A single white raven sat quietly on the stone, unmoving, its wings closely pressed against its body, its pain-filled eyes only half open and closing more with every slow blink. Its dull, ratty, damaged feathers explained the smell of dirt, dust, and dander, but not why that bird was the size of a juvenile, at best. What was wrong with it? “It’s Galantia’s anoa, the bird in our unkindness that carries the gift.” I squatted, slowly reaching for the bird with both hands, the sick-looking thing entirely unbothered. “There isn’t a trace of magic from what I can sense, almost as if—”
