The heavy iron bolts that had pinned their armor collars to the ancient masonry were gone, discarded in the dirt like worthless baubles. Daker and Seraphina fled through the choking dark, their lungs burning, breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps. They moved like ghosts through the twisting, narrow capillaries of the city's edge, where the cobblestones finally gave way to the damp, yielding earth of the outskirts.
The night had fully claimed the realm. A cold, unblinking moon cast its pale shroud over the world, stretching the shadows of twisted trees and decaying hovels into monstrous, crawling shapes along the ground—like nocturnal predators waiting for the kill.
Daker paused for a fleeting heartbeat, looking back. From this distance, the high keep of the castle and the sprawling city beneath it shimmered under the silver veil of midnight. It looked peaceful, untouchable, and utterly indifferent to the terror thumping against his ribs. Before them lay a vast, desolate meadow, ending abruptly where the jagged line of a dense, primordial forest cut into the sky.
"Daker, there!" Seraphina hissed, her voice a sharp whisper against the wind. She pointed toward the impenetrable silhouette of the woods. "General Valerius awaits us within that grove. He commanded me to bring you to the ancient thicket. We must fly, now!"
Daker gripped her hand, his knuckles white, and together they bolted across the open expanse. Their boots thuffed heavily against the dew-laden grass until the absolute blackness of the ancient canopy swallowed them whole.
The Old Crow
Deep within the heart of the grove, where the moonlight filtered through the leaves in fractured, sickly beams, General Valerius sat motionless upon a jagged outcrop of rock. Beside him stood a figure draped in complete, unsettling silence.
"Seraphina," the General spoke, his voice a low, calm rumble that defied the tension of the night. "Meet my old companion, Khyber."
Seraphina's eyes widened, the breath freezing in her throat. The figure before them was a legend pulled straight from the bedtime warnings used to frighten disobedient children: a Blind Crow Knight.
"But General..." she stammered, her voice trembling like a dry leaf. "He... he is of the Blind Crows."
Daker's blood turned to ice in his veins. The Blind Crows. The grim tavern tales Daki had whispered in the dark flashed through his mind—warriors born of shadow, bound by blood, and sustained by sacrifice.
Khyber stood. He wore a heavy helm forged in the grotesque likeness of a crow's skull, dark, menacing, and caked with the grime of forgotten campaigns. Slowly, with a deliberate, scraping movement, he reached up and pulled the iron visage free.
Daker recoiled, a low gasp escaping his lips. Where eyes should have lived, there were only deep, hollow craters of withered, grey flesh. A jagged, ancient scar tore violently across his countenance, running from well above his brow down into his shriveled, bloodless cheek.
"So, Valerius," Khyber's voice was like stones grinding together in a mill, yet filled with a terrifying, coiled vitality. "This is the whelp you spoke of? This is the one I must break... or rather, train?"
"It is," Valerius replied, his expression unreadable.
Seraphina turned to the General, her eyes frantic. "You spoke the truth. On our path here, we were beset by rogue knights. But someone... some unseen fiend... slaughtered them in a single, breath-taking stroke before our eyes could even register the movement."
The General let out a low, gravelly chuckle that offered no warmth. "The fiend who struck them down stands before you. It was Khyber."
Daker stared at the old man, his mind a tempest of doubt. This ancient, withered creature? He looks as though a stiff winter wind could shatter him. And yet Daki said their eyes are ripped from their skulls in youth... but what occurred in that alleyway was beyond human capability. Are all Blind Crows such unnatural monsters?
"Fine, General," Daker said, swallowing the lump of fear in his throat as he forced his voice into a steady, princely cadence. "I have met him. We shall commence the training on the morrow."
Suddenly, a hand like an iron vice clamped onto Daker's head. Khyber's calloused fingers dug into his skull with agonizing, bone-crushing strength.
