The horror feather

Previously

…I looked at my hand, the skin where the quill had gripped it felt raw, as if branded. A scar, I knew, would remain. A reminder of the darkness I had invited in, and the battle I had fought to expel it. The artistic fire within me had been tested, nearly extinguished, but it had not been consumed. It had been scarred, yes, but it endured. And in that endurance, I found a fragile, hard-won strength, a testament to the enduring power of the human will, even in the face of encroaching oblivion.