Emon
When I walked into Bibi Kamwe’s workroom that night, I already knew something had changed.
The air was heavier. The shadows were longer. The fire crackled in her hearth, but it gave off no warmth, only light. Pale and thin and flickering.
She was waiting for me, her back to the door, her long gray braids falling down the curve of her spine like rivers of ash. In front of her, the table was covered in things that didn’t belong in the modern world; feathers still sticky with blood, black stones that pulsed like hearts, bones carved with symbols I couldn’t read.
“You said I could break the bond,” I said.
She didn’t turn.
“I said it could be done. I never said it would be easy.”
I took a step closer. “Then tell me how. Teach me how.”
Slowly, she faced me. Her eyes were ancient fir
