A Murder of One

Love Beyond Death

Feb 12, 2025

There it was again. The raven that had been following him around ever since he was a little boy. Couldn’t the gods-accursed bird ever leave him alone?

In a moment of weakness, Lar squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again. Wandering about at this late hour, outside the confines of the enclave, was suicide.

Hells, even the familiar alleys of Curridge Enclave harboured unseen threats for the likes of him. Magic was a dangerous gift to possess. If anyone found out…

Nowhere was safe. Not for Gavrilar Nakarovim, the last surviving heir of a long line of powerful wielders.

Trust, even in one’s own senses, could be deadly. Constant vigilance had kept him alive all these turnings. He shouldn’t allow himself to grow careless now. Not for a moment.

He drew his cloak tighter about him and walked on through the dark, snow-covered streets of Moringarad, trying his hardest to ignore the dragon-cursed raven. Always flying around his head.

Stalking him. Like a predator tracking its prey.

A movement in the distance caught his eye. A shadowy shape approaching. Lar’s hand went to his dagger, nestled in its worn leather scabbard. He squinted, but the figure remained no more than a dark silhouette.

With slow, deliberate steps, the stranger came closer, the hood of their cloak pulled over their forehead, concealing their eyes. Lar gripped his knife so tightly it made his fingers ache. He slowed his pace.

He shouldn’t be out here. And he wouldn’t have been if Tarla hadn’t insisted on him helping Tor. Gods, he hated how she doted on that cockless cripple. That arrogant piece of dragon dung had been nothing but trouble ever since he arrived in the enclave.

Lar pushed his bitter thoughts back. This was not the time to dwell on them. He needed to keep his wits about him. Focus on the danger and be ready to strike first.

The crunch of snow under his boots sounded like thunder in his ears, and even his breathing was too loud. But if this man thought he could—

A glimmer of moonlight briefly illuminated a delicate, heart-shaped face with thin, pale lips and a pair of deep-set, weary eyes.

With a slight nod, the stranger passed by, turned a corner, and was gone. Shame burnt his cheeks and made his stomach churn when he realised he’d been about to attack a harmless woman.

A Reject, just like him.

That accursed raven! Now it had him jumping at shadows like a scared little boy. He balled both hands into fists and pressed his nails into the soft flesh of his palms until the pain became so intense it drowned out all thought.

Not far to the enclave now. He could already see the gates. Soon, he’d be home, where that annoying corvid couldn’t pester him any longer.

Careful to stick to the shadows, he quickened his pace, eager to return to the relative safety of his battered lair. A nice warm fire, a brozka, and a book. That was what he needed.

He squinted, scanning the road ahead for his sinister stalker. There it was, up on a pitched roof, looking down on him, its head cocked. Its beady eyes focused on him.

Those eyes… they made his skin crawl. So intense. They seemed too smart. Too knowing. As if nothing escaped the creature’s attention, and it could see into the depths of his soul.

When finally he slid through the gates of the enclave, the raven flew over his head, screeching. Its cry echoed through the night, loud and chilling.

He flinched momentarily, but quickly regained his composure. Enough already! He couldn’t go on like this. He’d settle his score with the bird tonight, no matter the cost.

‘You,’ he said, but he spoke to empty air.

Where had that eerie raven gone? It had to be somewhere close by.

He peered into the darkness, and there it was. Just a few yards away from him, perched upon an old, rusty light post. Motionless. Staring at him, as if daring him to come closer.

Well, if that was the creature’s twisted game, he’d play. And it had better be worth the risks he was taking.

A furtive glance around, and he darted forward. No more than three steps, but the moment he reached the lantern, the bird alighted, only to land on a rooftop a little further down the alley.

Lar hurried after it, slipping and sliding on the sleet-covered cobblestones. Yet, by the time he got there, it was already gone. Now, it perched on a clothesline strung between two weathered warehouses, with frozen underwear flapping in the wind.

Next, it landed on a barrel with a hole in it. A broken chair dumped carelessly on the street, a rusty sign… Several times, Lar nearly tripped over small objects littering his path. A spokeless wheel here, a pile of crumbled red bricks there—reminders of a forgotten era.

Ever further away from home, the bird led him. Ever deeper into the heart of the once prosperous industrial district. Past the skeletal remains of old factories with their shattered windows and mouldered doors.

He tripped again. This time over a dented metal bucket. The thing clanged and clattered as it bounced off walls and other obstacles, the sounds echoing eerily through the still night.

A curtain parted, and a dark shadow flickered behind it. Lar froze and held his breath. Somewhere to his left, a door slammed shut.

