Tiny Raven

Alessia sat beside the fire with Stella, building rock towers on the ground near her. She looked at the shackle around her ankle.

For the first time in years, she thought about removing it.

When Walus had placed it, he’d had the lock filled with molten metal and stamped with his sigil—permanently welding it closed and marking her as his. After wearing it for three years, she hardly noticed it anymore.

(A lie. She noticed when the skin under the metal band rubbed raw, or when the old burn scars became irritated. She noticed when the metal shrank in the cold and when the shackle bit into her ankle. She walked with a slight limp, unable to put her full weight on it.)

Walus had told her it would be impossible to remove without taking her foot with it.

She didn’t know if it was possible to remove without pain. She assumed not, figuring the best she could hope for would be removing Walus’ sigil.

It would be an improvement, erasing his mark from her skin.

Alessia glanced at Stella, realizing the little girl likely had no memory of her not wearing the metal, not walking with a limp, and suddenly her chest felt tight.

Odrian noticed—of course he did—and he nudged Dionys with his elbow before nodding toward Alessia. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something soft and determined.

Dionys followed his gaze, taking in the way Alessia’s fingers hovered over the manacle, and his jaw locked.

“Askarion,” he said like a vow.

Odrian nodded—already halfway to his feet. “And Patrian. Between them they’ll figure it out.”

Neither of them would take ‘no’ for an answer. Not for this.

Alessia startled, still not used to being seen. She shook her head. “It’s welded shut. The skin healed over it.”

Dionys crouched in front of her and took her ankle in his hands. His thumb brushed the scarred skin, his voice a low rumble.

“We cut it off.”

Odrian grinned—sharp as the dagger he was already pulling from his belt. “And we melt that bastard’s sigil into a puddle while we’re at it.”

Stella gasped—dropping her rocks—before scrambling over to clutch at Alessia’s arm. “Will it hurt?”

Odrian softened—just a fraction—and ruffled her hair.

“Not for long, tiny terror.”

A lie, but a kind one.

Dionys didn’t lie. He just met Alessia’s gaze—steadfast.

“Worth it?”

She thought about it for a moment, weighing the risk of hope against the crush of despair—the brief, excruciating pain against a lifetime spent limping—before she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “It would be worth it.”

Dionys nodded—just once—before turning to yell across the camp.

“Askarion! Patrian!” His voice carried like a war horn. “Get over here!”

Odrian winked at Stella. “Uncle Dio is scarier than me, see?”

Stella blinked. “…But you’re the one with a knife?”

“I am,” he said with a pleased grin. “But he could kill people by frowning at them, little terror. I at least have to try.”

Stella giggled, and the sound was everything.

Alessia laughed as Odrian and Stella bickered, but her fingers curled into the sand—nervous.

She trusted them, she did.

But Walus’ voice still whispered in her head, in her dreams.

You’ll never be free.

His claim over her was suffocating, so different from what she shared with Odrian and Dionys.

Dionys hissed between his teeth—catching the way her fingers dug into the sand—and he dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands—rough and scarred and steady—pressed over hers, stilling them.

“Look at me.”

An order.

A lifeline.

When she obeyed, his gaze was unwavering.

“He doesn’t get to keep you.”

Alessia exhaled—shaky but determined—and tightened her grip on his hands.

“I know.”

And she did. Maybe not in her bones, maybe not in her nightmares—but here, awake, with his fingers laced through hers and Odrian’s dramatics beside them, she knew.

She squeezed once more, sharp and sure, before smirking up at him.

“Just try not to yell at Askarion while he’s holding a scalpel to my ankle.”

Dionys snorted before leaning in, pressing his forehead to hers with a muttered, “No promises.”

Patrian—who had just arrived with Askarion in tow—rolled his eyes.

“Who’s losing a limb today?”

Dionys jerked his chin at Alessia’s ankle.

“That comes off.”

Patrian knelt with a soft exhale, carefully examining the metal fused to her skin—his fingertips gentle, his frown deepening with every new welt and scar he found.

“…This will hurt,” he murmured, honestly. “But not for long, and never again.”

Askarion glanced once at the manacle before snarling, “Well. Fuck Walus.”

“Preferably with an oversized cactus,” Alessia muttered in agreement.

