Night of the fireflies

"Why does it always have to end in the goddamn woods? Middle of the night, freezing my ass off, chasing ghosts through the dark."

That was Ginveyer—my partner, my personal headache, and the living embodiment of a complaint department. The guy could find something wrong with a sunrise. I tried to play it cool. Always did. Considered myself a decent sort of man—kept things light, made people feel comfortable. But with Gin? Nothing stuck. I blamed his name. Ginveyer. Sounds like something you pull out of a grimoire to summon bad luck and worse company.

"It is what it is, Gin," I said, because someone had to. He hated the nickname. Then again, he hated everything.

"How can you always be so calm, man? It can't just be your damn Domain. There's something wrong with you. Deep down wrong."

I grinned. "That a professional opinion, Doc?"

"Yeah. And also—fuck you." He kicked at a root. "Should've taken a desk job. This field crap is for lunatics."

He wasn't wrong about that last part. Oracle sent us to check out a supposed ritual site—some backwoods horror show that smelled of blood and bad intentions. A change of pace from our usual assignments, sure, but not exactly a vacation. Still, it beat punching through Ideworld Openings every other week. I liked working on Earth.

We trudged deeper, branches snapping under our boots. My nose twitched—the metallic sting of blood already in the air. Thick. Multiple donors. Not a good sign.

Something else moved out there, too. Could've been wild dogs. Could've been wolves. Either way, they were smart enough to stay out of sight—for now. Maybe they didn't want to deal with Gin either. Can't blame them.

"You heard that?" he whispered, voice sharp.

"Relax," I said. "Just the wind—or something that doesn't give a damn about us."

"I can't affect what I can't see…" he muttered.

Right. His Domain. Probability manipulation, or what he liked to call luck. He could twist the odds in his favor or send them crashing down on someone else's head. The problem was, life didn't play by his rules, and he took that personally.

"Then keep your eyes open and your mouth shut," I said. "We're close. Might still be someone breathing up ahead."

"Or something," he added. "Knowing my luck."

Couldn't argue with that. The locals had been spooked for weeks—missing people, mutilated bodies turning up half-eaten in the brush. The cops were chasing shadows, so Oracle sent us in. We were outside New York, still our turf, and for once, I didn't mind. What I did mind was doing it with a guy who thought sarcasm was a coping mechanism.

But for the rest of the hike, he kept quiet. Maybe the woods shut him up. Maybe the cold did. Either way, it was a blessing.

The clearing came up sudden. Three bodies. One of them a kid—ten, maybe. Nailed to trees. Eyes gone. Stomachs gutted. The kind of scene that makes even monsters look away. Blood everywhere, thick enough to smell, heavy enough to stick to your boots.

And there was Gin, adding his own contribution—a pool of vomit beside the rest. I didn't hold it against him. I've seen worse, but you never really get used to it. You just get quieter.

Our flashlights cut through the dark, caught something on the ground—tracks. Big ones. Boots. Male, heavyset.

"See that?" I said.

"Which way do they go?"

I squatted down, ran a gloved hand through the bloodied prints. Hard to tell. The bastard lingered here a while before moving on.

Didn't matter. I had another way.

See, before we left, I'd eaten bear meat—good, heavy stuff in a burger form. When it hits my system, my Authority lets me take on the beast's traits. Strength. Stamina. Sense of smell. And bears? They can smell death crawling through snow.

I took a breath. The air tasted thick, iron and rot. And underneath it all—a trail. Faint, but there. Like someone had tied an invisible cord straight to my lungs.

I followed it. Because that's what I do.

When the night gets quiet, when the blood gets cold, and the trail still whispers your name—you follow.

Oh, a name! I forgot that part.

I probably made myself sound like some hard-boiled badass before—but that's not the whole truth. Sure, I can handle myself, but underneath the tough talk, I'm a mage. Been one for a while now. Followed the family path, same as my old man, who followed his mother before him. Our Domain? Culinary Excellence.

