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The Den smelled of citrus and smoke. Neon lanterns hung like poisonous fruit from the branches of a dying tree that had split the floorboards on its way to rot. Above the hum of music and credits, a private balcony perched in the trunk; a lacquered room with a wall of black glass and a table set for polite sins.

Swan arrived without escort. Feathers like ink. Smile like a thin blade. He sat as if the chair had been waiting for him.

“You came,” Spice drawled, rolling a lemon slice over his tongue. His koala-built frame looked soft, but the ring of venom vials at his belt said otherwise. When he set the rind in its dish, the wet squelch was too loud.

“Good,” Swan murmured. “Let’s talk supply.”

“Venom,” Spice agreed lazily. “And proof.”

A claw tapped the table. The black wall flickered—reflection sliding away like oil from water—and the world beyond came into view.

Chains.

The rooftop cage was a narrow thing of iron lattice and rain. Inside, Luma knelt with her wrists locked overhead, a collar bright at her throat. Her garments had been made to undo—a tie-away bodice, hip-ties that gave no modesty, sleeves looped into shackles. Wet fabric clung where it hurt most. Beneath it, her glow trembled, faint as a pulse seen through skin.

Swan’s smile sharpened. “She’s real.”

“Pure,” Spice said, rising. “Not modded. Not machine. The light’s all her.”

He unlocked the gate with a courteous little click and didn’t bother to step inside. “Strip,” he told her, almost bored. “For our guest. Examination’s part of the price.”

The rain did most of the work. Luma’s fingers tugged the knots anyway, shaking. Silk whispered apart and fell in wet slaps to the floor. The chains remained. The collar gleamed. Her light stood trembling beside her.

Swan leaned forward, merchant-like. “Convince me.”

Spice did not touch her. He didn’t have to.

He snapped his fingers.

A glass tank rattled in from the stair, its panes fogged, its heart lit wrong. Something translucent stirred within—too smooth, too patient, pastel colors running through it like it breathed light and exhaled it tinted. Spice’s men knew the ritual: the clink of a lock, the groan of chain, arms drawn higher, ankles anchored. The gag came last, when her first sound escaped.

“Now for the entertainment,” Spice said, settling back. The lemon dish chimed under his claw. “Proof.”

The henchmen rolled tank close to the cage and the tank hissed open.

What followed was not for crowds. It climbed the bars, then her, arranging rather than seizing...tendrils fanning to hold, to frame.

There were sounds: the soft kiss of suction, the pop as it let go to take better hold, the creak of chain when her body flinched. The creature’s core brightened with each pulse, color rippling like a wicked aurora.

Spice gestured lazily. “Go on. Get closer. See for yourself.”

Swan stood. At the glass, the view was merciless. Every humiliating detail visible: rain jeweling down, glow stuttering, pastel veins lighting as if the creature bottled her pulse. The muffled sound through her gag bruised the room before dying into rain.

“Exquisite,” Swan said evenly.

Spice smiled. “Ten vials a week. And she’s included when I please. You package the rest in lace, silk, light and sell the fantasy. I sell the need.”

A chain rattled faintly. Outside, Luma’s wings twitched. The creature pulsed brighter.

“And when she burns out?” Swan asked.

“Light fades. Hunger doesn’t.”

Silence. The Den breathed below them. Rain kept its patient time.

Swan considered, then nodded. “Ten. You’ll have your credits. I’ll have a crowd that believes this is religion.” His gaze grazed the glass, making a promise only to himself. “And this remains between us.”

“Pleasure doing business.”

Their hands met—Spice’s paw heavy, Swan’s grip exact. The glass darkened until it showed only the room again: two men pretending mercy was a matter of price.

Swan rose. He left a napkin on the lemon dish. “When you’re finished,” he said gently, “Wash her. Not for her sake. For the Aviary.”

Spice laughed, delighted.

Swan did not.

He left the balcony, lanterns winking like patient eyes down the stair. By the time the street swallowed him, his smile had become a plan.

Behind him, high in the trunk, rain kept falling. The chains kept their small, merciless music. And somewhere beyond the black glass, a dimming light learned the shape of the dark that wanted to own it.

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                                                                                  Author’s Note

Hi sweet souls 🌙🖤

Welcome to The Dance of the Aviary. This opening episode shows the Den’s darkest corners, but Rue’s storm is on the horizon.

New episodes every Slow-Stepped Saturday at 4:30 PM EST. Thank you for beginning this journey with me.... your support helps the Aviary take flight.

 

Until next time, I'll be yearning for you......

🌸Echo