"Listen to me, boy," Khyber hissed, his sightless, ruined face mere inches from Daker's. The smell of old copper and earth rolled off him. "If you wish to keep your soul tethered to your flesh, training does not wait for the sun. It begins now."
"Unhand me!" Daker snarled, white-hot pain blooming behind his eyes. "How dare you lay hands upon a prince!"
Khyber's withered lips curled into a mocking smirk. "And what will you do, little prince? Strike me down? Go on. Try."
Enraged, Daker's hand flew to his belt. He drew his finely forged dagger and swung with every ounce of venom in his veins. But his blade met only empty air. In a blur of motion that utterly defied his advanced years, the old man vanished, reappearing breaths later perched high upon a thick oaken branch, silhouetted against the moon like a predatory bird.
"Such a sluggish, pathetic pace," Khyber mocked from above, his voice drifting down like dry leaves. "At this speed, you will not live to see the afternoon of the Dire Dirge."
Khyber plummeted from the branch. Before Daker's instincts could even flare, the old man's bare, calloused palm struck the flat of the dagger. With a sickening, metallic snap, the high-born steel shattered into a dozen useless shards.
Daker stood frozen, staring at the empty hilt in his hand. If an old, blind crow possesses such monstrous power... what is a young one capable of?
The Forest of Snares
"We have no leisure for your terror," Khyber said, stepping over the shattered steel. "You have two days. Merely two risings of the sun. I cannot teach you the art of execution in so short a span, but I can teach you the art of survival. If you can simply evade your adversary's steel, your lease on life extends. But... should you manage to impress me, perhaps I shall grant you a few secrets of our trade."
General Valerius nodded grimly. "He is yours now, Khyber. I leave his life in your keeping."
As the General and Seraphina faded back into the dark womb of the forest, the wind picked up, howling through the canopy. The branches rattled against one another with a hollow, clattering sound, like dry bones knocking together in a crypt.
"Boy," Khyber's voice echoed against the gale. "I have laid snares within these woods. Traps heavy enough to bring down a wild mammoth. You will run. You will run from this end of the grove to the uttermost boundary and back again. You will keep running until you can navigate this labyrinth without a single snare tasting your flesh. I shall be listening."
Daker did not waste words. He broke into a sprint, plunging into the thicket like a man possessed. The wind roared in his ears, masking the subtle language of the forest. Suddenly, a sharp whistle of displaced air sliced through the noise—something massive was swinging. Before he could pivot, a heavy, fallen log smashed squarely into his chest, sending him crashing backward into the dirt, the breath exploding from his lungs.
Khyber appeared beside him instantly, as if stepping out of the earth itself. "You failed. Arise. Return to the threshold and begin anew."
Daker gritted his teeth, tasting copper. He dragged himself back to the start, his mind hardening. I will mark the positions, he thought with a bitter, internal smirk. Next time, I shall know precisely where the traps lie hidden.
He accelerated, his heart hammering against his ribs. The log is nigh... now! He ducked low, but the moment his boot planted into the moss, a hidden cord snapped taut around his ankle. In the blink of an eye, he was yanked skyward, left dangling helplessly upside down from a high bough.
Khyber walked beneath him, the whisper of his blade cutting the cord. Daker hit the earth hard, the impact rattling his teeth as the air left his chest in a pathetic wheeze.
"Go to sleep, boy," Khyber said dismissively, turning his back. "Go to sleep now, so that you may sleep eternally in two days' time."
"No," Daker hissed, dragging his broken body from the dirt. "I am not stopping."
The Limit of Endurance
The night dissolved into a blur of agonizing torment. Every time Daker believed he had mastered the rhythm of the woods, a new cruelty found him. He dodged a swinging log only to have a concealed wooden beam strike him squarely across the spine, driving him face-first into the bark of an ancient elm.
He looked up, coughing dark blood, and saw Khyber perched on a branch above. The old man held up a single thumb, then slowly, deliberately, turned it toward the earth. Again.
