Page 59 of Ruby
Ani touches her throat and speaks in his tongue, asking him.
The male speaks. His language is unfamiliar, sharp and rhythmless.
“They call me Azoeul,” he says in a toneless language, no hint of his emotions and no resonance to carry it.
My feathers raise at the wrongness of it, but I don’t comment.
He continues speaking, but I am distracted by scanning the camp.
“Azoeul,” Ani translates into song after a wince of pain. “He run from hunters. I save him. He save me.”
“Speak this,” I tell her, shifting into Azoeul’s lifeless language. “Ree gavenaniteswith languages.”
Her eyes widen. Azoeul’s head snaps toward me.
I crouch with my fingers circled in greeting. He mirrors the gesture.
“We should not stay here,” he says evenly. “They will return.”
Ani’s grip tightens around mine. “There’s a stream,” she says softly, tracing a finger over the wounds on my hands. “We should follow it and clean ourselves.”
I reach toward a bruise on her face. She flinches and steps back.
“You clean first,” she insists.
Azoeul suggests gathering supplies. I agree. We collect what we can. He moves quickly—faster than I expect. Not much larger than Ani, lean, toned, with small horns and sharp teeth. A blade hangs at his waist.
When my box is full, we make our way into the forest and follow the sound of water. In silent agreement, we follow it until we are a safe distance from the camp. We set our supplies down along the bank, each warily scanning the trees.
“You see Ree? Thivoll?” I ask them.
“Thivoll?” Ani asks, brow furrowed.
“Big, orange, deadly,” I reply succinctly, longing for the richness of my own language, while also pleased to communicate so quickly.
“No, it’s just us,” Ani replies, looking at Azoeul with a raised brow.
“I have only seen you and the enemy,” he confirms.
“They healed me, then followed your trail. Should be here. We need to find,” I share.
“We will look, but wash off those scents first,” Azoeul tells us. “I will look for the enemy.”
Ani stands before me with her head lowered, bright threads falling forward to shield her expression. “I wanted you to see,” she says, her voice steady, deliberate.
When she lifts her face, the changes are unmistakable. Her skin, once a clear stretch of cloud color, now carries faint yellow threads beneath it, visible as lightning-thin veins along her forearms. Blue undertones shift across her collarbones when she moves. Against her white skin, the alterations are stark and impossible to ignore.
“They were angry,” she says evenly. “About the changes. Said I was encouraging it.”
I ask who, though I already know. “The hunters,” she answers. The word pushes like a strong wind against my chest.
“They beat you,” I say.
She lifts her shoulders and lets them fall. “Just my body, not my mind.”
The distinction does not ease the pressure building behind my ribs. I picture her surrounded, restrained, struck for daring to change her feathers. My failure. The thought is immediate and poisonous.
“I should have been here,” I say quietly.
