A murder of crows.
The Coven swoops, descending on the village like a black plague, our cries splitting the night air. Humans stumble around the village, confused and terrified, ducking for cover behind carts, hay, or using each other as human shields.
They think we’re just birds.
They’re so wrong.
We swoop as one, a storm of black wings and hunger—the wind tears against our feathers, the world below pulsing with perfect heartbeats. We scream our arrival, with harsh, grating cries that taste like blood not yet spilled.
The villagers look up, small faces bathed in moonlight, eyes wide, throats pulsing with life. We feel their fear before we smell it. The air thickens, sweet with panic. We dive, faster, harder, the night roaring around us. The others hit the ground, and the change rips through them. Their bones crack, feathers burn away with smoke and fire, claws stretch into hands, their beaks split into mouths made for feeding. Screams ripple through the village, only building our excitement as they begin their frantic escape. The chorus of our crow caws twists into manic, evil laughter. Their screams rise to meet ours, and together we sing the song of the hunt.
I land in the village square and shift back, feeling my spine elongate, my wings collapsing into arms, and my beak splitting into a face that once belonged to something almost human.
Almost.
The farmer nearest me freezes, his primitive mind trying to process what his eyes just witnessed.
I move before his scream can form, so fast his eyes track from side to side as if he’s processing the pace of my movement. Myfingers close around his throat, and I lift him off the ground as though he weighs nothing.
Because, to me, he does weigh nothing.
The hunger roars through me, demanding, all-consuming, while his pulse hammers against my palm, rapid, panicked, and delicious. His eyes bulge, and I finally see my reflection there, in the terror flooding his pupils.
A monster.
Pure and simple.
A low, menacing smile crosses my lips. His entire body shakes as he begins to plead in a language I am unfamiliar with. But all it does is ignite me. As the screams intensify around me, my eyes narrow in on the vein pulsing on his neck, the musical pulse hums through my body, a calmness washes over me, my teeth descend farther, and with every fiber of my being, I bite down into his neck.
I don’t even hear the screams when my eyes roll back into my head when the euphoria hits. All the noise, all the chaos, all the death surrounding me is drowned out as my body is overcome. My other hand grips the side of his neck, my long nails ripping his throat open while adrenaline surges. Blood runs down my body when I savage his jugular. The warmth, the way his life force rushes into me and fills the void that never truly stays satisfied, is intoxicating. I drink deep, feeling his struggles weaken, his heart slowing. The Bloodfire inside me—that ancient hunger born the moment I rose from darkness—sings.
Until the melody stops.
The farmer in my grip stills.
I’ve taken too much—I always take too damn much—but I don’t care because the hunger demandseverything.
Letting out an animalistic growl, I drop his corpse to the ground and snap my head up to see the rest of my coven in their frenzy.
Nyx weaves through the screaming villagers, and shadows peel away from walls, from corners, and the spaces between heartbeats. They take shape, twisted, horrific shapes pulled from nightmares. A woman runs from a purple-eyed shadow-beast that isn’t real, but her terror makes it real enough. She trips, falls, and I watch as Nyx descends on her, shadows wrapping around them both like a shroud. I grin while watching Nyx attack her prey, ripping her throat out like the animal she is.
Thanatos tears through a group of men with farmers’ tools, his laugh echoing off stone walls.
They try to fight.
Humans always try to fight at first.
He catches a pitchfork mid-swing, snaps it like kindling, and drives the splintered end through the wielder’s chest. Blood sprays in an arc, painting the dirt black in the moonlight, then he takes after them, latching onto their necks, one by one, using lightning speed.
Erebus simply touches people. That’s all it takes. Where his fingers brush skin, life stops. Not death, something worse—erasure.
The shepherd collapses, but there’s nothing left behind, no body, no scorch, no evidence he ever existed. Just empty space where a man used to be, but from the erasure, he captures their Bloodfire.
Bloodfire.The essence that makes blood sing. The life force that pulses through every living thing, carrying magic, memory, and the spark of existence itself. It’s what keeps hearts beating and souls anchored to flesh. For mortals, it burns dim and steady, a candle that flickers out when their time ends.
For supernaturals, Bloodfire is an ancient force, stronger and more enduring than any mortal flame. But in some, it surges higher, powerful enough to separate them from others entirely.
We don’t know why.
