The Raven’s Warning

The battlefield, dark and grey as the night around it, smelled more of ash now than it did of fire. The shapes of fallen soldiers were scarcely visible against the faint yellow on the horizon. This battle had long grown silent.

The sun rose hesitantly over the horizon, giving light to the vivid crimson spilled across the dirt like scars — a striking red clinging with mud and soot to the feet of a wanderer as they paced quietly across the desolate earth. Hooded and dressed all in black, mud and rotting leaves clustered at the edges of their cape, the stranger traveled alone — aside a single raven.

The bird had feathers as black as the night sky, black as a silhouette. So dark that it looked like a bird-shaped hole, as though the world simply stopped existing at the edges of its form. As though nothing was there at all. It looked knowingly across the deserted grounds.

They paused, both gazing at the smoke rising from the near horizon, at the restless kingdom engulfed in peril. Fire rushed out of the tight, narrow buildings, licking hungrily at the walls and threatening a hawk as it darted through the streets in panic. Smoke rose from every direction, and the animal — mindless and scared — flew desperately deeper into the kingdom.

It was stopped midair by another of its kind, whose panic had turned to rage. Now both birds spiraled toward the ground, tired and covered in burns, shrieking as they fell toward the fires below. Both hit the ground with a thud. Both called out in fear of the flames. Only one had the strength to take off once more. The other lay injured and ignored by the fire.

The surviving hawk slept high above the rest of the kingdom, dozing as dawn broke and the sun began to rise higher.

The door behind the bird opened suddenly. A large man stumbled out, leaning against the railing of the balcony and looking solemnly down at the kingdom before noticing the startled hawk. He glared.

“Shoo!” he snapped, stepping forward in an attempt to scare it away. “Go on now, bird!”

The hawk, wide-eyed and mouth agape, only stared cluelessly back.

The man looked tired — his hair messy, face unshaven, eyes dark and sunken as though he had not slept in many nights. His clothing was high-class and comfortable: a vibrant crimson cape over a white-and-red suit, gold glistening from jewelry, and atop his head, a shimmering crown.

He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. “Good god,” he muttered. “Can’t even shoo a single frightened bird away.”

He looked down at the hawk, who still bore a stupid, starstruck expression. “Someone oughta make you into a hat,” spat the king. “Teach you not to trespass.”

The wind blew cold and dry over the balcony, the smell of death and fire carried on the breeze.

The hawk’s bright yellow eyes seemed more sensible now than they had a moment ago, and it promptly stood and bowed.

“The war rages ever closer, your majesty,” said the hawk calmly.

The man froze.

“Your people are in peril,” the hawk continued. “And you are dangerously high up. You do realize you have no wings?”

The king stared, pale and shaken. The bird flew off into the smoldering horizon.

He stumbled back into his bedroom, murmuring about sleep deprivation, and fell onto his bed. “Gross things, really,” he said after a while. “What’s a bird like that doing in a kingdom anyway? No place here for wildlife.”

He sat up, scanning the room. “Birds don’t talk.”

He began pacing. “Sure it was only my mind playing tricks… Human brain, very complex.” He tapped his foot. “What’s that even mean — ‘you have no wings’? Of course I don’t! You ever met a winged man, Bird? I didn’t think so.”

He stopped, staring out through the glass doors to the balcony.

“Birds don’t talk,” said the king. “Birds don’t talk.”

He repeated it, quieter this time.

“Birds… do not talk.”

He stood in silence for a long moment, then stormed out of the room.

⸻

A hooded figure, dressed all in black, hung their head as though grieving and approached the kingdom’s gate. The entrance was barely open; black scars of charred wood spiked from the bottom of the large wooden door. The shadows of bombs — echoes of the savage fight — lay across the dirt and stone. The stranger stepped carefully over the dead, up to the gateway.

There was no guard. They flipped their cane; the raven fluttered to their shoulder. With the hook of their crutch, they pulled the gate open and padded silently into the kingdom.

“He says he spoke to a bird?” asked an old man dressed in white, holy robes.

“Well, really, he claims a bird spoke to him,” said the woman opposite him. Her eyes darted nervously. She leaned in closer. “He says he has been speaking with birds.”

“And what was the nature of this bird?”

“Oh, I haven’t a clue. He only said it was a bird.”

“I see.” The man looked concerned. “And what did he say the bird told him?”

“It said that his kingdom was in great danger, and asked if he realized he had no wings.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “May I have a talk with him?”

“Oh, of course. He has been quite busy recently, but I’m sure we could find time.”

“Very well. Until then, I will be praying for him. Do come back and tell me if anything changes. God bless.”

“God bless,” said the woman politely, and left the church.

It was almost dark now; the first few stars twinkled faintly as she hurried back to the castle.

A tin can clattered down the street — old and metal, holding only dust and pebbles. Two children ran after it, giggling as they kicked it down the road. As the sun sank and the shadows deepened, one of the children was called home to eat.

⸻

The king lay burned and bleeding in the rubble of his once-beautiful castle. Struggling to sit upright on a jagged piece of stone, he looked out at the decimated building — the husks of houses, churches, schools. The hollow corpse of a city.

A raven stood on a rock opposite him. Eyes squinted closed in pain and dismay, the king hadn’t noticed its arrival.

“Your Highness,” said the bird as it bowed.

The king startled, his eyes dark with rage and madness.

“You,” he spat through gritted teeth. “You wretched beast!”

He lunged at the bird. It fluttered effortlessly out of reach. “You horrible, horrible thing!” he screamed, stumbling and swatting wildly. His movements grew sluggish from blood loss and exhaustion until at last he collapsed, face down in the dirt.

“It has been a long, painful fall, King,” said the raven — though it knew the broken, bleeding thing before it was no king, not anymore.

“You…” coughed the man. “You are a devil.”

“I,” said the raven, “am no more than a bird.”

The man flicked his eyes toward it. “Liar,” he whispered, staring at the darkening sky. “Liar, liar, liar…” He became enraged. “Birds don’t talk!”

He lunged again, grabbed the bird around the neck, and twisted. Its neck cracked, and it went still. “Evil, terrible vermin,” he hissed. “Your life ends with me.”

He dropped the limp body beside him, crimson drops spattering his hands. He turned onto his back and gazed up at the clouded sky. The wind carried the smell of death and ash.

He sighed. The weight of sadness pressed heavy on his chest.

“Your rage is misdirected,” said the raven.

The king froze, clenching his fists around dirt and soot.

“Your misfortune, your anguish, your hunger and rage — we were not the cause of your destruction, ruler, only a symptom of it. Only here as the children of peril, of hunger, of riot…”

“Here as the children of a war you caused.”

The raven’s mouth moved rhythmically, indifferent to the words spilling from it.

“We are not the bringers of your demise, nor the omen to its arrival, King. For that…”

The air grew still. The sky darkened. A hooded figure, dressed all in black, appeared on the horizon, carrying only a wooden staff, head bowed as though grieving.

“…for that,” said the raven, “there is you.”

The cloaked figure pulled back their hood, revealing a face that mirrored the king’s almost exactly — though its eyes were dark and sunken, its skin papery and pale.

The king, panicked and trembling, pulled a knife from his belt. His fear, sorrow, and desperation had twisted into rage.

He threw the blade into the stranger’s stomach. The figure dropped to the ground, dead.