Slowly, the city faded away into forest as the raven flapped its wings. It flew for some time; it took four long hours before it found the spot. Smoke billowed up from a battlefield's carnage as trees and carcasses burned together.

Over a hundred corpses lay on the ground. Some of them were men, dressed in metal armor adorned with the symbol of Til. The majority were Elveen, dressed in silks, leather, and chain. The raven landed near a pile of the Elveen; there were twenty or so corpses stacked together, all with slashed throats and spikes through their hearts. Their stagnant blood formed a fly filled pool, and the bodies had grown bloated and maggot-ridden.

Tillites never took prisoners.

"Ca-caw! CA-CAW!" The raven called out, pecking one body after another. "Caaaaaw ca-caw!"

Slowly, the bodies began to move, flesh flowing and writhing, shaking maggots loose and the bloated corpses squelched as gases were released. The stack of bodies reformed itself, skin stretching across twisting and breaking bones, bodies melding together until they created a rough archway. Arms and legs dangled from the structure as the bird hopped toward it. It paused long enough to dip its beak into the pool of blood.

"Caaaaaa-CAAAAAAAW!"

The semi-liquid pool quivered and then sludged upward. As it oozed up the fleshy archway, a few globules dripped and plopped to the ground. Soon the oozing gunk completely covered the opening of the arch. The raven extended both its wings and flapped furiously.

"Caw-ca-ca-CAW!"

The archway and dripping gunk undulated and pulsated in a chaotic rhythm. A glow emanated from the blood, a light red at first, and grew stronger until it shone bright crimson. The raven took to the air, flying through the archway. After a bloop and a short gurgle, the raven disappeared from sight. The blood fell to the ground, bubbling and hissing, as flesh melted from bone. The pile ignited in a green tinted fire consuming everything, even the bones. After a moment, all that remained was ash.

The instant the raven entered the portal, it was engulfed in the thick and clinging liquid. Almost impossible to move in, the raven still flapped its wings, trying to swim through the ocean of rotten blood. It floundered, kept far from the surface by an unseen torrent, and after a short while no longer had the energy to struggle.

In a dark room sat a small basin, filled with the same brackish blood. The surface had lain still for quite some time, several months at least. Ripples formed, disrupting the placid surface, and then turned to bubbles. After a moment, the raven bobbed to the top of the basin, long since drowned. It lay in the darkness for some time. The ripples, the bubbles, and even the ravens bobbing all eventually ceased; time seemed to have little meaning here.

Eventually, a tall, gaunt figure shuffled through the darkness. It was dressed in tattered robes that bordered on rags. Most of its body was damaged; it had no nose and large chunks of flesh were missing. It paused and sniffed the air, adjusting its course toward the basin. Its hands were giant, well over four foot in width, and easily scooped the bird up. It rolled the raven back and forth, examining it, before speaking.

"AH, GRIMBEAK, YOU HAVE RETURNED. WHAT DID YOU FIND FOR YOUR MASTER?"

The raven's eyes bulged open and its body began convulsing. The figure started to massage the bird between two of its fingers, paying special attention to the chest and stomach. The raven's beak clacked open and close as it lay twitching. Soon smoke began to pour out from its beak and eyes, and the bird's body began to deflate as if the smoke was the only thing within its body.

The giant waited expectantly.

Soon a small cloud had formed; none of the smoke had dissipated while the figure waited. The cloud began to shift and morph, changing itself until it formed an image of a young, scaled and winged elve. The figure stared at the image in silence, taking in every detail. The cloud shifted again, forming an image of a small prayer paper.

The figure stroked Grimbeak even after its body quit expelling smoke. Finally, he spoke: "PROTECT HIS FAMILY? HOW QUAINT. I DO THINK I LIKE THIS ONE.” The figure squinted at the replication of the paper. ”ANOTHER DARKSBANE. WELL CHOSEN, GRIMBEAK; THEY ARE ALWAYS ENJOYABLE. PRAY TELL, WHERE IS THIS DARKSBANE NOW?" The cloud shifted again, forming an image of a seraph cradling the limp form of the boy. The figure sneered, pustules on its face burst and drained and the hole where its nose once stood gaped wider. “DEAD? I THINK NOT. AFTER ALL, GRIMBEAK, THEY ARE MORE FUN TO PLAY WITH WHILE THEY LIVE, WHILE THEY MAKE THEIR OWN CHOICES. HE WILL BE MINE, BUT NOT TODAY.”