His heart leapt into his throat, and his hand flew to his blade once more. Ears pricked, he stood motionless. Listening.

Nothing. No sound, no movement.

Had it been the wind, or his imagination toying with his mind? Or was there really someone out there? Watching him. Biding their time, hoping to catch him unawares?

With a loud screech, the raven flew by, its wing grazing his cheek in passing. It settled on a decaying windowsill and cocked its head, making a series of croaking, rattling noises. Staring at him so intently, Lar was sure this was no ordinary bird.

At the northern edges, where the buildings thinned out and a fierce wind swept dust and debris across barren ground, the raven rested on a rusty gate that creaked on its hinges. It puffed out its chest and released a cry so harsh, goosebumps prickled on Lar’s skin.

Lar shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter. If he wanted to deal with the feathered scoundrel, he had to leave the relative safety of the enclave behind.

He scanned the area for danger. Outsiders didn’t take kindly to Rejects, especially not at this late hour. They would automatically assume the worst and try to poke holes in his body before asking questions.

Not that he expected to meet anyone here, in this deserted stretch of land that offered only frozen ground and the occasional clump of vegetation. Still, it couldn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.

The blighted bird cackled its mocking laugh. It took to the air, and flew off into the distance, until it was nothing but a tiny black speck, nearly indistinguishable against the night sky.

‘Fangs!’ Lar stamped his feet.

Here he was, taking foolish risks, and for what? Only for the creature to fly off and leave him empty-handed. He turned and started trudging back through the snow, praying to all the gods he wouldn’t meet anyone out here.

He’d only taken a few steps when the bird returned, and started circling him again, closer than before. Pecking at his hair, his arms, his legs… Yet, whenever Lar tried to grasp it so he could wring its dragon-cursed neck, it evaded him with practised ease.

‘What do you want with me?’ he hissed. ‘Preying on me, aren’t you, trying to peck me to death so you can eat me, eh? Well, listen up. I will catch you and break all your bones. And then you’re soup meat.’

‘Kaaa!’ the raven screeched.

It landed on top of his head and pecked at his ears. Left, right, left. With a quick hop, it jumped to the ground where it danced around his feet, always just out of reach. Taunting him.

‘You fiend! Be gone and leave—’

And off it flew again, into the distance. And back, perching on the bare branch of a tree, head cocked. Another screech. Another show of flight and return.

A shiver ran down his spine. Certainly, the beast didn’t expect him to—

‘Kaaa!’ the raven screeched once more.

He shook his head. This was insanity. If anyone found out, he’d be a corpse hung from a pole for the amusement of the so-called civilised people.

But what choice did he have? The bird wouldn’t leave him be. Not until he followed it to wherever it planned on taking him. If only he’d had the good sense to ignore the pest back there in that alley. He’d be home now. Tossing and turning in his bed until dawn.

Icy tendrils of dread constricted his chest as he stole towards the protection of a small cluster of spindly trees. He undressed and crumpled his clothes into a tight little bundle, held together by the frayed strings of his cloak. It would have to do.

One more good look around. The barren landscape was still as deserted as before. Just him, the bird, and a stray cat. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the spark inside his soul.

He pictured it, examined its shape, its colours. Felt its warm glow spread through his chest and radiate outward until it enveloped his entire body. His focus firmly on the spark, he moulded it into a bird, the black gyrnoki, his soulbird.

At first, nothing happened. Then, a prickling, burning itch crept across his skin. Bones popped and cracked as his arms stretched into mighty wings and his feet grew into strong claws.

Tiny, bristling barbs—like pinpricks—pierced his flesh and covered it in smooth, purple-tipped black feathers. Red-hot pain shot through his head as the cartilage of his nose elongated and split his face before hardening into a sharp, curved beak.

When the transformation was complete, he gathered his clothes in his claws, spread his wings, and launched himself into the air. Soon, he caught up with the raven.

‘Show me to your destination. Wherever that might be. I’m done playing games.’

To any humans below, his words would have sounded like ghostly wails, but he was convinced the bird had no trouble understanding him.

‘Follow me, brother,’ the corvid said, and led the way.

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They sped through the night sky for hours, north and west, ever further away from the city, past several towns and villages, until they reached Solrod Forest. There, the raven slowed. Moments later, it flew in ever smaller circles around a perfectly round open spot with a massive dolestone arch in its centre.

‘We have arrived,’ the raven said.

Lar didn’t hesitate, but swooped down and landed neatly beside the structure. The shimmering silvery door set within buzzed with a low, persistent hum that vibrated through his skull and made his head hurt.