Yeah, I know—it doesn't exactly scream "power" or "danger." But don't let the name fool you. It's a hell of a craft. We manipulate food—its essence, its nature—to draw out its strengths. Eat something fierce? You take on a bit of that fierceness. The best of it all? You can pull traits straight from what you consume. Meat, fruit, fish—you eat it, you can wear it. Skin, claws, reflexes, instincts. A walking buffet of borrowed power.

It's strange, sure. Wild, even. But it's saved my ass more than once.

I joined the Guild like any good mage's kid was supposed to. Responsibility and all that. Didn't take them long to figure out I wasn't built for sitting behind a desk, mixing spices and theory. I'm more of a physical type. So they made me a Hexblade. Been fighting monsters ever since, and working cases too. Fourth one that year, if I remember right. Gruesome scenes, yeah—but still better than being sent into the Openings to wrangle monsters.

That's why, unlike my partner—the eternal pessimist—I keep quiet and do the damn job.

Name's Damien Leben. Twenty-five at the time. Thought I had the world figured out, thought I knew how to handle blood, death, and the dark things hiding between the trees.

Then that night came. The trail of blood led us to fire and feathers. And that's when the world decided to throw its first real punch.

I didn't even see it coming.

Gunfire.

It cracked through the woods like thunder splitting the sky, and for a moment, my heart forgot what rhythm was. Thing is, mages like us don't have much to fear from bullets—not at a reasonable distance anyway. Our bodies can handle a lot worse. But that sound? That sharp, tearing shriek of air? It never stops making you flinch. It's something primal. Doesn't matter how much magic you've got in your veins, you still duck when the lead starts flying.

The birds around us went nuts—took off in a frenzy of feathers and screeches. Gin and I hit the dirt out of reflex, knees sinking into the cold muck.

I inhaled, steady and deep. There—it was faint, but I caught the scent again. Human. I'd picked it up before, hadn't recognized it for what it was. My bear's sense of smell wasn't perfect yet—I was still learning to sort the layers of scent, life and death and everything in between. But once I had someone's scent locked? They weren't getting away. Not unless they stopped breathing.

The shot had missed us. On purpose, maybe. Because that scent—it shifted. Fast. To where the bullet had landed.

"Teleporter," I barked. "Followed the shot!"

Gin swore. "Yeah, just my goddamn luck."

He let out his shadowlight then. Looked like steam peeling off his skin, a dim yellow glow against the cold. It shimmered around him, almost beautiful, if you didn't know how deadly it was.

He had a knack for it. Natural control. I didn't share his talent—or his flair for theatrics. Too much glow for a dark forest. Too much of a target.

Instead, I went practical. Focused inward. My skin tightened, hardening as a sheen of tiny iron scales slid over me. Not solid armor, but enough to take a hit. Flexible, jointed. Something my old man taught me back when I was still learning to chew steak with purpose.

"Meat's rich in iron," he used to say. "You eat enough of it, you can always use it."

He wasn't wrong.

I felt that metallic chill tighten over my skin, the night pressing in like it wanted to swallow the whole damn clearing. Then I dropped to all fours. My limbs thickened, bones stretching, muscles twisting, until I had a bear's frame beneath me—big, heavy, and covered in those iron-slick scales instead of fur. My sleeves and pant legs strained like overworked rubber bands, but that's why I always wore baggy clothes. You learn to plan ahead in my line of work.

I tore forward, nose locked on the scent, and there he was, a man with a revolver raised, eyes cold, arm steady. Shadowlight coiled around the weapon, giving it a wicked little gleam before the whole thing kicked like a mule. The shot exploded out with a burst of color, orange and red streaking behind the bullet like some twisted firework.

Mages have sharp reflexes. We can usually tell when someone's about to pull the trigger and step aside before they do it. But a shooter with a boost? Someone who can twist their Authority into the barrel? That's a whole different mess.

The bullet hit me square in the shoulder and damn, pain lit me up like someone slammed a furnace door into my bones. It punched through the iron plating and threw me backwards, claws scraping dirt.

