Black birds landed upon the wreckage of the once-mighty tower. They cawed, summoning other crows to something interesting in the mangled mess. The cataclysmic spell-tornado had blended everything on the battlefield, etching every shred of flesh to oblivion.

  Even the air felt broken.

  Smoke and ozone hung thick, laced with the stench of cooked flesh and splintered war machines. Nothing moved in the open now—only the whispering wind and the quiet crackle of dying fires.

  The black crows all flew off suddenly at the loud tap of a gnarled hobgoblin's shaman staff.

  Glushim, the hobgoblin crow-handler, prowled through the wreckage. Her bone-jingled staff tapped the ground with each step as her sharp eyes scanned for movement, life, or shiny salvage.

  “Crows?!” she growled—equal parts expectant and threatening.

  No response.

  The wind shifted. Glushim sniffed the air and glared toward the outskirts of the devastation.

  From the eastern ridge, another group of crows emerged—scraped, burnt, and barely alive. These survivors, older and leaner than the younglings Glushim usually handled, were led by a handler named Nisi. His face bore the hard lines of someone who had outlived his own usefulness too many times. Glushim sneered but made no comment as they limped past with their small collection of salvaged scraps.

  Crows had to search for items before the true end of battle, as the invading towers “plowed” the field with weapons that forced everything—flesh, metal, stone, wood, magics, even memory—deep into the soil. Researchers were still trying to understand this practice of the invaders.

  After a long while of searching and grumbling, Glushim’s ears twitched. A faint sound—a wheeze? A creak?

  Following it, she found the blackened barrel of a ruined giant cannon. Inside, coiled in soot, flesh, and blood, lay the unconscious form of Kilu.

  She grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.

  “Found little bugshit... but where?”

  She shoved his limp body aside with surprising urgency and sighed in relief when she saw the battered backsack still intact. She unfastened it with reverent care, cradling it like a sacred relic.

  “Good, good. Shinies for ol' Glushim,” she muttered, patting the sack.

  She hefted it gingerly, then grabbed Kilu by the ankle and mercilessly dragged him through the battlefield.

  They arrived at the army compound as the sun dipped low—a chaos of tents, carts, alchemical vats, and wounded soldiers. Weathered tarps flapped wetly in the wind, each bearing their clan's symbol and designation. Oil lanterns and torches barely kept the cold night air from chilling the bones of the wounded. Orders were barked, armor clanked, and the oil smoke from dying fires, mixed with whatever the cooks were preparing, gave the camp its unique scent.

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  As Glushim dragged Kilu through the camp, a tall elven warrior in dark green leather and wood-ringed armor stepped into her path. His expression wrinkled in distaste.

  “The crow's sack. Hand it over,” he snapped.

  Glushim bowed quickly, clutching the backsack tighter. “Just junk, sir! Broken things! Please let pass... eek!”

  Faster than Glushim could react, the elf grabbed the top of her hood and knelt back as if genuflecting—but this was no sign of respect. Glushim's face was slammed into the mud beside his knee. Elven martial arts were graceful, circular, complicated—brutal to the opponent but natural to elven movement. Their slender frames, even if magically enspelled, made throwing and striking bodies with enough force difficult.

  While Glushim wriggled helplessly, the elf grabbed and opened Kilu's sack but quickly closed it due to the intense smell of rot. He snorted, spat in disgust, and dropped the sack onto Glushim’s back. Dipping two fingers into an intricately decorated pouch on his belt, he rubbed one eye, which then shimmered red. He peered at the sack atop Glushim’s back for several minutes, then clicked his tongue in disappointment. He shoved her away with a sneer, wiped his muddied hand on a nearby tent, and stormed off.

  “Useless cur," spat the elf.

  Glushim gasped as she pulled her face from the mud and hissed a string of guttural curses.

  “Shipgo, shipgo elba—stupid elf. Glushim kill elf one day, but... all elba look same. Bah! Glushim tokdi all elba after war, yes,” she muttered in a mix of broken Common and guttural Goblin.

  When the elf was gone, she retrieved Kilu’s backsack. She exhaled in relief to find that the elf hadn't taken anything. An inconspicuous layer of gray powder coated the backsack.

  “Good, good. Shipgo elba not see nothing when Glushim use blind-powder,” she said, spitting out chunks of mud.

  She hauled Kilu up again and threw him into a simple cave at the outer edge of the camp.

  She slapped his face a few times.

  When that failed, she kicked him.

  “Wake up!” she snarled. “You bugshit!”

  Kilu groaned faintly.

  Glushim snarled, pulled her staff from her back, and began beating him—sharp, vicious blows across his back and shoulders, targeting his previous wounds and bruises. Then she jabbed the staff deep into an open gash below his left ribs.

  Kilu didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. This was the only life he knew.

  “Steal again, mm? You think Glushim not know? Think Glushim no count shinies? Bugshit thief!”

  Fifteen breaths.

  After fifteen breaths of pummeling Kilu, Glushim stopped and panted while leaning on her staff. Still fuming from the elf’s insult, she squatted beside Kilu and began an incantation. She placed her fingers into a muddy puddle. The water shimmered dark blue and began to bubble. Her fingers frosted over, glimmering with a harsh magical chill.

  She reached out and ran her ice-covered claws along his body.

  The icy touch numbed first, then seared.

  Ten breaths.

  Kilu grimaced in silence as Glushim contentedly drew lines of searing cold across his back as if she were painting a masterpiece.

  At the end of the tenth breath, the spell faded. Glushim frowned at her numb fingers, blew out a foul breath, and spat in his face again.

  “Someday Glushim kill all elves,” she wheezed, wobbling out of the cave with the sack. “Shinies. All mine. Kill all shipgo elbas, yes, yes.”

  Kilu blinked slowly. The world swam, blurred and dim.

  With a cracked whisper, he murmured:

  “Twenty breaths until Starwheel thing go boom… top of flying towers break off to run…”

  He passed out again.

  After a few minutes, small rooster-like birds called duskfowls let out their signature whoomps and clicks—an eerie chorus that signaled it was time for dinner.

  Someone stepped inside Kilu's cave.