Blood clots at the corners of her eyes, the viscous, purple-black liquid sizzling slightly as it’s touched by the air. I stare at her. Heat and ice ripples across my back, and I reach out and stroke a finger across the feathers below her throat.

Osmaern will be frenzied when he finds her gone. I remember the sound of his trilling moan, how it hums across my skin. Do I tell him what I saw? Do I risk it? Her death means I’m no longer Third, no longer banned from the sky.

I watch as light fades from her eyes.

(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: clot, feather, third)