perhaps not caring if he heard.

The words rolled in like cold water into the ear—shocking, invasive. They pressed behind his eyes, filled his teeth, clogged the gentle song in his mind.

Stray’s voice, sharp and accusatory, filled the silence like a bark during prayer.

“Let’s stop dancing around it,” Stray said, his words spat like chewed wood. “This Ydoc—this soft-faced stray with a new coat and big eyes—he isn’t some wayward victim.”

“He’s a Devourer.”

The tent grew still.

Stray relished the pause.

“He’s not new. Not fresh. He’s a wound, reopened. We saw what he was once. Long ago, before Edwards tried to leash him like a pet.”
“You remember the story, don’t you? You all do. The Night of Feathers.”

From where he crouched—half-behind the tent flap, back pressed to canvas, Ydoc felt his throat clamp. His lips parted—perhaps to deny, or to cry—but no sound came.

His heart pounded against the earth itself.

Inside, Stray continued:

“They say it came at night. No roar, no blaze—just feathers—black, wet, soft like rot. A thing that walked wrong, like its bones weren’t connected right. A man covered in feathers that bled. Eyes that blinked without lids. Eyes in the neck, the hands, the belly.”

“Eyes that watched you even when you closed your own.”

“He wept. Sure. But the tears were ink. And when he opened his mouth… it sang. But not with beauty—with hunger. With a thousand sobbing mouths caught in one throat.”

Inside, someone murmured, uncomfortable.

But Stray pressed on.

“It wasn’t just a monster. It was a fate. A warning. A glimpse of what happens when the Divide is allowed to speak through a body too long.”

“He doesn’t remember? Of course he doesn’t. That’s the mercy of it. But we do.”
“We remember the Devourer.”

Ydoc was trembling now.

He didn’t remember.

And yet—he felt it.

Felt it like a scar he couldn’t see.
Like a photograph he didn’t take, but still grieved for.

Tears pricked at the corners of his vision, unwelcomed. They stung. Shame bloomed in his chest like a bruise under skin.

He pulled away. Just slightly.

And bumped into someone.

He nearly yelped.

A figure was crouched behind him.

Barefoot.

Wearing a thick mask of smooth, white wood carved like a lamb’s face. A swirling red pattern looped around one eye of the mask—like an ink stamp on pale paper.

It was Number Four.
One of the Ladies of the Divide.
Silent. Strange. Impossibly still.

She said nothing at first.

Then tilted her head—softly, like a curious bird. Her fingers were blackened at the tips, as if dipped in calligraphy ink. She crouched beside him, her arms loose at her sides, her chin resting gently in her hand.

Number Four (whispering):

“You’re listening to stories again.”

Ydoc tried to apologize.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything.

But the doll-lady shook her head, slow and sleepy.

Number Four:

“Shh. You’ll wake them.”

She leaned a little closer. Her voice was soft, almost childlike.

“Do you want to hear my version?”

Ydoc didn’t answer. But she didn’t wait for permission.

Number Four (gently):

“The Night of Feathers wasn’t scary. Not to me.”
“He wasn’t a monster. Just… forgotten.”

“He didn’t devour. He remembered. Everything. Even the things people wanted to forget.”
“They said he had feathers in his skin, but I think it was paper. The kind used for writing names.”

“His eyes weren’t cruel. They were blue. So blue it made your chest ache. Not like fire. Like space. Like something deep.
Like a night sky after rain.”

She held out her hand, and made a slow circle in the air with her finger.

“And his tears? They weren’t ink. They were… reminders. Memories from people who couldn’t carry them anymore. He held them, that’s all.”

Stray’s voice still droned on inside the tent.

But Ydoc didn’t hear him anymore.

Only her.

Number Four (softly, like a spell):

“He didn’t destroy. He danced. Clumsy. Sad. But he danced.
And the forest? The forest loved him. Even if the people didn’t.”

A pause.

She turned her wooden lamb face to him, and even though the mask had no expression—Ydoc felt it smile.

Number Four (whispering):

“You’re not him. Not exactly.”
“But you remember him… don’t you?”

Ydoc lowered his head.

He didn’t know if he was the thing from the story.
Didn’t know if he wanted to be.
But hearing her version—he didn’t feel filthy. Or evil.

He just felt…

Tired.

Tired of being stared at like a weapon with its safety off.

Tired of being forgotten, then feared, then silenced.

He wanted to cry. But instead—he nodded. Once.

Number Four took his hand.

Her fingers were ink-stained. But warm.

And that was how the chapter ended—

Not in war.

Not in judgment.

But in the quiet memory of a child’s version of a monster—

—told as if it were a bedtime story for the forgotten.
------------
[The end]

Ydoc sat still. The canvas behind him still murmured hate.

The tent had become a courtroom.

A congregation.

And he, the accused.

Inside, Stray’s voice continued, spitting his old song into the ears of believers and doubters alike. But outside—beside Ydoc—sat Number Four. Her mask still faced him, tilted just slightly, the swirl of red around her wooden eye catching the glow of distant lanterns.

Ydoc tried to laugh.

A breath. A tired sound. Not quite joy. Not quite despair.

Ydoc (softly):

“I’m not some devourer. I’m just a guy who lives in the woods.”
“Really, all I ever wanted was to be happy.”

Number Four made the gentlest sound.

A chuckle. But not cruel.

She leaned closer, her mask almost touching his brow.

Number Four:

“Then you’re a dreamer.”

“But it’s time you woke up.”

He blinked.

Before he could ask what she meant, the air shifted.

There was… a sting. Sharp. Acrid.

Smoke.

It touched his nose first—then his eyes.

He coughed. Pulled back.

Far off—no, not far at all—westward, past the last row of tents and rising flags—there was orange. Curling. Licking.

Smoke.

A second later—flame.

He stood.

His voice cracked as he shouted, running full-speed from the tents:

Ydoc (yelling):

“The stage! The stage is on fire!”

He sprinted, sandals half-dragging, heart already beating ahead of him.
His arms pumped, breath catching. The candy berries still sweet in his teeth.

The world blurred.

Behind him—the tent exploded into motion.

Voices scrambled. Shouts rose.

Ruby and the others burst out in a wave, some confused, some alarmed—but several already staring at him.

Judging.

Suspicious.

Had he caused it?
Was this a trick?
A self-fulfilling prophecy?

But there was no time.

The flames were real. They bit at the silks. The stage—a dry tinderbox of painted wood and fabric—fed the blaze like a starving beast.

The great decorative arch, once painted with twin moons and gilded flowers, began to wilt inward, blackened.

And in the center of the chaos—

Aleon the Untamed, the tall ringmaster of the Festival,
was doing his best to fight the fire with two buckets at a time. His extravagant red cloak tossed aside, his golden mane singed at the tips. He barked orders, sweat pouring down his face, arms soaked.

“Bucket line! We need a line! GET THE WELL!”

But as Ydoc skidded to a stop, chest heaving—

Something else whispered.

Not from the fire.

Not from the tents.

From inside.

A voice, deep, low, animal.

A growl.

A line meant only for him.

The Voice (from the darkness):

“The play has begun.”

Ydoc froze.

The fire roared. People shouted. A barrel exploded with a snap. Sparks leapt to a nearby tent. The festival was falling—but the words…

They weren’t metaphor.

They were ritual.

"The play has begun."

The Divide heard it.

The spirits felt it.

The curtain had lifted, whether Ydoc was ready or not.

And Number Four?

Gone.

Not a footprint.

Not a shadow.

Only a single black feather, drifting slowly down, catching the heat-glow of the firelight—before falling, silent, to the earth.