The bastard teleported right on top of me before I could shake it off, swinging the revolver down at my skull. Maybe it was luck the first shot didn't hit my head. Maybe it was Gin tugging the odds. I didn't have time to wonder about it.

I swung an arm the size of a tree trunk, sent the guy flying off me. He hit the ground with a grunt, but that wasn't the part that made my stomach drop.

Something crawled out of the revolver's still-glowing barrel—bright orange, buzzing, angry. Tiny shapes, like wasps spun from fire and smoke. They shot toward me in a burning cloud.

The stink of brimstone snapped into my senses. Once I recognized it, I realized it wasn't just above me—it was everywhere. Even around Gin, who was now boxed in by a writhing halo of fiery bugs crawling along the ground.

"Please die already, monsters!" the man roared.

He was huge, broad shoulders, thick arms, dark flannel stretched over a body that looked carved out of lumber. Cargo pants, boots, a stubby beard. And yeah, I could swear he had a Canadian accent, which felt weirdly polite considering he was trying to kill us.

"We're not—" I tried to say, swiping at the fire-wasps with the heavy claws that pushed out from my fingers. They sizzled when I hit them, hot enough to sting right through my scales, but they burst apart.

The guy didn't wait around. He moved fast for his size, bolting backward while pouring more shadowlight into the revolver—S&W model, I thought, though that hardly mattered with it spitting hellfire.

"We aren't monsters!" I finally got out, voice rough with frustration. "We're—"

Didn't even finish the sentence. Two more shots cracked through the trees, fast and sharp. This time I didn't leave anything to luck or chance or whatever half-baked blessing Gin might've thrown my way. The instant the gun barked, I shifted—every inch of me turned to iron. Solid and briefly immovable.

Just for a heartbeat. Long enough.

The bullets slammed into me with a pair of metallic thuds, stinging like someone snapped hot wires across my ribs, but they didn't punch through. No wounds meant no mess for me to patch up later. And if they had broken skin? Well, that's what eggs were for. I don't know why they work the way they do, but they give my body this ridiculous ability to stitch itself back together.

But Gin—

Gin was in real trouble.

The swarm around him didn't stay a swarm. The fiery bugs fused into patches of flame, crawling up tree trunks, blossoming across the leaves until the whole damn forest looked like it was breathing fire. And from that fire? More bugs. Bigger, brighter and hotter. Dozens of them.

Gin fought them with his standard Hexblade short sword, the steel wrapped in shadowlight. The glow flickered across his arms and face, throwing sharp lines across his features as he swung, slashed, and spun. The blade cut through them, sure, but each time one fell, two more crawled out of the burning underbrush behind him.

He was holding his ground, but just barely.

"We're Hexblades!" I finally roared, putting enough force behind it to cut through gunfire, flames, and whatever the hell else he wanted to toss our way.

Everything stopped.

The fires around Gin went out in an instant, like someone flipped a switch. One second the forest was a blazing inferno, the next it was cold and dark again, smoke curling off the ground. The bugs—those fiery wasps and ants—burned out of existence with a crackle, leaving the air sharp with the scent of scorched pine.

And the man who'd been trying to send us to our graves? He stepped back into clearer view inside the trees, shadowlight bleeding off him like mist. With the fire gone, he looked less like a demon and more like… a very confused lumberjack.

When he spoke, his voice was steady, polite even. "Pardon me, folks. I was under the impression that you were the ones responsible for the butchery."

I moved closer, still hulking in my half-bear form, iron scales clinking softly. With my free hand, I reached for my Hexblade badge, pushed a thread of shadowlight into it. The symbol burst to life—five moons, bright and crisp—floating in the air like a warning flare.

"We're not," I said, finally catching enough air to make words. "As you can see. We thought you were."

From up close, he wasn't as terrifying as the fire halo had made him look, but he was still a big guy. At least six-two, maybe a little more if the mud wasn't stealing an inch from him. Strong jaw, a bit of soft around the cheeks—same as me, honestly. Curly ginger hair under a black beanie, short beard, no mustache. Broad shoulders. Built like someone who chopped wood before breakfast.

