A young Erevan sits at a desk in a workshop. A ballista is laid out in front of him. The teenager unwinds the thick skeins of twisted cords and sets to work recalibrating them. His father sits on the other side of the workshop, a gutted and half deboned werewolf laying on a table in front of him lit by a lamp. He uses a series of tubes and beakers to extract the lycanthrope's blood. He swirls it around with other salves in different tubes.

A series of cages next to him are full of rats that are heavily scarred. He takes one rat out, straps it to his workbench, and makes a small incision along its back. Then he applies a salve to it mixed with lycan blood. The rat convulses for a few seconds before its heart stops.

“Damn it.” Burkwood sits up slamming his hands on his desk.

“Science isn’t easy.” Erevan chimes in as if reciting something he’s been told a hundred times.

“I know. I just thought I’d have some more progress with this batch.” Burkwood paces around the workshop circling around the other ballista.

“Go get a drink and think about it.” Erevan suggests.

“How did I raise you to be so thoughtful.” Burkwood raises a hand to his forehead. “Alright. But nothing alcoholic. I need a clear mind.” The father leaves the workshop heading towards the house.

Erevan spends the next thirty minutes putting the ballista back together. His father eventually walks back into the workshop, drinking out of a thermos, he sits and stares at the werewolf’s corpses.

“I think I need to get a little more dangerous with my experiments.” Troeles says.

“Even more so than killing werewolves?” Erevan turns in his seat to face his father.

“We need to take one alive.” Troeles says to Erevan.

The two pack up their ballistas and mutter an incantation to lighten their load. They drag the sled with the two ballistas on it out of the woods and across the snowy wastes. Troeles spots birds circling above. The two head towards the birds.

Atop a rock in a clearing lies a man with black hair and facial tattoos. There is blood underneath him dripping down the rock. Below him are two zombies, frozen wights, clawing at the stone. Their rotting tongues lap up the blood pooling off the side of the stone.

Erevan and Troeles both moves down behind them and fire their guns. They kill both instantly and startle the man awake. He looks more pale than most Northerners, probably drained of blood.

“Thank the Gods.” The man mutters as he slips off the rock.

Erevan catches him as he lands unsteadily on the snow.

“Who are you?” Troeles asks.

“Lonny.” The man answers.

“Nice tattoos.” Erevan says.

“Erevan.” Troeles barks at his son. The teenage Erevan shrinks away.

“Thank you, but they are not nice. They mark me as an omen of Death.” The man says. He leans backward, hitting the rock, and slides down it.

“You need medical attention.” Troeles kneels down next to him.

“I was attacked by a werewolf. I need a swift death so that the curse does not set in.” Lonny says.

:”Dad, we can cure him.” Erevan says excitedly.

“Shut up.” Troeles says through gritted teeth. “I’ll bandage him and let him try to get back to his people.”

“They kill infected Crows. Not worth the effort to save.” Lonny looks down at his blood stained hands.

“A Crow?” Erevan mutters.

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“Fine, go grab a bag from the sled. We’ll put it over his head and take him home.” Troeles says.

Erevan does so as the Troeles bandages the Crow. The man has several slashes down his back and a chunk missing from his forearm. They put him on the sled between the ballistae with a bag over his head. The two hunters drag the Crow back to their home.

As they reach their home they drag the sled into the workshop. Troeles quickly makes a potion with wolfsbane and liquid silver. He has Lonny take the potion before he turns away.

“Erevan, stay with Lonny, I need to grab some surgical equipment from the house.” Troeles Burkwood turns to leave.

“Okay,” Erevan sits in a chair. He takes his helmet off, sets it on the ground, and scoots close to Lonny, “so what’s a Crow?”

“Well, you are.” Lonny blinks, looking stunned, as Troeles steps out of the warehouse.

A roar breaks the peaceful day as an armored hunter swings a halberd down at Troeles Burkwood. The silvered blade slashes through his shoulder as his left arm drops to the ground. He lets out a deep guttural scream as he falls backward in front of the workshop's entrance. With a wave of his only arm left, the ballista behind him aims and fires. The bolt strikes through the hunter's chest and sends him flying across the snowy lawn.

