The fire crackled, embers spiraling upward like dying stars swallowed by the dark. Around it, the villagers formed a loose circle, their voices quiet and their movements slow, as though anything more spirited might shatter the fragile calm. Asdras sat among them — close enough to feel the fire’s warmth, distant enough to sense a gulf he could not cross.

  He pressed his knuckles against his knees, fingertips raw from the lingering heat that still churned inside him. That unfamiliar warmth refused to ebb, an almost branded tightness under his skin. When he curled his hands into fists, he half expected to see flickers of light dance across his knuckles. Yet all he saw was his own breath, shyly clouding the air in the autumn chill.

  His gaze drifted around the silent semicircle. Grandpa First sat with a face carved by years, lines running deep from brow to cheek. Near him, Sixth plucked absently at a lute, the half-formed melody more memory than music. Across the flames, a woman stroked her daughter’s hair, her motions gentle, as if to ease an unspoken dread neither dared acknowledge. A middle-aged man floated in and out of focus, absently running his thumb along the rim of a wooden cup. His sword lay a hair’s breadth away, as though even in repose he trusted nothing under this sky.

  Asdras exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. His scalp tingled with the echo of something he saw — or thought he saw. He tried to bury the memory: the wind alive with shape and color, the beast. Nobody else had spoken of it or even shown the slightest astonishment. How could they sit like this, as if nothing extraordinary had happened?

  He forced his attention on the middle-aged man. The hollow space where the man’s left eye should have been hinted at a lifetime of debts paid in flesh. Tonight, he watched the leap of flames as if searching for answers in the shifting colors.

  Slowly, the man cleared his throat. That faint sound shattered the communal hush, drawing every pair of eyes to him. Though he looked lean and underfed, his voice carried a quiet authority as he cleared the dryness with a sip from his mug. Asdras glanced at his own cup — a clay vessel filled with a dark, yellowish brew fermented by Grandpa First. He sipped, wincing at its bitterness, then let it settle in his belly. Water was unsafe here, or so they said.

  The man — Second, they called him — lifted his chin. “So,” he murmured, letting his voice settle in the hush. “What'll it be tonight, then?”

  A hush followed, almost reverent. Not everyone was gathered — some found ill rest in tents bedeviled by private horrors — but those who remained sat in a half-ring of resignation. Across from Asdras perched Third, whose weathered red robe hinted at better days. Her hair, though thinning and flecked with silver, fluttered with a longing for its past luster. Leaning against her was Eight, her young daughter, cloaked in a matching red garment. The child fixated on the stars, unblinking, as though the sky might answer questions nobody dared speak aloud.

  Beside Asdras, Sixth let his fingers pause upon the lute strings. He caught Second’s eye and inclined his head toward Asdras, a silent suggestion. Second’s weathered features warmed with an understanding smile.

  “Your choice, newcomer,” he said, turning toward Asdras with a half-bow that was more courtesy than humility.

  That simple invitation caught Asdras off guard. He inhaled, head swirling with unasked questions, each more urgent than the last. Seconds passed before he found the thought that mattered most.

  “Tell me about this place,” he said, voice low over the crackle of fire and the muted strum of the night breeze. Every syllable tasted uncertain even to his own ears. “And… that thing out there. The monster. Whatever happened to bring us to this.”

  He wanted them to laugh at the absurdity, to assure him all of this was a fevered nightmare, the product of exhaustion or delirium. Instead, murmurs died. The group turned to Second, who drained what remained of his cup and set it aside with a dull thud.

  Second exhaled, breath carrying the ghosts of old stories. He braced his elbows on his knees, leaning in close enough that the fire’s glow caught his single eye. One side of his face flickered under the dancing light, while shadow claimed the other.

  “This place,” he said softly. “You’re asking the right question, though you might not like the answer.”

  He used the side of his thumb to smooth out his beard, as though fussing it might steady his resolve. Then, quietly, he spoke:

  “In the heart of the forest, there was once a hamlet called Ravenwood. Small but prosperous. Closer to Crowshade City than many hamlets get — allowed us some trade. Our buildings perched high among the branches, wood and bark woven together by old rites we learned from our crows. Yes, crows. Each villager was paired with one from the moment we drew breath. We grew together. Hunted together. Mourned together whenever tragedy struck. It built us into a tight-knit family, human and bird alike.

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  “We had an obsidian mine too. A decent one, enough to keep coin in our pockets and pay for medicine whenever sickness struck, whether in us or our crows. That little black stone we cut from the earth made us valuable to the empire— valuable enough that we believed we were safe.