"He still very well may be," Gin said sharply as he approached, short sword in hand, shadowlight swirling around the blade like smoke.

The guy lifted both arms in surrender. "My name's Rocky Patate, though most people just call me Bugs."

"You Canadian?" Gin asked, suspicious as ever. "What's a Canadian mage doing out here?"

"I'm B.A.G.," he answered.

"Boreal Arcans?" I said. "That why you stopped?"

He nodded. "Exactly. Why would I turn on fellow guild mages? Unless…" His lips curled into a sly grin. "Unless you truly are the ones responsible. If that's the case, just be honest about it. We can settle this properly. My fireflies are more than ready to help if things get heated."

"You being a Canadian guild mage doesn't explain why you're stomping around our turf," Gin snapped. "So start talking."

Rocky tilted his head, studying Gin the way a man sizes up a snapping dog to decide whether to pet it or punt it. "Sure," he said slowly. "Seems you're the sort who likes to stir up trouble, eh?"

Gin bristled. Rocky didn't miss it.

"I can feel it," Rocky added, almost sympathetic. "There's a fire in you—burning hot and ready to spill over. You might want to let it cool before it ends up getting you hurt."

Gin's grip tightened on his shortblade, shadowlight crawling up his wrist like smoke ready to turn violent.

Rocky lifted both hands again, palms out. "Relax. I was on a trip. Just passing through. Planned to collect—"

"Passing through?" Gin pushed, eyebrow twitching like he was already sharpening an accusation. "And you just happen to stroll into a murder scene?"

"Not stroll into," Rocky corrected, voice tightening. His Authority rippled through the air, subtle but unmistakable. Gin stepped closer with his blade, and Rocky exhaled a warning. "Quelch that anger, man."

The command landed like a weight. It wasn't aimed at me, but I still felt the edge of it, like someone rested a hand on my shoulder and suggested, real gentle, that maybe now wasn't the time for heroics. Gin lowered the blade, jaw locked.

Rocky nodded once, almost polite. "I was staying at a nearby bed and breakfast. The owner was in tears—people had gone missing and later turned up showing signs of some kind of ritualistic wrongdoing. So I figured I'd lend a hand. I'm a helpful sort by nature."

"That magic attack was uncalled for," Gin said, still bristling.

"Was it?" Rocky shot back. "You were ready to slice me up."

"You seem friendly now, sure," Gin said. "But you clearly wield fire, and that tends to raise questions."

"I don't wield fire," Rocky replied, sounding mildly insulted. "My Domain's Ignition. I'm a sourcerer, firefighter, and bug collector."

"Ignition?" I said. "So you can start fire but not control it?"

"Exactly. I'm an explosives and firearms enthusiast first, insect lover second. Universe looked at that combination and said, 'Sure, give the guy authority over sparks.' And my bug obsession? Gave me an unusual soulmark on top of it."

"The fiery bugs?" I asked.

He grinned. "Yep. I can turn any spark or ignition into a bug of my choosing. They act like ordinary insects—just a lot hotter and a whole lot more cooperative. And sure, I've got a few other tricks up my sleeve, but I'd rather not lay everything out on our first meeting, officers."

"It didn't look like the victims were burned," Gin said, still suspicious.

"And your scent wasn't on them," I added. "But you were at the site."

"Yes, I was," Rocky admitted. "I followed the tracks. It looked to me as though the victims had walked there on their own. Then I noticed another set of tracks, someone moving around the clearing before vanishing again."

"Teleporter? Like you?" Gin pressed.

"Most likely," Rocky said. "Or someone with a different way of popping in and out without leaving footprints."

"I can still smell the scent of the other man," I said, letting the bear's nose linger in the back of my skull, sharp and certain. "Whoever was there with the victims, I've got his odor pinned. We can track him."

"Great," Rocky said, cracking a smile. "I'll tag along."

"No the hell you won't," Gin snapped, voice still sharp enough to peel bark off a tree. "You're not a Hexblade. You tag along, you compromise the investigation. Go collect bugs or whatever the hell you were doing, we'll take it from here."

