And I pull the rot away. One by one, the hatchlings’ bodies return to normal, as if time turned backward. The rot leaves them, and their little hearts start pounding wildly in their chests, throats opening to utter small cries. I pick up the mother marewing, ripping off a piece of my sleeve to set and bind her wing before I pull the rot back from her too. Then I gather them all, shaking and terrified, and take them outside into the crisp air to sneak them into the woods. Because my father’s wrong. I’m not a Cull, and I never want to be. I’m my mother’s son. I’m a Ravinger.
