The wind did not tear through the leaves of the trees; it waited for the right moment. The hunter moved slowly and cautiously. He stopped and looked back. The leaves rustled. He shook his head. As long as the freshly fallen leaves hadn't rotted, the forest would crawl into a person's ears at the slightest movement, confusing and driving them mad.

  He found fresh tracks leading north across the stream. Another rustle, another crunch. A serrated-billed warbler whimpered somewhere.

  He took a sip from the stream, filled his canteen, and adjusted his belt. A field vole sniffed among the leaves. He cautiously took his bow in hand. A leaf cracked under his foot, the vole looked up, darted away, and disappeared into its burrow.

  The hunter cursed, then continued following the tracks through the sun-dappled white spots. He tried to move as quietly as possible. The leaves crackled mischievously under his feet.

  From a vantage point, his eyes caught something. Its color almost perfectly blended into the leaf cover. He blinked for a moment, but when the realization of what it might be struck him, he was behind a nearby tree in a heartbeat. He knew they didn't spend much time on the ground. If they did, there was only one reason: they were eating. Anything they saw, they attacked in flocks, killing with their claws and beaks. As soon as they were full, they took to the sky and screeched. The hunter remained motionless. He listened as the leaves rustled in the distance, then the crunching sounds came closer.

  The wind was still silent, the leaves unmoving on the trees. Another crack, perhaps the two-thousandth he had counted. His limbs, stiff and numb, pressed against the tree trunk. He still hadn't heard the blood birds' screech. But he heard something else. It was a sound everyone knew. A disgusting little noise that kept multiplying. He cautiously peeked out from behind the tree. The blood birds were still there, unmoving, already swarmed by hero mice. Emerging from under the leaves, they rushed to the carcasses, hurrying to the flesh upon hearing their companions' squeaky calls. Four blood birds lay on the ground. Their bodies were torn apart, their stomachs already ripped open, hardly any innards left. The bite marks were too big to be from the mice, who had just arrived. Nor did they come from swords.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The beginning of the cruor is marked by the hatching of the blood birds and their first screeches. They instinctively begin their voyage; screeching, searching for each other, and forming flocks to increase their chances of survival.The hunter had heard of it but was now seeing with his own eyes for the first time what these marvelous creatures did to each other when there wasn't enough food for them on their journey.

  He thought about how great it would have been if he could have caught one. He could have sold it for good money to a watcher, but catching a flock of blood birds was impossible; they'd shred you to pieces before you could take one down. Even attacking one head-on was dangerous.

  He glanced one more time at the hero mice's feast, bitterness washing over him. But this was all that remained.

  He found the tracks again in the mud. He ran his hand through his bushy mustache, bit his lip, and took his bow in hand. Climbing a small rise, he spotted it:

  The specimen's ebony-black fur was dense and shiny, its legs long, graceful, and muscular. The dazzlingly white bone protrusions framing its head were almost a foot long. They gleamed in the sunlight like a true crown.

  He thought about the meat. These were served to the nobles. He wondered if the Holy Healer would reward him for gifting it. He often heard she loved its meat. But he quickly dismissed the thought, remembering that if the rumors were true, she was already on her way to Tristitia. Still, he could easily sell it, and not for a bad price. Not at all.

  He took a stable position. As quietly as possible, he nocked an arrow. The wind began to stir again, caressing the leaves. Rustling, crackling, clattering. He focused on nothing but the bow, the string, the arrow, and the target. He took a deep breath, blocking out all other sounds. The string drew taut. Just as he was about to release, the wind gusted, pulling the leaves to the ground. The arrow missed the target, and the hunter instinctively reached for his dagger. By then, the bearded man was towering over him, stomping on his dagger-holding hand, and without hesitation, his sword's tip slashed across the hunter's face. Through the red curtain of blood, he saw the man's wide, ravenous eyes and gnashing teeth cutting into him, then his own dagger's tip touched the hunter's eyelid. As the blade sliced through the thin layer, the bearded man's eyes came close to his face. He made more cuts on his eye, slashing at his ear too. He only saw those eyes. The red world shrank to that pair of eyes. Hands reached out for him from them; they wanted him. The dagger plunged into him, he couldn't breathe, but the eyes were still there, devouring him.

  I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the journey, and I’m really grateful to have you here!

  If you'd like to fuel my eternal writing quest with a coffee or two:

  ? Ko-fi: