The week disappears. I can’t stop the sun from chasing the moon, and now the time is here. Mirko follows close beside me as I return my weapons to the Armory. “Go through that door there.” The Armorer adjusts his eye patch, then points with a javelin shaft he’s shaving.
I part a curtain and pass through an arch. Mirko’s tail swishes on the rock floor, and I attempt to capture the sound in my memory. We stop in a circular room with a stool in the middle and a fire pit roaring in the wall.
Droslump and a frigid draft enter behind me. “Sit.”
I do. Mirko squirms close to my leg; his shoulder feathers hackle in warning. I release a deep, slow breath to still the jangles threatening to drive me from my mind. I don’t even know how I am functioning. My body continues to move apart from my shrieking fears. Father’s words lilt through my thoughts: The Creator Spirit gives grace at the time it is needed.
Droslump flips his braid behind him and pulls a long knife from his sleeve. The firelight flickers on the metal as he approaches with the point aimed toward me. Mirko hisses, but Droslump sidesteps him. I refuse to shrink away. What could be worse than Severation from Mirko? My death would hold less pain.
Droslump yanks matted twists from my head and hacks them away. I flinch and jerk at the tugs, nicks, and gouges.
Mirko hums encouragement, growls at Droslump, and worries the hair twists about his feet. More knotted clumps drop to the stone.
The last yank makes me gasp, and the last scrape is a puncture that brings out a yelp. Droslump dances back from Mirko’s talons while a warm trickle of blood winds down my forehead.
Droslump stoops and gathers the mess. Unnoticed, Mirko slides a hank of hair beneath his foot. The rest is thrown into the fire by the govern. The reek is overpowering.
“When the strands are fully received by the Four-Winged Condor, cleanse and report for Severation.” He slips the knife back up his sleeve and shakes his fingers clean. Glowering, he backs from the room. His braid swings like a sidewinder over his chest.
My hair incinerates. I breathe through my mouth, and with my sleeve I wipe the blood off my face. My scalp feels prickly, tender, and sticky. Pressed into the burning cut, my sleeve staunches the blood.
Using his beak and talons, Mirko weaves the piece of hair he kept. Spittle lines the lock until a coil is formed. He raises his foot to me, gestures, and I wrap it several times at the base of his leg. My knot holds it firmly.
A part of me will stay with Mirko. It is the only thought that keeps me from insanity.