The Dream of Crows

The wind howled, tearing through the darkness like a hungry beast. Lyra clutched her threadbare cloak tighter around her shoulders, but no amount of fabric could keep out the chill that gnawed at her bones. She was not truly awake, and yet the world around her felt too vivid to be a dream.

Before her, rising from the blood-soaked earth, stood the sword.

It was unlike any weapon she had seen in her waking life—taller than a man, with a blade that gleamed as though it was forged from starlight. Vines, dead and thorny, snaked around its length, while ravens circled above, their cries cutting through the heavy silence like jagged shards of glass. At the sword’s hilt, intricate carvings formed a twisted, monstrous face, as if the blade itself was a living thing, an artifact of both power and horror.

Lyra took a step forward, her feet sinking into the wet, crimson mud. Around her, the battlefield stretched endlessly, littered with broken shields and abandoned armor. Faceless warriors lay strewn across the ground, their eyes vacant, their bodies twisted as if they had fallen mid-scream. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and death.

She knew she should turn back. She knew this was a place she didn’t belong, a place where hope had been extinguished long ago. Yet something called to her—a pull that was as inevitable as the dawn. She raised a trembling hand, reaching out for the hilt, but before her fingers could make contact, the ravens descended, blocking her view in a flurry of black feathers.

A cry echoed in her ears, a voice both familiar and strange. “Find it… Find Karl’s Will…”

The dream shattered, plunging her into darkness once more.

Lyra woke with a gasp, her heart hammering in her chest. The familiar, dim interior of her hut came into focus—the rough wooden walls, the single narrow bed, the cracked hearth

where embers still smoldered from last night’s fire. Her skin was damp with sweat, and her hands were shaking. She looked down and saw a faint, bluish glow on the palm of her right hand, a mark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

The shape was strange, almost like a crow with its wings outstretched, but it was fading quickly, as if melting back into her skin. Lyra rubbed her hand, trying to banish the lingering chill from the dream. It wasn’t the first time she had dreamed of the sword, but this time… this time it felt different. More real.

A knock at the door startled her. She stumbled out of bed, pulling the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders as she went to open it. Old Bram, the village elder, stood outside, his face creased with worry.

“Lyra,” he said, his voice low. “You need to come with me. There’s… there’s something you need to see.”

She hesitated, but the urgency in his eyes left no room for argument. Pulling on her boots, she followed him outside into the predawn gloom. The village was eerily quiet, the usual morning clatter stilled. Shadows lingered between the huts, stretching like dark fingers over the ground.

They stopped at the edge of the village, where a small crowd had gathered, murmuring in hushed tones. Lyra pushed through to the front, her heart sinking as she saw what lay before them.

In the clearing stood a soldier, dressed in the black armor of the Crow Lord’s army. His body was twisted, broken, a fallen figure against the stark light of the dawn. His face was frozen in an expression of fear, as though he had seen death itself reaching for him.

Beside him, carved into the ground, was the same mark she had seen on her hand—a crow with wings outstretched.

The whispers grew louder, voices filled with fear and dread. “The Crow Lord’s men… they’ve found us,” someone muttered. “We’re not safe here anymore.”

Old Bram placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. “Lyra,” he said quietly. “You’ve been having those dreams again, haven’t you?”

She nodded, unable to speak. The mark on her hand pulsed faintly, as if in response to the death before her.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Bram continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “The legends speak of a time when Karael’s Will would return, when a hero would rise to end the Crow Lord’s reign of terror. The mark… the dreams… Lyra, it’s you. You’re the one the prophecies spoke of.”

Lyra shook her head, a wave of denial washing over her. “No… I’m just a girl. I don’t even know how to fight, let alone wield a legendary sword.”

But even as she spoke, she felt the pull again—a tug in her heart, as if something was calling her, waiting for her beyond the horizon.

“Whether you believe it or not, the time has come,” Bram said, his voice steady. “You can run, or you can face this destiny. But if you choose to face it, I’ll be here to guide you.”

A sound echoed through the village, a low, mournful cry that sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up and saw a single raven perched on the roof of her hut, watching her with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.

The crowd began to disperse, the villagers retreating back to the safety of their homes, whispering prayers under their breath. Lyra stood alone at the edge of the clearing, staring at the soldier’s lifeless body and the mark that seemed to be branded into her skin, a reminder of a fate she could not escape.

In the distance, dawn was breaking, casting pale light over the forested hills. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her choices settling on her shoulders. The dream had brought her here, and the dream was guiding her forward.

With a final glance at Bram, she nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll do it. I’ll find the sword.”

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