‘Where did you take me? And why?’ he demanded.

‘Open it and walk through.’

Easier said than done. At least, as a bird. And did he even want to pass through? What if it was a trap? That blighted corvid knew who he was. What he was. Was it trying to get him killed?

‘Open it,’ the raven repeated, gazing down on him from the top of the arch.

Dragon’s breath! That annoying creature would keep pestering him until he obeyed. Him, Gavrilar Nakarovim, obeying a bird.

Lar sighed and reverted to his human form, while that damnable corvid kept watching him. All. The. Time. He donned his clothes and, with trembling hands, gripped the latch. What if…

Gods! He should never have come here. But now there was no turning back.

Fighting the oncoming nausea, he pushed the door open. Slowly. Afraid of what he would find behind it.

The moment he stepped through, his breath caught in his throat. He blinked, struggling against the urge to pinch himself. Though he was no stranger to magic, this went beyond everything he thought possible.

He stood in a large, vaulted room, faintly lit by dozens of softly shimmering floating orbs. Where only moments ago had been nothing but the mossy forest floor now lay a thick, luxurious woollen carpet.

Despite the prickling of his skin, he took a hesitant step forward. Several pairs of black, beady eyes were watching his every move as he slowly advanced towards a small table—or perhaps an altar—in the centre of the room.

Two white candles burned on the altar, perfuming the air with a subtle waxy aroma. Lar closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and sent up a silent prayer for protection to the Lady of Creation.

When he opened his eyes and directed his gaze downward, at the objects on the altar, he gasped. So much for praying. His heart pounded in his throat when the first object lifted and drifted into his hand. It was the most delicate golden key he’d ever seen.

As he held it, a memory unlocked inside his mind.

He’s a baby boy, lying in a wooden cot in the corner of a cosy living room. A soft female voice, singing a lullaby. The scent of freshly baked bread. The gentle caress of a loving hand.

Something prickled behind his eyes, and he laid the key back down. He swallowed the lump in his throat and reached for the second object, a crystal globe, glistening in the flickering light of the candles.

The orb warmed under his touch and started to pulsate. A whirlwind formed inside, small at first, but expanding fast, both in size and intensity. It sucked him into its spiralling depths and transported him to another scene.

He hovered in the air, a silent observer to a horrific crime. The baby boy, nestled in his cot, whimpered softly. The room was no longer warm and cosy. There was no singing. No homely scents or sweet caresses.

Now, the smell of fear, mingled with the metallic scent of blood, permeated the space. Chairs were upturned, and broken crockery lay carelessly strewn across the wooden floor. The door sagged in its frame, its wood splintered and its hinges mangled.

The young woman’s high-pitched screams echoed off the walls as she kicked and clawed at two ape-sized men who attempted to restrain her. One yanked her arms behind her back, whereas the other nearly crushed her skull in a viselike grip.

Surrounded by the wreckage of their furniture, her husband sat on his knees, feebly holding up his hands to ward off the kicks and blows of his assailants. Blood seeped into his swollen eyes from a deep gash in his forehead. Yet, his attackers knew no mercy.

Rough fists slammed into his face, his arms, his chest. With every punch, his breathing hitched and grew more belaboured. A booted foot collided with his ribs with a sickening crunch, and he crumpled to his side, gasping for air.

‘Eat that, you foul, treasonous spellcaster!’ a gravelly voice sneered.

‘Yes, eat that, you knave!’ the other three chanted in malicious harmony, punctuating each word.

The largest of his attackers grabbed him by the neck and hauled him up, then drove a knee into his gut. He doubled over, coughing and wheezing. His other tormentor punched him on the nose, and the sharp, dry crack of breaking bone sliced through the woman’s muffled sobs.

Still, it wasn’t enough. They pulled him upright again, only to repeat their savage abuse, until finally he fell to the floor. A broken, lifeless mess. His disfigured face unrecognisable under the caked-on blood and dirt.

All sounds faded as time ceased to exist. Then, the woman’s loud wails pierced the silence. A sound so raw and anguished, it shook Lar—pinned to his uncomfortable position in the corner of the little room—to his core.

He wanted to break free. Plunge from the air into the chaos below, take his mother to safety, and blast these fiends into oblivion. But there was nothing he could do, and he was forced to watch as the rest of the unsavoury scene unfolded.

The men unleashed all their loathing on the woman now, never holding back.

One of them tore off her blouse, jeering, ‘I never done it with a witch before.’

