Beneath the Raven’s Wings

The Raven’s Kiss

The first time I saw her, she was standing at the edge of the Wood, where the mist curled like phantom fingers around the ancient oaks. Her gown was the color of a moonless night, her lips darker than spilled wine. She did not speak—only smiled, and in that smile, I felt the weight of centuries.

"Who are you?" I asked, my breath fogging the chilled air.

"Yours," she whispered, "if you dare."

I was a fool.

I followed.

The woods grew thicker, the path vanishing beneath my feet as if the earth itself conspired to keep me at bay. The ravens watched from overhead branches, their black eyes gleaming with something like pity as I fought to catch up to the woman.

She led me to a clearing where the ground was soft, where the scent of damp earth and copper filled my lungs.

"Love me," she said, pressing a cold hand to my chest, "and I will love you beyond death."

I should have run.

I should have run so fast...

But her kiss was fire and frost, a paradox that burned as it froze. My heart stuttered—once, twice—then stilled beneath her touch. When she pulled away, her lips were redder, her smile sharper.

The ravens took flight in a cacophony of wings, their cries like laughter.

Now, I wander these woods, a ghost bound to her shadow. Sometimes, when the moon is high, I see others like me—lost souls who once believed her promises. She collects us like trinkets, her lovers of bone and dust.

And when the wind howls through the trees? That’s not the wind at all.

It’s her, calling for the next.

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The Poetic Version of Beneath the Raven’s Wings: Read Here