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The Mourning Moths
 
Wings of ash,
faces of bone.
They gather in silence,
and silence follows them home.
 
They are called The Mourning Moths, though the Codex names them only once, as if they were a single being. In truth, they are swarm and shadow, wing and whisper, countless yet indivisible. Each bears the same mark — a skull upon its back — and each wingbeat carries the same silence.
 
The Codex writes that they do not feed on flesh or blood, but on endings. They descend where life withers, where vows are broken, where breath escapes the lips of the dying. One will land, and a thousand will gather. They drink not air, but the moment of departure itself — the sigh that bridges life to the Codex’s keeping.
 
Those who witness them swear that the air grows thin, as though the swarm takes more than sound — it takes the very memory of the dead. Graves where they roost become hollow of mourning; names vanish from stone, voices fade from recollection. It is said the moths carry those lost syllables back to the Codex, weaving them into pages no mortal eye will ever read.
 
The Mourning Moths are not hunted, for they are legion, nor are they worshipped, for their devotion is only to silence. When they fill the night sky, the living hide — for the Codex has sent its winged witnesses, and in their wake no grief remains, only absence.