Rocky looked at me, eyebrows raised like maybe I'd be the reasonable one. Truth was, I wouldn't have minded seeing what the guy could pull off on our side of the barrel. But Gin wasn't wrong, and my badge wasn't just for decoration.

I shrugged, letting the metal under my skin settle. "Look, man. Appreciate you not roasting us alive. Really do. But you've got no jurisdiction here. Best we handle this alone."

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Rocky nodded, resigned but not offended. "Fair enough. Good luck, fellas. Though I didn't catch your names.."

"Ginveyer Abram," I said, jerking a thumb at my partner. "And I'm Damien Leben. Everyone just calls me Dam."

"Hell no," Gin cut in, deadpan. "I call you an asshole."

Rocky—Bugs, as he'd called himself—just looked at Gin for a long second, face unreadable behind the ginger beard. He didn't argue. Didn't chuckle. He just turned, hands in pockets, boots squelching in the wet forest floor as he headed toward Cold Spring.

**********

Murder of crows

The smell dragged us out of the woods by Cold Spring and down toward New York—but it didn't linger with the city. No, it veered left and wound its way straight into Garrison. A church. Quiet little town, quiet little steeple.

Morning had the kind of fog that made the daylight feel like it rolled out of bed too early and refused to wake up. Everything was milked-over gray, heavy and sour, with enough gloom to pickle a man's spirit. Gin wore it like a coat. I ate through it.

I dug a grilled cheese and ham sandwich from my pack—still warm, still perfect—and devoured it in a few greedy bites. Food always did right by me. Even before I took the culinary mantel, before my father taught me how to bend flavor into power, a good meal could turn my whole day around. And right now? In this stink of weather and Gin's foul mood? That simple sandwich pulled me out of the gutter like a miracle.

"It leads into the church," I said, wiping crumbs from my fingers.

Gin's face twisted like someone was turning a screwdriver behind his eyes. "I hate these outskirts. I was born for city concrete. My feet are dying from all this hiking. This better end in this godforsaken hole."

"Godforsaken? It's a church."

"Yeah, well, when's the last time Reality pulled off any miracle those books brag about? Jesus was probably a mage, you know."

"Maybe. Sounds like speculation."

"Come on—carpenter? Carpentry's restoring things. Restoration Domain makes sense. Half his miracles line up. The rest? Probably some weird soulmark. Fish, maybe."

"He supposedly raised people from the dead."

"Supposedly. Maybe they were zombies. Ever think of that?"

"You get oddly fired up when blasphemy's on the table."

"Oh, go to hell. You know I'm right."

I let it die there. No point feeding flames. Reality was the only divine force we knew, the one that watched us and ate our powers and memories, depending on its mood. Didn't mean others weren't out there, quiet or dead or dreaming. Didn't mean we got to spit on the idea of something better.

We stepped inside the house of God, but God had clearly checked out. The silence was heavy. The stink was heavier—enough that Gin gagged, turned away, and vomited into the bushes again. Then he stuffed something against his nose, trying to block the scent. Poor bastard. My bear nose didn't mind it so much. The transformation turned every odor into something I could almost see instead of feel. But what I saw wasn't nice. Blood. Rot. Fear. Death. The air crawled with it.

I shoved the big gate open. It moved too easily for something that heavy, like it wanted us to come in.

The interior glowed with artificial candlelight, warm colors trying their best to lie. But light didn't soften carnage. It just framed it.

Bodies were everywhere.

Mutilated didn't begin to cover it. Dozens of punctures driven deep into flesh. Heads sliced clean off. Limbs torn free and tossed like afterthoughts. Intestines stretched across pews and chandeliers like some nightmare spider decided to redecorate with human garland. Blood painted every surface in strokes bold enough to make a butcher blush.

I stepped closer, the bear's senses guiding me, breath steady, stomach too. Every scent told a story, and every story pointed to hell.