“…I’d recommend something sharper than a cactus,” Askarion said, low and considering as he bent closer to examine the manacle, his weathered fingers probing the scarred skin with surprising gentleness. “But I won’t argue with the sentiment.”

He straightened, pulling a small leather-wrapped toolkit from his belt with the precision of a man who had done this before. His eyes—sharp and clinical—met hers.

“This is going to be gods-awful,” he told Alessia. “You’ll scream. You might pass out. And if you move while I’m working, you’ll lose the foot.” He paused. “So don’t move.”

Then, as an afterthought, he added, “But when it’s done, you’ll walk without a limp. Eventually.”

He pulled a flask from his kit and offered it to her. “Drink this. All of it. Won’t make it hurt any less, but it’ll make you care less.”

Alessia nodded, then turned toward Stella before she drank.

“Do you want to stay here, starlight? Or do you want to go play?”

Because she would not decide for her. If Stella wanted to stay, Alessia wouldn’t make her leave. But she would not force Stella to watch her in pain, either.

Stella hesitated, tiny fingers twisting in Alessia’s tunic—before she suddenly bolted upright with a gasp.

“Can-I-have-the-metal-after?!”

Her eyes were enormous, vibrating with sudden inspiration. “I wanna make a sword!”

Odrian choked on air. “What.”

Stella nodded, deadly serious. “To stab the Bad Man.”

Odrian opened his mouth—closed it—then turned to Alessia with helpless awe. “…You did this.”

Patrian wheezed, nearly dropping his mortar. “Gods above—”

“That’s my girl,” Alessia said with a grin—proud and feral—as she ruffled Stella’s hair. “Absolutely, starlight.”

Odrian pressed a hand to his chest, staggering backward like he’d taken a physical blow, and fixed Alessia with a look of utter betrayal.

“This,” he declared, voice ringing across the training yard—because of course he made it into a performance—“is what happens when you let a thief raise a child! They turn into tiny, bloodthirsty geniuses.”

He pointed an accusing finger at Stella, who was beaming with pride. “She just negotiated for materials to build a weapon to assassinate a high-ranking Tharon commander! She’s five!”

He whirled on Alessia, dropping to his knees in mock despair. “You’ve ruined her! She’ll be unstoppable! The Formicari will be recruiting her in days!”

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he lunged forward and scooped a giggling Stella into his arms, pressing a loud, smacking kiss to her honey-smeared cheek.

“Proud of you, tiny terror,” he whispered—loud enough for everyone to hear. “Absolutely proud.”

He met Alessia’s gaze over Stella’s head, his grin sharp and fierce.

“If she actually makes a sword, I’m claiming co-credit. I taught her how to haggle.”

Alessia laughed before turning back to Stella with a shaking breath.

“So, are you staying? Or do you have an army of crabs to recruit?”

She knew it was probably not the best idea to send her five-year-old toward the sea unsupervised—and the idea alone sent a thrill of terror through her—but she trusted Stella not to get too close to the water. The nearest shoreline was calm, with no sneaking waves that could whisk her out to sea without anyone noticing.

Stella’s fingers tightened on Alessia’s tunic, her lower lip wobbling for one heartbeat before she set her jaw, stubborn as her mother.

“I can guard the metal,” she insisted, her voice small but fierce. “So no one steals it for their own swords.”

She hesitated, some of her confidence bleeding away, before she whispered—just for Alessia—“Will it hurt lots?”

“Yeah,” Alessia said softly. “It’s gonna hurt a lot.”

Stella nodded. “I’ll make the crab army extra strong,” she decided. “So when you’re better, we can both stab the Bad Man.”

She squeezed Alessia’s hand once, sticky and solemn, then released her. She squared her tiny shoulders.

“But I’m leaving Lieutenant Pebblepants to watch the metal. He’s the most trustworthy.”

She put the rock in Alessia’s hand and turned to go. She paused at the tent flap, looking back with eyes too old for her face.

“Don’t scream too loud. It scares the crabs.”

Then she was gone—bolting toward the shore, already calling for Admiral Pinchy.

Alessia watched her run off, fond, before she turned to meet Askarion’s eyes with a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

Askarion uncorked the flask with his teeth before pressing it firmly into Alessia’s hand, reminding her of it.

