Daughter of Obsidian

#3

Chapter Three – Whispers of the Day After

Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Altınkaya Manor, catching dust motes in its golden haze. The house was too quiet, as always, too vast for a girl who lived alone in it. Once it had been filled with voices—her mother’s laughter echoing down the halls, her father’s measured baritone instructing servants, even the distant scurrying of cousins and guests who never seemed to leave.

Now the silence pressed on her like another curse.

Mavi sat at her vanity, hair spilling over her shoulders as she dragged a comb through it with mechanical precision. Her eyes in the mirror betrayed her—shadows beneath them, the faint tremor in her hand. She had barely slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she half-expected silver eyes to open in the darkness or the raven’s call to split the night.

Instead, there had been only silence. And the feather.

It lay on her vanity now, still glowing faintly, as though its veins pulsed with moonlight instead of marrow. She had wrapped it in silk, but the fabric did nothing to dim its light.

“You’re a curse,” she whispered at it. “And I’m a fool for keeping you.”

But she couldn’t throw it away. She wouldn’t.

A knock at the door jolted her.

“Enter,” she called, masking her unease with practiced poise.

The door creaked open, revealing Elif—her closest companion, if such a thing existed. Elif was sharp-eyed, her honey-colored hair pinned neatly under a cap, her dress plain but pressed. She had been Mavi’s lady’s maid since childhood, though she often felt more like a sister.

“You’re awake early,” Elif said, studying her carefully. “After last night, I thought you might still be in bed.”

Mavi forced a small smile. “If I hid every time the city whispered about me, I would never leave this room.”

Elif crossed the chamber and perched on the edge of the bed. “They’re not just whispering this time. I heard merchants in the bazaar talking about it before dawn. The raven. They say it’s an omen of change.”

Mavi stiffened, comb pausing mid-stroke. “And what do you say?”

Elif hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I say you’ve always been different. Not cursed, but… touched. Marked, maybe. I don’t know if that raven means doom or salvation, but I know it’s yours.”

The feather seemed to pulse brighter at her words. Mavi quickly draped the silk back over it. “Don’t say such things, Elif. Not even here. The walls have ears.”

“They always do,” Elif muttered, then added softly, “Still, I’d rather the world fear you than pity you.”

Mavi swallowed hard, warmth prickling at the back of her eyes. She didn’t answer.

—

By midday, the city had already devoured her story. Everywhere she turned, people paused to watch—the cursed heiress gliding through the streets in her carriage, her face serene, her gown impeccable. They whispered into gloved hands and behind market stalls.

“Did you see the feather?”

“They say it burned in her hand like ice.”

“No—she commanded it. Like a sorceress.”

Mavi kept her gaze forward, but each word was a needle beneath her skin.

Her destination was the university. Not because she cared for the lectures—political history, economics, all things her family legacy demanded—but because she needed the routine. The illusion of normalcy. A girl with books, a girl with friends, a girl who wasn’t being hunted by shadows.

The lecture hall was packed, murmurs quieting only when Professor Demir began his booming introduction. Mavi slid into her usual seat near the back, Elif trailing discreetly behind as she carried her notebooks.

Yet the moment she sat, she felt it.

Eyes.

Not the usual ones. Not the curious stares of peers who envied her gowns or feared her estate. These eyes were heavier, sharper, like steel pressed against her skin.

Slowly, she turned her head.

There.

Across the hall, leaning lazily in the shadows of a stone column, was the stranger. Midnight suit. Silver eyes. Watching her as though the lecture, the students, the professor—none of it mattered.

Her chest seized.

She blinked, and he was gone.

“Are you all right?” Elif whispered, frowning.

“Yes,” Mavi breathed, too quickly. “I… just thought I saw someone I knew.”

The rest of the lecture blurred. Words and numbers scrawled across chalkboards but refused to stick in her mind. All she could think of was his voice in the corridor, velvet and dangerous. You’ll need me.

By the time she returned home, dusk had already fallen. Shadows lengthened across the marble floors, familiar yet suddenly sinister. Elif left her with a worried glance, promising to return with supper. Mavi nodded absently and retreated to her chamber, shutting the door behind her.

Her eyes went to the vanity.

To the feather.

It pulsed brighter now, as if it had been waiting all day for nightfall.

She touched it, and the world shattered.

The air thickened, heavy with smoke and salt. Her reflection in the mirror wavered, replaced by vast black pillars that stretched into an endless dark sky. Ravens wheeled overhead, their cries sharp as knives. And at the center of it all—an obsidian throne.

Upon it sat a figure cloaked in shadow, a crown of black flame upon their brow. She could not see a face, only eyes—glowing silver, piercing through her very soul.

The voice from last night returned, curling like smoke through her mind.

“The Court remembers its daughter. The throne remembers its heir.”

Mavi screamed, but the sound vanished into darkness.

And then she was back, collapsed on the cold marble floor of her chamber, the feather burning in her hand.