The scraps of fabric hanging off the corpses whispered money—real money. Tailored suits soaked in blood, shoes polished so well they still caught the light through puddles of gore and filth. One severed head had an earring—silver, expensive—ripped so violently it left a red skid trail across the floor before someone dropped it like pocket change.

"Mostly men," Gin muttered, breaking the thick quiet. "Found one woman in the mess."

"Yes. And the scent I followed in here…" I inhaled, sorting through the rot. "…gone. Drowned in all this. Too much chaos for even a bear's nose." I turned. "The woman—anything stand out?"

"If you count peeled skin, missing ears, missing eyes—yeah." Gin crouched beside her, lifting her jaw. His voice was steady, but his movements twitching. "No tongue, either. Not cut—torn. Right out of the middle."

"What the hell happened here?" I asked the air, but the air had no answers—just stench.

Then we heard it. A shuffle in the back.

Me and Gin snapped into motion like a pair of mousetraps. I shifted instantly—iron-scaled bear, claws out, spine and skin braced. Gin lit up in shadowlight, the kind that bends around him like his own personal armor, his hand already on his blade.

The figure limping toward us was human. He clutched his right arm like it was hanging by a thread—and judging by the blood dripping from his fingertips, it might've been. His face was carved up like someone practiced sculpture with a dull knife, and his dark hair stuck out in desperate clumps. Sharp features, eyes too awake for a half-dead man. And he wore the same kind of fine suit as the bodies around us.

"I believe," he said in a voice cold enough to sterilize the air, "I can provide you gentlemen with some answers."

"Who the fuck are you?" Gin asked, with the polished professionalism of a man who absolutely hated being here.

"I'm a lucky survivor," the man replied. "Saw early that this business meeting wasn't going to be standard procedure. All those birds gathering and staring… so I slipped out while I still had the chance."

"Birds?" I asked, stepping closer.

"Crows," he said. "A whole murder of them. Inside this place. Windows shut, doors locked… but there they were. Calm as saints. Everyone else ignored them. Should've taken it as a sign."

"Slow down," I said, trying to keep him focused. I let the bear fall off me, shrinking back to human shape. And that was a mistake—the smell of the place hit me like a brick dipped in rot. Blood, bile, offal, the metallic tang of panic and old fear. But I swallowed it. Literally.

"And breathe," I added to him—mostly for myself. "We're here to help. Just walk us through what happened."

He watched me change, eyes narrowing with analytical calm, his brain slotting pieces into place. The bulge under his jacket told me he was armed, but too injured to draw fast.

"Authorities," I said. "For cases like this."

"Cases?" he repeated. "You just shifted your bones like clay while the other man glows like a dying star. And you call it a case?"

"Yes," I said. "Because that's exactly what it is. Magic exists. You don't remember it, not properly. You're not supposed to. But we're the ones who deal with the ugliness."

"That," he said, voice still clinical despite the blood running down his arm, "explains how a murder of crows committed mass slaughter in here."

Gin grimaced. "Why were you here? Suits in a church in the dark. Doesn't scream Sunday morning prayers."

"It was business," the man said. "My boss arranged a meeting. Very informal." He winced as he adjusted his grip on his ruined arm. "But it wasn't what he expected. A man walked in—one man—with a crow on his shoulder like some caricature of a pirate. They argued. My boss hadn't delivered something he promised. The details didn't matter. What mattered was when I realized… there were more birds. Everywhere. Hiding in the rafters. Perched on the pews. Waiting."

He stared into the middle distance as if replaying it.

"That's when I ducked into a confessional. Few moments later the voices rose—" His breath hitched, not with fear, but memory. "—the massacre started."

Gin frowned. "Your people, they didn't do anything?"

"Oh, they tried shooting him," the man said. "I heard the impacts. He staggered. But he didn't care. Armor, maybe something stronger. Then the crows moved. Dozens of them. Pecking out eyes, ripping open cheeks, crawling down throats. I heard men choking on feathers." He swallowed. "They gutted them. Pulled out strings of intestines like ribbons. Snapped tendons. Ate fingers. The man barely lifted a hand—just let the birds do their work."