‘Not worth the risk, comrade,’ a second said. ‘She’d curse your manhood with her dying breath.’

The first man’s ugly mug paled, but almost immediately, he recovered.

‘You’re right. Let’s get this over with.’

He drove his fist into the woman’s face, and not a moment later, all four fell on her. Their kicks and punches merged into a blur of movement that left Lar unable to distinguish who was who.

The woman’s screams faded into sobs until there was nothing but the sickening sound of hard blows and breaking bones. When the men pulled out of the house, the corpses of his parents lay on the blood-soaked floor, and the baby in his crib was crying.

Lar crumpled to his knees. Warm, salty tears streamed down his cheeks and onto his lips. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a raspy sob came out.

Still clinging to the crystal orb, he curled up into a foetal position, hurling his thoughts at all seven gods.

He didn’t expect them to answer.

The raven, apparently indifferent to his inner turmoil, nudged the third object off the altar. An ancient scroll. With a soft thud it landed on the floor beside him, and the bird looked at him, its too-clever eyes dark and judging.

‘What?’ he muttered. ‘Do you enjoy watching me suffer?’

His tormentor pecked at his sleeve, then hopped to the scroll and manoeuvred it towards him with its beak. Head cocked, it produced a series of sharp, deliberate clicks before tugging at his clothes once more.

‘You won’t stop until I’ve read it, will you?’

With slow, apprehensive movements, he unrolled the document—and his breath caught. One by one, letters shimmered into view on the pale brown parchment. The script, strangely familiar with its elegant curves and flourishes, tugged at his memory.

Lar read, hesitant at first, but with an increasing eagerness as more words formed before his eyes.

Dearest Gavrilar, my sweet little boy,
I am scribbling this letter in haste, hoping—praying—for a miracle that will allow me to destroy it, but I fear that won’t happen.
When you read this letter, many turnings from now, we will no longer be with you. We have been betrayed and our days are numbered. Though we are preparing to flee to the mountains with you, we fear we have already waited too long.
Your Aunt Tarla has put a protective spell on your crib so you, at least, will be spared. She knows what to do if the worst happens. Your papi has informed the Brothers Raven. They have appointed a guardian.
Grieve for us, but don’t allow bitterness to consume your soul, for that will only add to your pain. Cherish the love we shared, and the joy we found in each other’s presence.
Take these gifts as a reminder. They hold many secrets, and I am confident that, over time, you will uncover them all. You are the last in a long line of Gifted. This is your heritage—one we hope you will pass on to your children one day.
Whenever sorrow threatens to overwhelm you, use our key. It will unlock the door to happier times.
Hold on to your Gift, and remember: love is stronger than death.
Be well, my son, and may the gods smile upon you.
Your loving Mumi.

The image of his mother, young, smiling, and full of life, flashed briefly on the scroll before everything went dark and dissolved into thin air. The altar, the chamber, the ravens… Nothing remained.

Lar was alone, knelt on the damp moss beneath an ancient pine that hadn’t been there before. Weeping.

He woke up as the first light of day crept into his room through a crack in the boarded-up window and fell across his face. When he tried to sit up, a white-hot pain exploded behind his eyes and a wave of nausea washed over him.

Hazy recollections of an unsettling encounter with a conspiracy of ravens in Solrod Forest swam in his head. A vaulted chamber in a building that couldn’t possibly have been there. Strangely familiar objects on an altar—straight from memories he could not logically possess.

It all seemed so surreal, and yet... These were no figments of his imagination. He closed his eyes and drew the covers up to his nose. A few hours of undisturbed sleep would do him good. Maybe when he was properly rested, he’d be able to make sense of it all.

‘Kaaa!’

The raven’s screech bounced off the bare walls of his room, his sanctuary. How dare the creature intrude into the privacy of his own home? Especially now, when he was feeling like he’d been attacked by a northern bear. He wanted to throw something at the bird. Jump out of bed and chase it away, but even moving his head was too much effort.

‘Kaaa!’

Lar felt the whoosh of wings when the corvid landed on his bedside table. From the corner of his eye, he saw it peck at something. Something shiny. He reached out to grab his uninvited guest, but it fluttered to the chair, and his hand fell onto something cold and hard instead.

For a moment, he just lay there, dazed and exhausted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Once recovered from the exertion, he closed his fingers around the object and pulled it towards him.

Slowly, carefully, he inched himself to a half-seated position. He opened his hand and stared at the golden key as his mind filled once more with sweet memories of home.

This story was featured in Top In Fiction Monthly Recap Live! #2 in 2025