A strangled thought — part laugh, part groan — curled in Asdras’s throat. The absurdity of the day pressed upon him like an iron hand: first the water, then the burning in his palm, and now, an argument with a crow. No, not just an argument — an outright defeat. He was losing to this creature in a battle of words, and worse still, the creature knew it.

  "What are you?" Asdras demanded, his voice a knife dulled by disbelief.

  "Madness! Kid, are you blind as a bat?" The crow's caw cut through the air like the crack of a whip.

  "I know you’re a bird, dammit, but how can you talk?"

  "With my mouth, obviously! I’m a crow, not some common feathered idiot!"

  “A crow is a bird.”

  "A crow has gravitas, you fool! A crow is wisdom wrapped in shadow, a harbinger, a poet of omens!"

  Asdras exhaled sharply. The mere fact that he was engaging with this lunacy and that the lunacy was winning made something twist inside him, half nausea, half despair.

  "If you’re a crow, then come here and fight!"

  "Fight? You? Oh, boy, that’s rich. If you're so brave, jump here and catch me, fool!"

  He almost considered it — almost. But his stomach still tasted of that cursed water, and his mind reeled from a sensation he couldn't shake, like he had stepped out of time and into a place where all reason had slipped away. With a violent stomp, the earth cracked beneath his feet, splitting like old parchment. His fingers clawed through his own hair, his scalp burning as if he could rip the confusion straight from his skull.

  “You can’t be my power,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe that had so cruelly conspired against him. “A talking crow? That’s hell.”

  "For every ounce of wisdom, there's a pound of foolishness, I say!" The crow cawed, pacing along the statue, its talons clicking like a clock counting down.

  “This has to be some kind of trick.” His voice turned hollow. “How can a crow be my power? It’s ridiculous.”

  The crow erupted in laughter — or was it something closer to a sob? The sound split the silence like a jagged tear, echoing between them.

  "Ridiculous, my damned feathers! Do you know how many times I’ve seen this scene? How many times have I tried? How many times have I faced hell? Ridiculous, I say! But like it or not, kiddo, I’m stuck with you. Best listen if you want to survive."

  Asdras’s body stiffened. Survive. The word sat heavy on his tongue, tasteless yet suffocating.

  "What…"

  His palm throbbed as if something deep within it had awakened, an unformed thing stretching its limbs for the first time. His body twisted toward the crow, an awkward, unnatural pose, like a puppet whose strings had been tangled.

  “Good lad,” the crow muttered, blinking sluggishly. “Madness! These bursts of madness are unbearable! Now listen up; you’ve got about a week to live or die. I want to live. If you die… well, at least it’ll be true death this time.”

  Asdras flinched, his grip tightening around the cold, slick stones.

  "What do you mean by that? What about a week? What about true death? What—"

  The crow launched toward him like a dart of night, vanishing and reappearing in a blink. His face burned where the creature’s wing had struck, though the crow now stood motionless, unmoved from its perch.

  "Curse you, kid! I know you’re confused as hell and have questions swarming like bees, but I’ve got limited time in this form. Stop interrupting, or everything we’ve done will be for nothing! For our sake, answer only with yes or no. Can you do that?"

  The words carried a weight, an inevitability Asdras didn’t understand but dared not challenge. He swallowed and nodded.

  “Good. Like you, my memory’s all muddled. One day, I woke from slumber and found you wandering in the snow. Now here we are. At least you’ve started your awakening. Yes, started. You’re different. Listen closely; time is short as worms in apples. Have you received any message in some container?”

  “Yes.”

  "Praise the fool who sent it! Now tell me."

  “It was written on a wood stick: Last Death. Hidden Choice. Cut source. Defeat monster. Learn the song. Trust Joah. Don’t be a fool. Seek the Innkeeper. 347.”

  The crow shifted, as if the words had ruffled something unseen in the air.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Good! A hidden choice, it seems… Listen up: You need to defeat that monster. As the message said, this is your last chance. To defeat it, cut its source, learn the song, and find another way to do it. I—”

  The crow convulsed mid-sentence, its body flickering like a candle about to go out. Asdras froze, watching as the creature split, fractured — appearing in three different places at once, a blur of black wings and vanishing forms. The distortions stretched the air like glass about to shatter.

  Then, with a ragged breath, the crow settled, its chest heaving.

  “Damnation! This curse is gnawing at me! Listen, kid: seek out that villager. Tell him you need to cut the source to defeat the monster. Tell him it’s the only way everyone can find peace, and—”

  The crow stopped again, but this time, its body pulsed, a strange glow radiating from within. A moment later, it vanished. Not with a sound, not with a trace — just gone.