  “But safe is just a word until someone wants what you have and aims to take it by force. A noble took notice. Came in with honeyed promises: more wealth than we could spend, marriage ties to connect us to the ruling families. All he asked was control of the mine. We refused. We’d never planned to get rich or hold power. We just wanted to keep living with our crows and trees. Went on trusting the empire’s laws to shield us.

  “The noble left us with a curse on his lips. We laughed at first, never understanding how deep a man’s grudge can run when pride’s at stake. We learned soon enough.”

  He paused, letting each word smolder in the spaces between. His voice fell, husky with regret.

  “One day, madness struck from nowhere. Our crows turned on us like rabid beasts, black wings beating out nightmares, talons rending flesh. We tried to calm them, tried everything we could — only to see friends and neighbors torn down by creatures they had once hand-fed. The guilt was worse than the pain. Even when we decided to fight back, many were already doomed.

  “When the bloodshed stopped, a third of us lay dead. We thought that had to be the end of it. But that was when it crawled out of the shadows: a twisted shape, half human, half crow. An abomination that shredded the mind just to look at it. We called it a Plagued or Cursed, but it was more monstrous than any of us had the words to describe.

  “We tried to fight. A few among us carried awakened abilities — powers that spark in certain people, gifts from the Crows Wheel in each major settlement. But that monstrosity tore through us like an avalanche. Some of us fled to Crowshade City for help. The rest tried holding the boundary, anything to protect what was left. We were outmatched. So we gambled everything on the Crows Wheel in Ravenwood.

  “Around here, you spin that wheel, you might awaken. But if you fail, you’re cursed. Our wheel must have been corrupted, though — because out of hundreds who took their chance, only three awakened. Everyone else ended up twisted into something else. Some turned to living trees, anchored to the earth by roots that used to be their feet. Others lost their minds, roaming these woods like husks. Every day felt worse than the last.

  “We battled that monster again, with our few awakened, buying time until those who’d gone for help returned. What came back was only a single rune wordsmith. We had hoped for an army of awakened elites, but apparently the noble’s coin went far, and no real assistance could slip past his influence. Still, the wordsmith etched runes for fences, tents, and protective wards. That’s all that keeps this campsite standing.

  “And the price for those protections? The rights to our mine. We were dying, so we agreed. The cursed land kept us from wandering more than a certain distance; if we tried, the sickness would overwhelm us. Those boundary lines shrink every year. The monster returns sometimes, though the wards hold it off. When it can’t reach us, it uproots more of those tree-people — villagers who failed the wheel — and drags them back to wherever it lurks. We call that place the mines, though from the glimpses we’ve had, it’s hardly ours anymore.

  “Ten years now. Half a day’s travel is all we have left before the curse tugs at our veins. Food grows scarce. We try to keep living. But as time passed, we even lost our names, our memories. Part of the curse, I suppose. We needed some sense of order, so we started calling ourselves by numbers. First, Second, Third… Do that long enough, you don’t even ache for your old name. You almost believe you never had one.

  “Help never came after that. Anyone who tried likely died or never even heard of us. That noble’s still out there, soaking up profit from the mine. We’re here, rotting under this final patch of sky, waiting to die.”

  Second trailed off, breath shaking like a man who had dredged up a part of himself best left buried. As he leaned back, the threads of conversation loosened, undone by the weight of his tale.

  Asdras felt his own breath catch. The story sounded impossible, yet everything he had seen today fit the horrifying outline. The rotten-limbed trees looming in that half-circle around the clearing, the strangeness etched in each villager’s gaze — all made a grim pattern. He clenched his jaw.

  “But what about me?” He asked softly. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t even recall how I arrived here. If I were part of the village, wouldn’t I…”

  He cut himself off when First let out a low chortle. Smoke from the damp logs stirred tears in the old man’s eyes. He nudged Asdras with a gnarled elbow.

  “You’re no native, boy.” First’s lips curled into something approaching a grin. “Third and her daughter found you a week ago, near death. You kept babbling about a wooden stick, but no sense came out. You’ve been drifting in and out ever since. Only truly woke up now, it seems.”

  Third stirred at the mention, glancing at Eight before reaching inside her threadbare cloak. She withdrew a slender rod of weathered white wood. The girl passed it to Asdras with both hands, her face solemn.

  The stick felt as though it hummed with secrets. Splintered edges jabbed at Asdras’s fingertips, each prick sending a tremor up his spine. Some letters, scrawled in dark ink, ran along the shaft. He squinted in the low firelight, heart knocking against his ribs.

  He made out the first two words: “Last Death.”