The traps were relentless, laid out every few hundred paces. Daker ran until his lungs burned like molten lead, until his vision blurred into a gray haze. His nose was broken, blood flowing freely over his lips and dripping down his chin. His fine garments were reduced to shredded rags, his flesh a canvas of purple bruises and weeping welts.
As the first golden, bleeding rays of the dawn pierced the thick canopy, Daker stood at the far edge of the grove. He was leaning heavily against a gnarled trunk just to keep his knees from buckling. He looked back at the treacherous path behind him, unable to comprehend that he had finally navigated the final gauntlet.
Groaning in sheer agony, he limped toward a small, crude hovel of mud and branches where Khyber waited. Daker's vision swam violently. The world turned ash-gray, and as his legs finally failed him, he felt a pair of surprisingly powerful arms catch his collapsing frame before he hit the dirt.
The Philosophy of the Blind
When Daker finally parted his swollen eyelids, he found himself lying upon a bed of dry, fragrant bracken inside the dim hovel. A cool, damp cloth rested against his feverish brow.
"Easy, princeling," Khyber said, sitting cross-legged nearby.
"Where... where am I?" Daker croaked, his throat like ash.
"I fashioned this hut while you were playing your foolish games in the thicket," Khyber replied dryly. "And I must confess, I am mildly impressed. You completed the task. Now, when a blade lunges at you from the dark, your flesh will move before your arrogant mind even understands why."
"Am I... am I a master now?"
Khyber let out a raspy, mocking laugh. "A single night of survival does not a master make. Rest. I have taken something from the stream for our sustenance, then the true torment begins."
A short while later, Khyber returned with a string of silver-scaled fish. Daker watched in sheer fascination as the blind man cleaned and gutted them with surgical, terrifying precision, using nothing but his senses to guide the edge of his blade. He then gestured for Daker to kindle the hearth. As the fish sizzled over the crackling flames, impaled upon green wooden skewers, the rich aroma filled the small hovel, causing Daker's stomach to growl fiercely.
They ate in silence for a time, the crackle of the wood filling the void before Daker spoke. "Khyber... is that your true name?"
"No," the old man said, his sightless sockets staring deep into the embers he could not see. "It was a title bestowed upon me when my blood ran hot. I have fought many a campaign—against the malice of men and the hunger of monsters alike. Because of my nature and the manner in which I hunted, the Blind Crows named me so. My birth name was Michael. But Michael perished a long lifetime ago."
"So... do you no longer guard the Walls of Justice?"
"Not anymore," Khyber replied, his tone hardening. "Now, I only break those who are willing to surrender everything to become a Crow."
Daker hesitated, the burning question finally leaping from his tongue. "Why do they take your eyes? Why such a horrific sacrifice?"
Khyber's expression grew solemn, the shadows of the fire dancing across his scarred face. "To be a Blind Crow is to understand the absolute purity of sacrifice. An eye is a window to the world, boy, but it is also a grand distraction. A man with sight relies upon the illusions before him—the beauty of a feint, the terror of a charging beast, the deceptive glitter of a polished blade. But by tearing away the eyes, we force the soul to rely upon the scent and the sound."
He leaned forward, the heat of the fire between them. "Everything in this wretched world possesses a scent and a song. When you extinguish the light of one sense, the others become a thousand times sharper. A true executioner cannot rely upon sight, for sight is easily deceived by shadows and smoke. We forfeit the world of light to inherit the world of truth."
Khyber stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the dirt floor. He walked to the threshold of the hovel and turned his head slightly, his sightless 'gaze' locking onto Daker with uncanny precision.
"Break your fast quickly and meet me under the sky. The sands of your time are running low, and the Dire Dirge waits for no slow-blooded boys. Do not make me come looking for you."
With that, the old crow stepped out into the harsh morning light, leaving Daker alone with the ache in his bones and the terrifying truth of the path ahead.
[Chapter End]