The smoke slowly settled over the bird as the figure reached back to the basin. It dipped its hand into the rotten blood and swirled the liquid. Once, twice, thrice its hand circled the edge of the basin until, finally, it lifted its arm out. Its cupped hand carefully carried a small amount of the liquid towards its face. The figure set Grimbeak down on the basin’s edge and clasped both hands together and blew into them, taking deep breaths and releasing the air slowly.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

While the figure continued its process, the smoke pushed its way back into the bird’s body. Slowly the body inflated again, first the stomach and then the chest. Soon the raven was on its feet and gingerly flapping its wings and hopping about. It fluttered up and landed upon the figure’s shoulder, flicking its tail-feathers smartly as it waited. The figure unclasped its hands and peered at the results of its labor.

A dozen small, reddish crystals lay in its palm. Gingerly it poked and prodded at each one, checking for some indistinguishable characteristic. Some of the crystals it picked up and rolled between its fingers; some it pushed to the side without a second glance. Eventually it selected one and tossed the rejects back into the basin. Lifting the crystal up, it gestured to the raven.

The bird danced back and forth on the figure’s shoulder. “Caw! Ca-ca-caw caaaw,” Grimbeak cried, flapping its wings as it called to its master. It rubbed its beak against its master’s fingers; each finger dwarfed the raven in comparison. Quickly, it snatched the crystal into its beak and cocked its head, waiting for instruction.

The figure paused long enough to stroke the bird’s head. Satisfied, the bird hopped onto its master’s finger, as its wings fluttered to keep balance. “I WANT YOU TO TAKE THIS TO HIM, AS YOU HAVE THE OTHERS BEFORE. I WILL OPEN A PORTAL OUTSIDE OF THE CASTLE; THE REST WILL BE YOUR DOING.”

Grimbeak bobbed its head and took to wing. The figure dipped a finger into the basin and began chanting. The words were old and powerful, spoken in a language only known to immortals. Their effect was immediate, as the liquid frothed and sputtered and shone with the same crimson light the portal held before. Grimbeak flew upwards before falling into an unbreakable dive. Liquid sprayed as the bird hit the basin’s surface, droplets steaming into nothingness long before hitting the ground.

Grimbeak emerged from a circle of stones, each etched with hundreds of runes, forgotten inside a dense bramble thicket. The speed it had gained on the other side of the portal had not diminished. Though it required several quick dodges and rolls, Grimbeak nimbly evaded the thorns and burst out into a clearing. The castle lay almost a mile away from the portal.

Grimbeak caught a wind gust and took to the sky. It would take a few moments to reach the castle. As Grimbeak approached, it was apparent the capital was in mourning. Black cloth hung everywhere; even the castle's flags had been replaced with the Withered Elm, the national symbol of mourning. The bird flew to the window near the chapel it had spotted the boy at before. No long lines of people waited, though a few priests muttered prayers.

Silently Grimbeak hopped back and forth on the ledge. After some consideration, it took to wing again, sticking to the shadows. Through the back halls and up stairs flew the bird. Soon, it landed near a solid stone door. The door had been left open a crack, and though no mourners lined this hall, Grimbeak could hear the sounds of sobbing. Quickly and quietly the raven hopped to the opening, poking its head through the gap. The seraph lay over the bed, clutching a little doll and weeping; the child was not here either.

Grimbeak retreated back into the hall. The raven did not fear the seraph; there was nothing she could do that the Master could not repair. What Grimbeak feared was that she would delay or even ruin the mission. It knew that the Master would brook no such incompetence; there would be no forgiveness. Grimbeak flitted to a window where a quick escape was possible. When the raven was satisfied that its incursion went unnoticed, it resumed its search once more.

