art by Seth Alan Bareiss
by Melissa Mead
I still don't talk much. After six years, I seem to have lost the habit. My fingers have never really healed from the years of weaving nettles. The servants think I'm still in shock from my near-burning, and that that's why I seem so unhappy.
No one except Raban, my youngest brother, understands that it's envy.
I watched my brothers fly away, and when my father found me weeping, he thought it was in fear for my brothers, or because I was lonely.
It was because I wanted to fly with them.