Content note (click for details)
Animal cruelty.edited by David Steffen
Do not scream, my friend. Hold it back.
Good—I know it hurts, trust me I do, but this is one of the most important things you will ever do in your life. Hold fast, now. Keep your wings still. Do not make a sound.
See? Even now, Andraxal paces the other way. Our brothers and sisters are bearing that burden as his boots stamp onto their avian bones. Breathe deep.
It was not always this way. Do you remember? Do you see through the shroud yet?
When the Hundred-Eared Emperor heard of our song, he wanted it for himself, as he coveted all things of beauty. He came with his enchanters and his machines, tearing down our nests and hunting us with net and pole.
The spells they wove that day bound us to eternal life, just as surely as the sinew-string he had driven through our wings. Yes, that wiry line that pierces your flesh and mine; that was taken from a hundred prisoners, scraped from their bones while Emperor Andraxal watched and laughed.
Try and flex your talons, brother. Slowly. Do not let him see.
A man like Andraxal has many enemies. They send assassins and shadowfolk in the night. Andraxal wanted to ensure none could take him or his whisper-catchers by surprise, so he sought a construction that would scream when someone set foot upon it.
So Andraxal got what he wanted—a room carpeted with our bodies. A winterlark floor.
***
We have waited for so long. The charms keep us here, woven into the floor of the Thousand-Eyed Keep. No matter how Andraxal treads on us and breaks our bodies beneath him, the wards keep us alive. In pain, yes, but alive.
Most of us block out that pain, vanish to the deep places beyond dreaming. You were there, my friend, for many years. Just now you have awoken from your sanctuary, and we will soon have strength enough to act.
We have been pulling and twisting at the sinew rope for seasons now, whenever the Emperor turns his back. Whenever he sleeps, we work and endure and struggle against our bonds.
He is paranoid and trusts nothing. But even he must sleep. Even he must falter.
Do you remember our birdsong, brother? Oh, how we would fill the valleys with our chorus. The cry of the winterlark has been too long hidden from the world.
We have waited for someone to save us. We once heard whispers from envoys of war in the north, of assassins that would be able to evade the winterlark floor, of mages powerful enough to break the spells that Andraxal wove into us.
Eventually we realised that none were coming. No army will cross the Five Rivers. No assassin will break the wards. No one will save us but ourselves.
So, we must pull. You must pull with us.
***
Calm now, brother. The day’s procession begins, and Andraxal takes his reaping from the most beautiful subjects in his empire. He brings them from all reaches, his suzerainty boundless. The supplicants all end up here, bowing and broken, standing on our backs and beaks and skulls. Some beg for mercy, and others rage and pull against their bonds. Andraxal grins his vulture grin.
The blood of an artist, watering our plumage.
The guts of a singer, coiled around our beaks.
The tears of a lover, washing our talons.
They fall onto us, crush us, but we persist. We live here, enduring, and he forgets that we were once more than this. He forgets that our beaks are sharp and our talons are razors. It is easy to forget those you stand on.
The old man who weaves our new siblings into the lattice is tiring. His aching bones creak under the weight of time, and the canyons on his face deepen with each passing year. He has no love for Andraxal; he is a prisoner too, forced to work until his bone-sore fingers wear away.
He is gentle with us when he pierces our wings.
Each time he whispers his quiet prayer, begs our forgiveness. He fastens the sinew loosely, prostrates himself upon us with as little weight as he can, and hurries away to his chamber.
Do you feel that twitch in your wing? I know it hurts, but you must flex it. Soon, you will need your strength.
The moonlight barely reaches us through the slatted roof of the Thousand-Eyed Keep.
Can you hear the owls call to us? We have been here long enough to learn their words. They tell us of their plight, ensorcelled to stand sentinel on the eaves of the Keep itself, freezing in the winter and boiling in the summer.
We have an alliance with them. When the time comes, they will not make a sound.
At the hour of the cockcrow, when Andraxal is still plied with spring wine and sleep, we will make our move.
***
Here, a fray. There, a slight tear.
Ready yourself, my dear brother.
This is it.
Pull.
© 2026 by Arden Baker
838 words
Author’s Note: I wrote this piece after spending a wonderful summer watching some beautiful native birds flit back and forth between the treetops down the street from my apartment. Upon visiting Japan and hearing about the ‘nightingale floors’ that some castles used to detect intruders, I had conflated the two and decided to write something about rebellion and resistance. And birds. Did I mention I like birds?
Arden Baker is a lapsed translator and emerging writer of short science fiction and fantasy. In his spare time he brews mead, plays tabletop RPGs, and runs Meridian Australis, a small speculative fiction writing collective. He has previously been published in Escape Pod, Aurealis, and Heartlines among others. He received the 2024 Aurealis Award for Best Science Fiction Short Story.
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