The day began like most others for Davrek. He’d spent the morning fixing a bent horseshoe and polishing a belt clasp someone swore had “spiritual significance.” As usual, the crows had been watching, perched on his workshop roof and cawing like they had something important to say. One even hopped to his windowsill, staring at him with that unnerving, knowing tilt of its head.

“Not shiny enough for you, is it?” he muttered, ignoring the bird as it flew off.

By midday, he returned home to find the usual offerings on his doorstep: a chipped glass shard, a rusted coin, and a tarnished button. Korákil’s “blessings,” no doubt. He tossed them into the wooden box with the rest, trying not to think too hard about what the crow god wanted from him.

He was just settling down for lunch when the crows came again. A small group sat on his fence, cawing insistently. One flew off toward the forest, stopping to look back.

“Really? Can’t I eat in peace?” he sighed, but he followed. Ignoring them never worked.

The birds led him into the woods, darting between branches and pausing just long enough for him to keep up. Their cawing grew louder, frantic, until suddenly they fell silent.

A shadow passed overhead, and a strange sound—a sharp whoosh of wind—made Davrek freeze. He looked up just in time to see something crashing through the treetops, breaking branches before disappearing into the canopy with a heavy thud.

Leaves rained down as the forest erupted in startled bird calls. Davrek stood frozen, staring at the treetops. Then he heard it: a faint groan.

When he reached the crash site, he looked up to find someone tangled in the branches. Their strange clothing was torn and dirtied, but they were alive, barely stirring.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, scanning the area for a way to climb or bring them down safely. “Because a quiet day was too much to ask for.”

The crows cawed once more, this time with a note of triumph, as if to say: Good. You’re paying attention now.