“All of it,” he repeated, his voice a low growl of command. “Then bite down on this.”

He shoved a rolled strip of leather into her hand before she could protest. “You’ll thank me.”

Grim lines creased his weathered face. “This is going to be ugly. I’ll try to preserve as much skin as I can, but the metal’s fused to the bone in some places. Patrian’ll hold your leg. Dionys—” he jerked his chin. “You’re on torso duty. Don’t let her arch. One wrong move and she’ll lose the foot.”

Then he crouched down, his calloused fingers already probing the scarred flesh where metal met skin, muttering under his breath.

“…Gods damn that bastard to the lowest pits of Tartarus.”

Odrian dropped to his knees beside her, his hand finding hers without hesitation.

His fingers laced with hers—tight, grounding—and he pressed his other hand to her forehead, brushing sweat-damp hair back as though he could hold her together with will alone.

“Look at me,” he ordered, somehow sharp and soft all at once. “Not at the knives, not at the blood. Me.” His thumb stroked her knuckles in the same rhythm Patrian was using to steady her leg.

“You still owe me a story, Princess Dumbass. Tell me about the time you outwitted a seagull. Or about Stella’s first rock negotiation.”

His voice lowered, pained, “Anything but this.”

Patrian crouched at Alessia’s feet, his hands braced around her ankle with the steady pressure of a man who had held far worse together, on far bloodier fields. The manacle was worse than he’d thought—Askarion had been right. The metal had fused to bone where the flesh was thin. And the skin had grown over it in a way that made his jaw clench in silent fury.

“Hold her steady,” he grunted to Dionys, not looking up. “If she jerks, Askarion slips, and she loses the foot. Simple as that.”

His fingers tightened—just slightly—on her calf as Askarion’s blade finally came down. The first cut was wet and terrible, and the leather gag muffled Alessia’s scream, but it was still agonizing to hear. Dionys’ grip turned bruising. Not to hurt, but to ground. To keep her from fighting, from moving, from dying because her body wouldn’t stop trying to escape the pain.

Patrian didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. He’d seen worse.

But this—

This was personal in a way he hadn’t expected.

The pain was worse than Alessia had been braced for. She’d been expecting pain—the same pain she was used to. The pain of a lash against her back, or a heated iron pressed to her skin. She’d expected something similar to when Surras had carved designs into her flesh with his knives.

She’d been wrong.

She had known the injury wasn’t minor. Knew the burns had never truly healed, unable to with the shackle constantly rubbing them raw. The injury had festered—sepsis only kept at bay by luck and prayers. Still, she’d known the sensation of infected heat long before it had become near constant in her life after leaving the city.

She knew the shackle had fused to her skin—and that where skin and muscle were thin enough, the shackle had fused to her very bone.

That was the pain that hurt the worst.

She crushed Odrian’s hand in her own as she bit back screams behind the gag. She tried to hold still, to breathe.

“Stay,” Odrian whispered, his thumb rubbing frantic circles over her knuckles, like he could press the word into her skin through sheer repetition. “Stay right here. With me. With us. Don’t you dare—”

Alessia jerked hard as the blade nicked bone, and Odrian nearly bit through his own tongue to keep from cursing. The sound she made behind the gag was inhuman—a wet, keening thing that clawed at his ribs and refused to let go.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

His other hand stayed pressed to her forehead, holding her gaze with his. He wouldn’t watch. Couldn’t. If he saw them cut—if he saw them pull the metal from her bone—he would do something stupid.

Like burn an entire city in revenge.

Dionys’ hands were iron on Alessia’s shoulders—pressing, holding, keeping her still as Askarion’s blade bit deep. He could feel every shudder that rocked through her, every involuntary arch of her spine as she tried to flee the pain. His thumbs dug into the hollows beneath her collarbones, grounding her against the bedroll, pinning her beneath him—not cruelly, but completely.

He couldn’t look at the wound. If he saw the metal—Walus’ metal—fused to her bone, he’d lose what was left of his mind and find a Tharon corpse to desecrate.

He looked at her. At the sweat beading on her temples, the tears tracking down her cheeks, the way her teeth bit into the leather strap so hard he was surprised it hadn’t snapped. He pressed his forehead to her temple.

“Breathe.” 

