The Counsel
Because she had said it. And they had heard it. And even if they would not write it down—she would.
There was, and there was not, a hall deep inside the Kingdom where the Counsel gathered.
They did not build the towers, nor lead the work. But they were entrusted with keeping the Kingdom fair, or appearing to.
They called themselves impartial. Objective. Custodians of balance.
But the Raven had watched many birds fly in with questions, and fewer fly out with answers.
Still, she went.
Not for vengeance.
But for voice.
“I want to change my fate,” she said, stepping into the chamber of polished stone and parchment. “I want to reclaim my character in the Kingdom.”
Three members of the Counsel looked down at her from a curved table, each one cloaked in neutral tones, each one holding a quill, though none yet wrote.
“I know the Grey Squirrel has been in contact with you,” she said. “I know he questioned my performance. I know he said things that were not true, but sounded true enough if no one looked deeper.”
“The Grey Squirrel is respected,” one of the Counsel replied.
“So was I,” the Raven said, calm and steady. “When I worked in the heart of the Kingdom, I built systems, led teams, protected others from harm. I earned trust, until I asked for fairness. Until I left the rope.”
“We recall you raised a concern before your departure,” another said.
“I did,” she nodded. “I came to you while I was still inside the Kingdom. I asked for help. You chose neutrality. You told me the relationship could be repaired. That harm could be reset, if I stayed.”
She paused, voice quiet but sure. “But I had already been injured. I was already being diminished. You didn’t intervene, you observed. And then you closed the scroll.”
There was a silence in the room that had nothing to do with thought.
“All we have are your stories,” the third finally said. “Retellings. And those can be… subjective.”
The Raven stepped forward.
“How is a story told less powerful than one written?” she asked. “Who decides which memory counts as fact? The Grey Squirrel wrote reports in a silo. I lived the tightrope.”
The Counsel said nothing.
“There is no evidence,” one offered, as if apologizing.
“There is,” she said. “It lives in the pattern. In the others who left. In the silence that followed. In the way I’m being spoken to now.”
Again, they did nothing.
“You shouldn’t have left,” one said finally. “Not before we could help you.”
The Raven tilted her head, not with anger, but clarity.
“No,” she said. “You wouldn’t help me. Not when it mattered. And now, now you ask for order when you offered no repair.”
She turned without another word.
No judgment.
Just knowing.
She walked out of the chamber and into the wind, not vindicated, but lighter.
Because she had said it.
And they had heard it.
And even if they would not write it down, she would.
© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.