Nisi, holding a small oil lantern, whistled quietly at the sight of Kilu’s battered body.

  “What a thorough bitch,” he muttered.

  Nisi looked to be in his early thirties, though the exact nature of his heritage was hard to place. He wasn't fully human—there was something subtly off about his features, though they were too generic to pinpoint. His hair was a matted mess of dirty blond strands, and despite his skinny frame, there was strength in his movements. He wore a patched old tunic and ragged, dirt-streaked capri-style pants that hung low on his hips. His eyes—sharp, ambitious, and weathered from war—swept over Kilu with a calculating precision.

  He knelt and checked Kilu’s wounds. From his belt pouch, he pulled out reddish strands of grass and chewed them. After a few moments, he spat the chewed cud onto his hand.

  “Ugh, so bitter, but am I starting to like this crap?.” Nisi chuckled to himself.

  He smeared the healing mixture over Kilu’s wounds and wrapped his head and arms in quiet, practiced motions.

  His eyes darted beneath his lids, frantic and restless, as if desperate to punch their way out.

  Images flickered—runes flaring before the tower collapsed, the eerie gasp of the dead, the sound of the wooden skull’s death-whistle, the ruthless magic consuming everything.

  The battlefield had pulsed with death, and in that rhythm, Kilu rode it's entropic flow.

  Nisi stood and arched his back, rubbing his neck while shaking his head at Kilu.

  “Again, you survived the unsurvivable. Our youngest crow is the oldest and finest crow,” Nisi said with a faint smile. “It's only a matter of time 'til that vile shaman bitch is killed. You'll be mine then.”

  Nisi patted Kilu's shoulder and left the cave.

  In the deepening dusk, Glushim crept into the shadows beyond the firelight, clutching Kilu’s backsack. Hidden from view, she opened it and sorted through its contents. She muttered curses as she tossed aside scorched charms and cracked trinkets.

  Her hand stopped on a beautiful pocket watch.

  She held it up to the moonlight, opened it, and stared at the two faces smiling through bloody fingermarks. A girl and a boy that looked about ten years of age. The faces were painted with surprising detail within the interior of the lid, stylized portraits framed by an intricate ring of protective runes so finely engraved they might be mistaken for decorative filigree. The entire watch case was made from a peculiar magical alloy—several layered gears that turned in concert with a hidden mechanism deep within. Its ticking was unnaturally fast, like the heartbeat of something full of life and fervor. The hands of the watch did not follow the passage of time, but instead moved according to a hidden rhythm—perhaps tied to a life essence or bound to some forgotten oath. Its surface was warm to the touch, unnervingly so, like it remembered being held by someone who once mattered.

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  “Good, good. Strong protection magic,” Glushim grinned and wiped her drool.

  She slipped it into her own rune-laden satchel and snapped Kilu's backsack shut. She traced her steps from a unique tree and buried her satchel at its roots.

  She hobbled back to camp, cackling like she'd just murdered a joke—then slapped a filthy hand over her mouth. Her eyes darted through the gloom as if expecting judgement. When none came, she snorted and limped on, chuckling low like the punchline still tasted good.

  An hour later, Glushim, Nisi, and four other crow-handlers stood before a human officer in the center of the camp, surrounded by flambeaux torches burning bright into the night.

  “Crow handlers reporting, Commander,” half-heartedly yelled a tired-looking soldier. His eyes widened as the commander critically eyed him. He quickly exited.

  “Sloppy,” said the commander.

  The commander was a large woman, broad-shouldered and impeccably kept. Her shoulder-length black hair was combed into tight waves, and her breastplate was clean and oiled—dull by design, not rookie-shiny. Having shiny armor and trinkets on your person was a great way to die on the battefield Every strap was buckled to perfection, every rune-medal in place. Commander Tilumana. She was meticulous, obsessed with order and control. Brutal but fair on certain days, and everyone knew it. Her square jaw was set firm, and her sharp, commanding eyes flicked between the handlers like twin daggers.

  “We lost several groups of crows today, so I don't expect much,” she said, pointing at the handlers and making circles in the air with her finger. “All saved enspelled items will be redistributed among surviving ‘worthy’ warriors.”

  Six bedraggled crow-handlers stood before her. All had several sacks—except Glushim.

  Tilumana slowly glared at each handler and stopped at Glushim. She sighed. “Lost all of your crows again, Glushim?” She stopped Glushim's plea with a finger. “Let me guess. Only one survived.” She spun her finger toward the sky.

  Glushim tried a deprecating shrug but froze from an unusually loud finger tap.

  “Stop that! Your false coyness leaves me sickened.” Tilumana's finger cracked the stack of crates she used as a makeshift desk.

  Glushim gulped, then offered a sheepish grin to Commander Tilumana.

  “I said stop that,” Tilumana said, her nose wrinkling as she leaned back, visibly repulsed.

  “Everyone proceed,” she pointed with the same finger.

  The handlers complied, pouring out twisted baubles and scorched trinkets.

  Tilumana waved over a lanky mage, who sloshed through the mud and uncorked a small vial. He dabbed a few glowing drops onto a pristine white silken kerchief, then gently wiped her eyes while murmuring an incantation. Her eyes shimmered red.

  She scanned the handlers, stopping at Glushim’s right hand.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Shaman. You held something with strong magical residue. Surrender it immediately, or else.”

  Glushim’s hid her hands behind her as her eyes widened with mock innocence. “Me?! No, no—just handler. Must be crow Glushim touched. Glushim saved crow and carried to camp!”

  Spectating soldiers chuckled and whispered. Tilumana's sneer quieted everyone.

  “Bring her crow. I want both this thing and crow here immediately for questioning. And bring me another crate, damn it!”

  She flung her finger at awaiting soliders who quickly saluted and marched off toward Kilu's cave while the lanky mage ordered replacements for the broken crate.

  Glushim’s face contorted in momentary fear… then settled into a tight, rehearsed smile.

  Moments later, under flickering torchlight, Kilu and Glushim stood side by side before the officer. Shadows stretched long across the mud.

  The questioning would begin.