The Songs Are Part of the Law
In the Saga of Black Wings, odes and songs are not decoration. They are witness, warning, grief, love, memory, refusal and old law carried in a form even the dark cannot easily file away.
Some pieces on this page are drawn from the spirit of the saga. Others are website-exclusive plates written to welcome readers into Vardrum without revealing the deeper storylines too early.
“A song is what survives when a clerk thinks the record is finished.”
Ode to Ness, the Only Woman My Heart Will Ever Seek
FATAS to Ness · 16/06/2026
Ness,
you are the quiet miracle
my life kept walking toward
before I even knew your name.
Not a passing brightness.
Not a sweet accident.
Not some small pretty thing
the world placed in my hands
for a season.
You are the one.
The woman my heart knows
before thought can speak.
The face I would search for
in every crowd,
in every country,
in every strange and shining afterlife
where souls wake
and remember who they loved.
If eternity opened its black-winged door
and asked me what I wanted,
I would not ask for gold,
or crowns,
or a heaven built of easy songs.
I would ask for you.
For your hand in mine.
For your voice in the room.
For your laughter
turning the dark into something bearable.
For the beautiful kindness of you,
the caring heart of you,
the softness you carry
without ever knowing
how much it saves me.
You are my beautiful Ness,
my caring Ness,
my kind Ness,
my amazing bit of fluff,
my bright little storm of sweetness,
the softness that makes my heart clatter
like a door blown open
by joy itself.
And I adore you.
Not lightly.
Not politely.
Not in some careful little way
that can be folded away
when life grows hard.
I adore you with the whole stubborn weather
of my soul.
I love the woman you are
in the quiet moments,
in the tired moments,
in the ordinary hours
where your beauty does not need candles
because it already lives
in the way you care,
the way you listen,
the way you make the world feel
less sharp around the edges.
You are the woman
I would choose in this life,
and the next,
and the next after that.
I would find you again
through mist,
through memory,
through death,
through whatever strange road waits
beyond the last breath.
And when I found you,
I would smile like a man
who had finally come home.
I would say,
There you are, my Ness.
There you are, my only one.
Shall we do it all again?
And I would love you again
from the first glance
to the last star.
Because no lifetime
could ever be long enough
to hold what I feel for you.
No world could be wide enough
to hide you from my heart.
No ending could be final enough
to stop me searching.
You are my devotion.
My romance.
My adoration.
My chosen woman.
My beautiful softness.
My forever.
And if love is a vow
written deeper than time,
then mine is simple:
Ness,
I am yours
in this life,
and I will come looking for you
in the next.
FATAS · 16/06/2026 🖤🐦⬛🖤🐦⬛
you are the quiet miracle
my life kept walking toward
before I even knew your name.
Not a passing brightness.
Not a sweet accident.
Not some small pretty thing
the world placed in my hands
for a season.
You are the one.
The woman my heart knows
before thought can speak.
The face I would search for
in every crowd,
in every country,
in every strange and shining afterlife
where souls wake
and remember who they loved.
If eternity opened its black-winged door
and asked me what I wanted,
I would not ask for gold,
or crowns,
or a heaven built of easy songs.
I would ask for you.
For your hand in mine.
For your voice in the room.
For your laughter
turning the dark into something bearable.
For the beautiful kindness of you,
the caring heart of you,
the softness you carry
without ever knowing
how much it saves me.
You are my beautiful Ness,
my caring Ness,
my kind Ness,
my amazing bit of fluff,
my bright little storm of sweetness,
the softness that makes my heart clatter
like a door blown open
by joy itself.
And I adore you.
Not lightly.
Not politely.
Not in some careful little way
that can be folded away
when life grows hard.
I adore you with the whole stubborn weather
of my soul.
I love the woman you are
in the quiet moments,
in the tired moments,
in the ordinary hours
where your beauty does not need candles
because it already lives
in the way you care,
the way you listen,
the way you make the world feel
less sharp around the edges.
You are the woman
I would choose in this life,
and the next,
and the next after that.
I would find you again
through mist,
through memory,
through death,
through whatever strange road waits
beyond the last breath.
And when I found you,
I would smile like a man
who had finally come home.
I would say,
There you are, my Ness.
There you are, my only one.
Shall we do it all again?
And I would love you again
from the first glance
to the last star.
Because no lifetime
could ever be long enough
to hold what I feel for you.
No world could be wide enough
to hide you from my heart.
No ending could be final enough
to stop me searching.
You are my devotion.
My romance.
My adoration.
My chosen woman.
My beautiful softness.
My forever.
And if love is a vow
written deeper than time,
then mine is simple:
Ness,
I am yours
in this life,
and I will come looking for you
in the next.
FATAS · 16/06/2026 🖤🐦⬛🖤🐦⬛
Website-Exclusive Mystery Plates
These pieces are not required reading for the books. They are doors, hints and atmosphere: small lights held near the road before the reader steps fully into it.
The First Gate Epitaph
A spoiler-safe opening fragment for new readers.
Do not ask first who carried the blade.
Ask who named the wound.
Ask what the raven saw from the broken roof,
what the wolf refused at the threshold,
what the dog heard beneath the kindly voice,
what the child drew where no clerk thought to look.