It was a short flight to the main hall. Finally Grimbeak could see the mourners; the hall was packed with peasants. The banquet tables had been replaced with a lone, long table covered with an open coffin. King Argus’s sat on a simple chair; his face was tear-streaked and etched with new creases and wrinkles. Lord Adonis stood by his side, hands clasped behind his back, his jaw clenched. Neither of the elves met the eyes of those who spoke to them. Ranvaas was nowhere to be seen, nor was Esventin.

Grimbeak flew out of the nearest window and circled around to a window within the banquet hall. Landing on the stone sill, the raven peered down. The new vantage point allowed it to see directly into the coffin. All it contained was a charcoal sketch of the young prince. The elves had developed a tradition out of necessity: Whenever possible they burnt the dead to insure that Lipiteal could not raise them as His minions. Grimbeak knew where to find the Prince now; if its beak had not held the tiny crystal, the raven would have burst out in raucous laughter.

Taking to wing once more, Grimbeak flew to the infirmary. The boy’s body would have to be prepared for the cremation, his organs would have to be removed. The shutters to the infirmary were closed. This hardly stopped the raven; Grimbeak flew to the nearest hallway. The guards stationed there paid Grimbeak no heed, not noticing the raven’s entrance. The door they guarded was partially opened, allowing them to hear if someone, or something, attempted to defile the corpse. It was a simple task to glide into the room over their heads, as both looked slightly hung-over from the earlier festivities.

With the shutters drawn, the room was in near darkness. This also failed to impede the bird. Grimbeak landed next to a bundled object on an examination table. Gently flapping its wings, the raven hooked its claws into the cloth, pulling it to the side. An ashen colored shoulder appeared, scales dully glinting in the faint light. Grimbeak let that section of cloth drop to the floor. Quickly the raven hooked the other section of cloth, this time exposing the boy’s throat and head.

Grimbeak landed on the boy’s shoulder and nudged the closed mouth with its beak. The boy’s muscles had long since locked up; his mouth refused to open. Grimbeak clawed at the boy’s face in desperation. The Master would not be thwarted. After three tries the claws latched onto some scales on the boy's chin. The raven extended its wings for balance and pulled with all of its might. The jaw slowly extended; Grimbeak took the opportunity and shoved its beak into the boy’s mouth. Opening wide, Grimbeak let the crystal drop in. Shifting positions, Grimbeak withdrew its beak and landed on Adireal’s throat. The raven slowly massaged the area for a few moments. Soon, color and warmth began to return to the flesh and the Prince’s chest began to rise and fall, albeit quite laboriously.

Grimbeak had no opportunity to escape before the nurse came in. Carrying an armload of tools, she gasped and dropped them when she spotted the raven.

“Get ‘way from the Prince, ye bastard animal,” she hissed.

Grimbeak retracted its wings and stared straight at the woman. “The Prince lives. Go and get the seraph; she shall care for him now.” The voice was harsh and grating, carrying some otherworldly tone to it. “You shall not remember me. The Prince lives. Go. NOW.”

Grimbeak flew from Adireal and out the door, leaving the nurse shocked. The guards rushed in as, yet again, the bird flew over their heads. The nurse felt Adireal’s face and cheeks as the guards peered about.

“Wha’s that noise, Illayna? Ye coulda’ woke the dead.”

The nurse looked up at them, noticing them for the first time. The color had drained from her face and she could barely stammer out a reply.

“I-I, th- I, g-go get th- Lady, Lady Ysbella! Get Lady Ysbella! It’s a miracle! The Prince lives!”

Far above the castle Grimbeak laughed in exultation.

“Ca-ca-ca-ca-CAAAW! Ca-ca-ca-ca-CAAAW!”

* * * * * * *

In a quiet, darkened room, a figure watched the scene unfold. The brackish blood in its basin held the image for quite some time. Eventually the figure broke the silence as it mused to itself.

“A MIRACLE INDEED. PRAISES BE TO THE GODS.”