The Chalice of Glass Wings

The Chalice of Glass Wings

Journal of ZoeBlue Alastor-Braveheart

They tease me for the way I guard it.

The vials are sealed in dark glass, each one etched with my mark and bound in wax. They call it my little collection, as if it were perfume, or vintage wine. They do not understand reverence. They do not understand restraint.

Fae blood is unlike anything in this world. It carries light inside it—not warmth, but a pulse, as though the fae themselves never quite died when their veins were opened. When I drink, I can hear it humming. It is… exquisite.

I once tried to explain it to Morrigan. She smiled that patient, dangerous smile of hers and said, “It sounds like worship.” Perhaps it is. Or perhaps it is remembrance—a way of touching what was once divine.

I tell the others not to steal it. They think I’m possessive. I am, of course, but not for the reasons they think. It isn’t a toy, and it isn’t meant for them. It’s older than any of us—a living echo that does not forgive the uninitiated. Still, they try. They always try. Curiosity has claimed more immortals than sunlight ever did.

I drink rarely now, or so I tell myself. Only when the noise grows too loud, when the world feels too sharp at the edges. It helps me remember who I am beneath all the masks. It quiets the static. It smooths the hunger.

They think it a preference, an indulgence. Let them. It’s easier than explaining that some doors, once opened, never truly close.

Sometimes, when I hold the vial to the light, I can almost see wings flicker inside. Tiny, fragile, iridescent things. I tell myself it’s just the glass catching firelight. But the whisper that follows… the whisper sounds almost like laughter.