His voice was a hammer-blow, sharp enough to cut through the haze of pain. Alessia jerked—hard—and he tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her ribs until he was afraid he would bruise her.

Better bruises than a lost foot.

Better this than letting her move a fraction of an inch and losing everything.

“In,” he ordered, pulling his own breath through his nose. “Out.”

He made her match him—slow and deliberate, inhumanly steady—until the rhythm of it became the only thing keeping her from shattering.

Then Askarion cut into bone, and Alessia’s scream muffled itself behind the leather gag and—

Dionys nearly broke, his own jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had to close his eyes against the wet sound of metal and flesh parting. Against the way her entire body went rigid beneath his hands, straining like a bowstring drawn too tight.

“Stay,” he snarled against her skin, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Stay right here. With me.”

Alessia tried.

She tried to match his slow, even breaths. Tried to stay conscious through the agony, even as every second felt like an hour, every minute an eternity.

Breathe in.

The leather strained between her teeth—she could feel it fraying, although it hadn’t snapped yet.

Don’t move.

She hoped she’d be able to walk after this. That if she was good, if she didn’t move, they’d be right and she’d be able to keep her foot.

She knows it’s a long shot.

Breathe out.

She can hear Stella in the distance, her laughter mingling with a seagull’s cries. She wondered if it was the same seagull Stella had somehow befriended, or if her daughter was amassing an entire army of seabirds.

“Breathe.”

The command was raw, ripped from Dionys’ throat like shrapnel, as another scream tore through the leather gag.

The sound of metal grinding against bone made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. He still didn’t look—couldn’t—but he felt the moment Askarion’s blade bit true. The moment Alessia’s entire body went rigid beneath his hands, his grip bruising.

“No.” He squeezed tighter, fingers digging into her ribs until he was sure he’d leave marks.

Good.

Marks meant she was here.

“You promised.”

The muffled scream that followed shook him. For a heartbeat, her weight went slack—her fingers loosening in Odrian’s grip—and Dionys’ heart stopped.

“Alessia—”

She jerked back, gasping behind the gag, and he exhaled in a rush, pressing his lips to her hairline.

“Good,” he growled, the word half-praise, half-threat. “Keep fighting.”

He would, too. For her. For all of them.

And he would kill Walus with his bare hands. Slowly.

But the bastard wasn’t there, so he poured every ounce of his fury into holding Alessia together.

He’d hold her until it was over.

Until she was free.

Until she was his.

Askarion didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. His hands—the steadiest in the entire camp, rivaled only by Patrian’s—work with brutal precision. The blade sliced through scar tissue, down to the bone.

He didn’t stop. Not even when Alessia screamed, her body straining against Dionys’ weight, her fingers clawing at Odrian’s hand. Not even when blood seeped onto the sand beneath them, dark and thick.

He just worked—methodical, clinical, ruthless—until, with one final click, the shackle came loose.

Alessia’s vision whited out—blinding, searing—as the metal finally tore free. There was no sound as she screamed, her throat raw, her breath choked. The weight—Walus’ weight, the weight she had carried for three godsforsaken years—was gone.

And yet—

And yet—

She could still feel it. The ghost of the shackle around her ankle. The phantom pain of a barbed whip across her back. The way her body still tensed for blows that weren’t coming.

(It’s gone. It’s gone.)

Her hands, slick with sweat, clutched at Odrian’s wrist, at Dionys’ tunic, at anything she could reach to anchor her.

Stay.

Stay here.

Stay alive.

The bloodied shackle clattered to the sand, and for the first time, Dionys looked.

He exhaled—sharp—his grip loosening just enough to let her breathe. He saw the ruin left behind—torn flesh where the metal had fused, swollen red and angry, raw where it met bone. The burn scars stretched and puckered where the wound was deepest. The way her foot—hers, finally—lay limply, achingly bare.

His jaw clenched.

“Patrian.”

The physician was already there, pressing clean linen to the wound, binding it tight with quick, sure hands. The pain must have been unbearable, but Alessia didn’t scream. She didn’t thrash. She just breathed, shuddering through it as Patrian murmured something low and soothing to the newly exposed skin.

A prayer to Apollo.

Dionys’ hands eased, thumbs brushing her collarbone—gentler now, like he was afraid she would shatter. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough—scraped raw from the force of holding her together.