“Reload the ballista!” Burkwood screams as Erevan jumps from his chair.

“Dad!” Erevan moves to rush to him.

“The Ballista!” He yells.

Erevan runs to the siege weapon and reloads it. He steps around the ballista to run back to his father. Two arrows stick out of chest. Troeles Burkwood is dead.

The two bowmen are standing across the lawn slowly notching arrows. Erevan, blinded by tears, waves his hand, and a ballista bolt slams into one of the hunters. Now two are dead. The teen is tackled by Lonny.

The Crow crawls across the ground, groaning from the pain of moving as his wounds bleed through the bandages. Erevan struggles, but Lonny grabs his arms and holds him down.

“I’m sorry. I have to.” Lonny says.

Erevan snarls as he snaps his head upward, clenching his jaw on Lonny’s throat, and tearing into the flesh. Lonny pulls away but Erevan rips through skin and flesh.

“Dad!” Erevan struggles to his feet as he hears a window break in the back of the workshop.

Erevan turns to see the man with two silvered shortswords stepping through the window. They used Lonny to set up a trap. They followed them back home. Because they killed a werewolf or because of something Erevan’s father was hiding.

The hunter charges at Erevan, he raises his hand to shoot the second ballista, but the hunter lunges tackling Erevan to the ground. Erevan tries to kick him away and scramble towards the exit. As Erevan turns over the hunter grabs his black hair pulling his neck upright.

“You’re a fucking Crow.” The hunter looks at the black hair, twisting Erevan’s neck, and staring at his untattooed face over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand.” Erevan cries out.

“Your dear father ran away to protect you.” The hunter slams his head into the floor planks. “He left before you were six.” He slams his head down again. “He broke our traditions.” The hunter slams him down one final time before standing.

“What are we going to do to him?” The bowman asks, walking into the warehouse. .

“Mark him.” The hunter says as he grabs one of the dark red salves from his father’s desk.

The bowmen swings his pack around, pulling out a healers kit, and fishing a sewing needle out of it. The hunter takes it, rolls Erevan over, and sets to work. He dips the needle into the salve, pierces it through Erevans cheek, and draws a single thread through the length of his left cheek.

“You will die a proper Crow. Hold still.” The hunter kneels on Erevan’s arms.

“Fuck you,” Erevan says as blood fills his mouth.

With a flick of a finger the ballista spins around and fires at the hunter. The bolt sails through him, impaling him through the chest. The hunter is dead almost instantly. The bowman drops the rest of the healers kit and turns to run. Erevan grabs the bowman’s leg, tripping him, and as he throws his arms out to catch himself he knocks the lamp over on the center table.

The teen crawls on top of the bowman, taking an arrow from the quiver on his back, and stabs him repeatedly in the side. Erevan stands up, tears still rolling down his face, as he looks around at the fire consuming the center table, werewolf, and spreading to the gunpowder kegs on the other side of it.

Erevan quickly grabs the reins of the sled, muttering the incantation, as he drags it towards the exit. A ball of fire explodes from the gunpowder barrels, Erevan is thrown out of the workshop with the sled and the two ballistas. He turns, still laying in the snow, staring as fire overtakes the workshop, and spreads towards his father. Burkwoods corpse slowly goes up in flames.

Erevan will step away, watching his life burn down. Tears well up in his eyes, but he shakes his head clearing his mind. As his lungs burn with sorrow he takes in deep breaths and calms himself.

“I’m gonna live. I’m going to live.” Erevan tightens his fists.

He looks at the ballistae lying in the snow. One took the majority of the damage from the blast. The wood is broken and he doesn’t have the workshop to repair it. He grabs his fathers leg, dragging him out into the snow, and puts the flames out. Erevan removes his father’s helm and turns it over in his hands.

“No one will ever take anything from me again.” Erevan pulls the hunter's helm down to cover his own face. Grabbing the snow sled, he’ll load up the ballista, and a few bolts that are left. He’ll walk away from his home, his shoulders heaving, his helm hiding him away, but he’ll take one last look at the inferno that was his home before leaving.