The wind didn't cry. It just carried the smoke.
Six soldiers sat at the cliff's edge, backs to a scorched stone monolith that stood like a gravestone big enough for gods. The rock behind them hissed softly, still warm from the Featherbrand. The newest mark — Feather Forty-Seven — was almost finished.Almost.
Six lines.
One for Mom. One for Church. One for Roach. One for Bricks. One for Gravy. One for Lint.
Fourteen were missing. Not forgotten — just dead. And dead men didn't get to carve.
"Still smells like plasma and piss." Gravy's voice cut the silence. He took a swig from the bottle and passed it. No one laughed.
"Couldn't even scrape them together," Lint muttered, fingers twitching near his glyph pad. "Some didn't even burn. They just… stopped existing."
Roach said nothing. He watched the horizon with eyes that didn't blink much anymore.
Behind them, the monolith radiated heat. The Featherbrand lay at its base, half-buried in black glass — a blade etched with a glyph that burned forever. When you pressed it to stone, it didn't cut. It seared. A perfect burn. Permanent.
A memory that couldn't fade.
"New Rooks drop in tomorrow." Mom's voice was low. Not soft. Just tired of being loud. "We finish the feather when they arrive."
Bricks grunted.
"We naming 'em yet?"
"No." Church's voice was iron. Final. "They're Rooks. That's it."
The bottle passed again. This time, no one drank.
Roach stood.
Behind him, the monolith's heat kissed his back, and somewhere deep under his skin, the glyph along his spine itched. Not pain. Not fire. Just… stirring.
Like something waiting to fly again.