“It’s done.” A pause. Then, quieter, “No more chains.”

Alessia sobbed once—sharp and ugly and free—before collapsing into him, her entire body shaking with the force of it.

It was gone.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t, with the tears choking her, the pain a dull roar in her blood. She clutched at Dionys like he was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

Dionys held her—one arm banding around her shoulders, the other pressing her face into the crook of his neck like he could shield her from the world. His fingers tangled in her hair, holding tight, keeping her together as she shuddered against him.

He didn’t speak. There were no words for this—for the weightlessness of being unshackled, for the hollow in the bones where the bronze used to sit.

Instead, he pressed his lips to her temple—once, hard—and let his grip say the rest.

Safe.

Free.

Mine.

Odrian pressed in from the other side—his hand finding her back, blunt nails scoring gentle lines over her spine as he murmured nonsense into her hair.

Jokes about seagulls, about Stella’s negotiation tactics—“She’ll rule us all one day, love, and we’ll deserve it.”—about how shit the wine in camp was.

His other hand—the one she had crushed in her own—gently tapped her wrist.

Here.

Alive.

Yours.

Askarion stepped back, wiping his blade clean with a rag, his face unreadable as ever. He picked up the shackle, then watched the three of them for a long moment—Alessia’s shaking form bracketed by Dionys and Odrian, their hands possessive and protective—before grunting.

“…It’s done.”

He dropped the bloody shackle—Walus’ sigil gleaming in the torchlight—onto the sand with a metallic thud.

“Burn it. Bury it. Throw it in the fucking sea.” He flexed a hand, the one that had just carved her free. “Doesn’t matter. Just never put it back on.”

Then he turned to Patrian, muttering something low and sharp about wound care and infection before stalking off into the evening.

But not before tossing a full wineskin at Odrian’s head.

Patrian caught the projectile before it could hit him—unimpressed—and handed it over once he was certain the stitches were secure.

He watched Alessia for a long moment, his expression softening. Then he stood.

“Don’t walk on it for at least a week,” he ordered, his voice flat—but his eyes kinder than she had ever seen them. “If you do, I’m telling Stella.”

Then, to Dionys and Odrian, a pointed look at their possessive grips on her.

“Let her breathe. And get her drunk. She’s earned it.”

With that, he followed Askarion, leaving the three of them alone in the firelight.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Somewhere beyond the tent, tucked between a barrel and a pile of crates, Stella held her breath.

Her fingers clutched General Crunch so tightly the stone dug into her palm.

She didn’t cry—not like Mama. Not ugly and loud and gasping. That wasn’t how Stella cried.

But her chin wobbled, and her lashes were damp as she looked down at the crab scuttling in her lap, its tiny claws tapping against her knee.

“Shhh,” she hushed, scrubbing at her nose with her sleeve. 

When Patrian left the tent, she sneaked closer, just enough to peek inside—

—just in time to see Dionys press his forehead to Alesia’s and hold her there, like she was the only thing in the world worth keeping.

(Walus had never held Mama like that.)

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia didn’t know how long she sat there—tangled together with Odrian and Dionys like roots, shaking apart between their hands—but when she finally pulled back, it was to laugh—weak and watery and wild.

“Somebody is spying on us,” she rasped, nudging her chin toward the tent flap where Stella’s wide eyes gleamed in the firelight.

Dionys didn’t even look. He just kept his grip on Alessia steady and unyielding as he growled toward the tent flap.

“Stella.”

No anger, no reprimand. Just her name.

The tiny shadow flinched—then scurried away, her footsteps pattering against the sand.

Silence. Then—muffled by distance—came an indignant:

“THE CRAB TOLD ME TO!”

Odrian muffled his laugh against Alessia’s hair, his thumb stroking the back of her neck.

“She definitely bribed the crab.”

Alessia laughed before leaning into them both—exhausted but alive, free—and let her eyes drift shut.

“R’member t’keep the shackle for Stell,” she mumbled as she drifted off to sleep. “For her sword.”

Stella could melt it down into whatever she wanted. Forge it into something sharp and vengeful.

Let her be free, in all the ways Alessia hadn’t been.

Dionys exhaled—long and slow—before snagging the shackle from the ground and tucking it into his belt.

“…Done.”

---

---