  Asdras stared.

  “What now?” His voice sounded small, absurd against the vast indifference of the world around him. “It vanished… just like that?”

  The forest whispered in return, its voice older than time. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, erratic, lost. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts a storm without center. For all his questions, only one thing was certain: this was only the beginning.

  The path back was steeped in a silence that gnawed at Asdras’s nerves. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting the crow to materialize again, its voice slicing through the air like a blade. But there was nothing — only the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig beneath his boots.

  ‘He said he’s now part of me. Hell it. Well, thinking about it, it kind of makes sense. Second mentioned that back in the day everyone had their own crow, and the emblem on my palm is a crow. But… I don’t know what else I was expecting to happen. I guess this is it.’

  He clenched his fists, his palm tingling. The thought sat in his mind like a cold stone. He had imagined something else — anything else. Fire, strength, speed — something that made sense. Not a crow that ranted about doom.

  ‘What about true death? What does he mean by that? Last death means true death, so have I died before? How does that even make sense? How can someone die and then come back? And what’s this one week to live or die thing about? Well, Second said the monster comes and goes every week, so does that mean I only have one week to prepare for this fight? I’m stronger now, but I don’t think I’m stronger than that thing.’

  ‘He saw me in the snow before. Was it snowing a week ago? It doesn’t make sense; otherwise, there’d be some sign of snow on the trees and ground. One thing is for sure: that monster must die; otherwise I'm doomed if I have to stay here longer than a week. Maybe talking to Second would help.’

  By the time Asdras reached the campsite, the sky was beginning to burn with the first embers of morning. The red-orange light bled through the tree branches, stretching long shadows across the ground. His body ached, his mind churned, but exhaustion wasn’t enough to crush the restless knot in his chest.

  At the far end of the camp, Second was skinning a fresh kill with slow, practiced strokes, his blade flashing in the dim light. Not far from him, Sixth sat on a stump, fingers lazily plucking at the strings of his lute. The melody swayed between something lighthearted and something ominous, like a song trying to decide whether it belonged at a festival or a funeral.

  When Sixth spotted Asdras, he grinned and pressed harder on the strings, adding a lively sharpness to the tune.

  Second, without looking up from his work, spoke first. “How was it?”

  Asdras exhaled through his nose, raking a hand through his tangled hair. “A mess. First, that water — you were right about the taste — then the awakening. I saw a talking crow. That can’t be my power, right?”

  Second finally paused, lifting his gaze to Asdras. His eyes moved slowly over him, taking in the scratches, the dried blood on his nose, and the sleepless weight pressing down on his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “Hell of a night, I see,” he muttered. “Well, I don’t know if it’s your power or not. Awakening’s different for everyone. Some get it all at once, others take days, weeks. Heard of one poor bastard who took a _month_.” He wiped the blood from his dagger onto a cloth. “Only when you hear the whispering voice calling your name, then you know you’ve truly awakened.”

  Asdras sat down heavily on a nearby stool, rubbing his temples. The simple motion made his bloodshot eyes sting.

  “What do I do now?”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “Right. It went like this…”

  He relayed the night’s events, his voice steady despite the exhaustion. Second listened, silent and still, his hands resting on his knees. Sixth, meanwhile, continued strumming, his tune shifting and twisting with the story — as if his fingers were painting the scene through sound.

  By the time Asdras finished, the sun had climbed above the trees, casting its dull yellow light over the campsite.

  Second exhaled, stretching his hands.

  “I see,” he murmured. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, deep in thought. “I think I know what he meant by cutting the source and finding peace.”

  Asdras leaned forward. “So? What do we do?”

  Second met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

  “I have a plan,” he said. “One that might just make everyone happy, somehow. But it depends on you.” His expression darkened, though his voice remained calm. “Are you ready to put your life against that monster?”

  Asdras hesitated. His heart hammered once — twice — before he forced out the answer.

  “No,” he admitted. “But I don’t have a choice. I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Second’s lips quirked upward, just slightly.

  “Good.” He gestured toward the carcass he’d been working on. “First things first: sleep. By the time you wake up, this beauty will be on the fire, warming us and our bellies. Then we’ll talk about how you’re going to kill that thing.”

  Asdras swallowed the urge to argue, the exhaustion finally outweighing his stubbornness. Without another word, he dragged himself toward his bedroll, collapsing onto it with a heavy exhale.

  The last thing he heard before sleep took him was the sound of Sixth’s lute, weaving its melody between the waking world and the place where dreams turned to nightmares.