In Vardrum, history is not kept by kings alone.
It is kept by mud,
feathers,
old women,
burned doors,
wrongly folded letters,
names spoken too softly,
and beasts who never learned to lie for comfort.
Ask who named the wound.
Ask what the raven saw from the broken roof,
what the wolf refused at the threshold,
what the dog heard beneath the kindly voice,
what the child drew where no clerk thought to look.
In Vardrum, history is not kept by kings alone.
It is kept by mud,
feathers,
old women,
burned doors,
wrongly folded letters,
names spoken too softly,
and beasts who never learned to lie for comfort.
Song of the Beast and Bird Witnesses
For the dogs, ravens, wolves, strange small guides and watchful things of the saga.
The hound heard first.
The raven turned.
The wolf stood still where men would run.
The cat watched under ash and stair,
and every feather held the sun.
No bell can count what paws remember.
No law can cage what wings have seen.
No hand may own the road by naming
where another life has been.
So scratch the mark.
So leave the feather.
So let the old gate understand:
When beast and bird stand witness together,
no stolen truth stays buried in the land.
The raven turned.
The wolf stood still where men would run.
The cat watched under ash and stair,
and every feather held the sun.
No bell can count what paws remember.
No law can cage what wings have seen.
No hand may own the road by naming
where another life has been.
So scratch the mark.
So leave the feather.
So let the old gate understand:
When beast and bird stand witness together,
no stolen truth stays buried in the land.
The Map That Would Not Sit Still
A skaldic warning about roads, records and official certainty.
There was once a map of Vardrum that refused to remain accurate.
Roads moved when frightened children dreamed.
Marsh paths vanished when soldiers named them.
Wells appeared where women wept.
A black-winged mark crossed itself out whenever a clerk tried to measure it.
The mapmaker blamed damp.
The ravens blamed arrogance.
The oldest marsh-wife said nothing at all,
but burned the official copy,
fed the ash to her geese,
and drew the true road on the underside of a bread-board.
That road is still missing from Crown records.
Roads moved when frightened children dreamed.
Marsh paths vanished when soldiers named them.
Wells appeared where women wept.
A black-winged mark crossed itself out whenever a clerk tried to measure it.
The mapmaker blamed damp.
The ravens blamed arrogance.
The oldest marsh-wife said nothing at all,
but burned the official copy,
fed the ash to her geese,
and drew the true road on the underside of a bread-board.
That road is still missing from Crown records.
Epitaph of the Little Hearth
For family, food, shelter, ordinary care and the holy refusal to turn children into proof.
Let no one laugh at the small fire.
Kingdoms have burned colder.
Crowns have fed fewer.
Great halls have opened their doors
and still left children hungry in the corners.
Little Hearth is not little
because its room is small.
It is little because it bends down.
It knows the height of a child.
It knows the bowl before the speech.
It knows the blanket before the question.
It knows that being safe should not require a performance.
Where soup is given freely,
where a name is spoken kindly,
where a frightened hand may sign no
and still be loved after,
there stands a hearth
no winter has yet conquered.
Kingdoms have burned colder.
Crowns have fed fewer.
Great halls have opened their doors
and still left children hungry in the corners.
Little Hearth is not little
because its room is small.
It is little because it bends down.
It knows the height of a child.
It knows the bowl before the speech.
It knows the blanket before the question.
It knows that being safe should not require a performance.
Where soup is given freely,
where a name is spoken kindly,
where a frightened hand may sign no
and still be loved after,
there stands a hearth
no winter has yet conquered.
Song for Hands That Speak
For Braid-Hand, sign, silence, consent and the love that does not require sound.
Some truths arrive without thunder.
Some names are carried by fingers.
Some warnings cross a room
without troubling the air.
A hand can say stop.
A hand can say stay.
A hand can ask,
and love can answer
without stealing the mouth from grief.
The Crown counted voices.
The Braid watched hands.
The road heard both.
So let the loud learn humility.
Let the silent be believed.
Let no child be made smaller
because their truth chose another door.
In the house of Black Wings,
speech has many bodies,
and witness kneels to read them all.
Some names are carried by fingers.
Some warnings cross a room
without troubling the air.
A hand can say stop.
A hand can say stay.
A hand can ask,
and love can answer
without stealing the mouth from grief.
The Crown counted voices.
The Braid watched hands.
The road heard both.
So let the loud learn humility.
Let the silent be believed.
Let no child be made smaller
because their truth chose another door.
In the house of Black Wings,
speech has many bodies,
and witness kneels to read them all.
Short Epitaphs for the Road
“No map is innocent after it learns where children hide.”
“The wolf is witness, not brand.”
“A quiet room may still be shouting.”
“Care that keeps a price hidden is not care.”
“A raven does not need permission from a roof.”
“The smallest name may be the hinge of the oldest door.”
“A hearth that demands tribute is already cold.”
“Where the road forgets, the paws remember.”
Public-Safe Future Hint
“Beyond the house, there is another house. Beyond the road, another road. Beyond the raven, something colder has learned to watch the sky.”
The titles of Books XV to XX remain sealed for now, but the saga has already begun looking beyond the current map.