The rented house smelled of wax and dried herbs, the remnants of Elara's meditation clinging to the air like incense. Jack entered silently, Martin shadowing his steps with the quiet reverence of a disciple.
Elara sat cross-legged in the center of the room, her breathing slow, her fingers curled around the inverted cross pendant at her throat. The Starved Saint's power hummed beneath her skin—restless, but contained. She didn't stir as they passed.
She was in deep focus and had cut off the outside , the only thing in her mind was the Starved Saint's power and how to quickly assimilate it to herself.
Jack motioned Martin to the courtyard. The night air was thick with the scent of blooming nightshade, its purple flowers curling toward the moonlight like grasping hands. He took a seat in a wrought-iron chair, the metal cold against his back.
"Explain the whispers," Jack said. "In detail."
Martin bowed his head. The crow within him stirred, its presence a weight behind his eyes. "My liege, we began with an archaeologist. A man named Tim—young, ambitious, desperate to prove himself."
Jack steepled his fingers. The crow on his shoulder cocked its head, star-flecked eyes unblinking. The crow on his shoulders had already showed him visuals of what it knew.
"We led him to a dig site outside the city walls," Martin continued. "Buried there was a book—or rather, what appeared to be one." His lips twitched. "Leather-bound, pages aged to perfection. The script detailed the 'true' history of Twin City."
"And what does this truth say?"
Martin's voice dropped, weaving the tale like a spider spinning silk:
"That the original town never fell to war. That its people angered their protector—a deity of crows and secrecy —by turning their backs on his rites. That their deaths were not slaughter, but punishment. The god turned those who stayed faithfulinto crow thar would forever be in his servitude" He licked his lips. "The final page bore your symbol, my lord. The inverted cross. The crow perched atop it."
Jack's thumb traced the edge of his knife. "And the book?"
"Turned to ash in his hands. The pendant remained." Martin's grin was sharp. "Proof, for a man who craves it."
A breeze stirred the nightshade. Somewhere in the city, a dog howled.
Jack leaned forward. "And the sightings?"
"Phase one," Martin said eagerly. "Tim sees us now—the crows in the clocktower, the shadows at the city gates. Only him. Only the marked." His fingers twitched. "Only he can see us and he tries to pass off our existence to others but people think he's either drunknor crazy."
"Tomorrow, we enter his dreams."
A creak of floorboards. Elara stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes dark with unspoken accusation.
Martin bowed and melted into the night.
---
Elara didn't sit. She loomed over Jack, her shadow stretching long and jagged in the moonlight. "You're keeping me at arm's length."
Jack examined his knife. "You're not ready."
"Ready for what? More of your games?" Her voice cracked. "You remade me, Jack. You carved the Starved Saint into my bones. And now you treat me like—like some fragile thing."
The knife stilled. "You still think like a human. Your mind is frail still not thinking about the Murder of crows you're now part of. Part of my murder of crows."
Elara recoiled as if struck.
Jack stood, his height forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. "You worry about morality. About survival. About the weight of what we're doing." His smile was a razor's edge. "Martin doesn't. The crows don't. They hunger, and they obey."
The pendant at Elara's throat burned.
"The Hollow Maw is moving," Jack said softly. "CeeCee is already in the city, weaving her own lies. This isn't a war of strength, Elara. It's a race." His fingers brushed her cheek, cold as grave dirt. "And I can't afford to drag dead weight."
She slapped his hand away. "Then teach me."
The words hung between them, a challenge and a plea.
Somewhere in the city, a crow cawed.
Jack's eyes gleamed. "Prove you can keep up."
---
Tim's hands shook as he lit the candle.
The pendant—the damned pendant—lay heavy on his chest, its weight unnatural. He'd tried to remove it yesterday. The moment his fingers touched the chain, the crow outside his window had screamed like a dying man.
He hadn't tried again.
Now, as he slumped into bed, the candle's flame cast writhing shadows across the ceiling. They twisted, forming shapes—wings, beaks, a hundred staring eyes.
Tim squeezed his lids shut.
Sleep took him like a riptide.
---
He stood in Twin City's square, the cobblestones slick with rain. The buildings loomed taller, their rooftops lost in a starless sky. The air smelled of wet feathers and rotting meat.
A crow perched on the gallows.
No—not a crow.
A man in a tattered coat, his head tilted at an angle no neck should allow. His eyes were black pits. His smile split his face ear to ear. He had an oppressive aura to him ,a presence that compelled worship.
"Tim," the thing croaked. "You've been chosen."
Tim tried to run. His legs refused to obey.
The crow-man spread his arms. The coat became wings, vast and glistening. "The city is sick, Tim. Rotting from within. But you—" A taloned finger pointed. "You can save them."
A book materialized in Tim's hands. The same one from the dig site. Its pages fluttered open, revealing names—hundreds of them, written in what looked like dried blood.
"Find them," the crow-man whispered. "Bring them to the old church. And when the time comes—"
The pendant around Tim's neck pulsed.
"—you'll hear the call."
Tim woke screaming.
The candle had burned to a stump.
The book lay on his nightstand.
---