Beosta’s stomach twisted at the sight and she looked away from the dying Ennuller. She reached up absently before realizing she was a bird.
Nauseated, she lifted and tilted her wings, trying to distract herself, but someone was dying. She couldn’t ignore that. She couldn’t.
Sometimes we have to do bad things, rang that awful voice in the back of her head, soft but firm as ever. For the ones who truly matter.
I’m not listening, she screamed back. Shut up! Her hands couldn’t find her hair, and a memory bubbled to her mind— looking into dark glass and seeing her own face, hair twisted up in a knot, her dress covered in—
Beosta flew away.