He sucked in a careful breath.

"He didn't kill my boss. No—he disarmed him." A beat. "Literally. Birds tore nerves. Arms went limp like ropes. Same thing they did to me. A perfect strike—right to the motor spots. Couldn't move my arm. Still can't."

Gin and I exchanged a glance.

"You were still attacked," I said.

"Yes," he said, matter-of-fact, "I tried leaving. But a crow was waiting for me at the door. Flew straight at my face. We… fought." He paused, as if realizing how ridiculous that sounded. "However absurdly it sounds, that damn bird fought like it had training. Hurt me bad. I killed it eventually. It's outside, by the wall. You can check it."

Gin and I traded a glance.

"Do you know where the mage took your boss?" I asked. "Or why?"

He nodded. "I know his name. Cameron Growley."

"And you?" Gin asked.

"Phillip."

I stepped closer, trying to read him. "Alright, Phillip. Anything else? Anything that helps us track this Growley?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I saw where the crows flew when they left. And I've heard enough rumors—stories about what Growley did for my boss—that I have a solid guess where he'd hide."

Gin leaned forward. "Then tell us."

"No," Phillip said. "But I can take you there. And I will. I need to know my boss is alive."

"We can't keep you safe," I warned.

"And I'm not thrilled about having a civvie tag along right after the fireman proposed the same," Gin muttered.

Phillip's eyebrow twitched. "Fireman?"

"Doesn't matter," Gin said.

I sighed. "Look—we can't force you to talk. But if you're coming with us, it's your funeral. And I'm not dragging a half-bled-out suit through the woods. So drink this." I handed him my father's healing soup in a small canteen. Just opening the lid would've filled the air with warmth and herbs and good memories.

Phillip stared at it. Then shook his head.

"No, thank you."

"…What?" I blinked. "It's a magical soup. It'll heal your arm."

"My arm is perfectly fine," he said—and he removed the supporting hand.

His "injured" arm moved flawlessly. Smooth and controlled. No pain. No hesitation.

"But—" I looked at the blood smeared all over his sleeve. "Are you a mage?"

"Blood wasn't mine," Phillip said simply, as if that explained everything.

Which, in a way, it did.

"Now," he added crisply, straightening his suit coat like he hadn't just walked out of hell, "we should leave before someone smells this horror show and calls the police."

He walked toward the exit without waiting for agreement, stepping over gore like it was spilled wine.

Gin and I followed without a word.

**********

Storm of feathers

We trailed behind Phillip as he cut a path back toward the woods, and for once Gin kept his mouth shut. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Or maybe it was because Phillip walked like a man who had just stepped out of a slaughterhouse and barely bothered to dust off the blood. The guy wasn't shaking. Wasn't sweating. Wasn't even breathing fast. He just moved forward with that calm, chilly precision that made me wonder whether we'd just recruited a survivor… or a psychopath.

At one point, Phillip glanced over his shoulder. "So what am I supposed to do the next time… all that happens?" He didn't gesture. Didn't need to. "All that" covered a church full of bodies, killed by magical birds or worse.

"It's not a usual Tuesday," I told him. "Usually someone from the Guild swings by before things get that ugly."

"I'd prefer a way to call someone before a massacre," he said.

Gin snorted. "Doesn't matter. You won't remember any of this soon anyway."

Phillip stopped for half a step. "Why would I forget?"

So we told him. Reality, forgetfulness, mundane minds snapping back like rubber bands. All that fun stuff nobody really likes explaining. Phillip didn't freak out. Didn't panic. Just absorbed it, filing it away with that same eerie calm he'd shown while describing people being torn apart by crows.

"Assume it works like you say and my memory fails," he said after a moment. "Would it really hurt you to share a name?"

Gin clamped his mouth shut so fast I heard teeth click.

I laughed instead. "I'm Damien Leben. Dam if you're friendly."

"Phillip Penrose," he replied. "Pleasure, Damien."

He looked me over once, clinically, then kept moving.

"How do you even know it's in this dump shithole?" Gin asked suddenly, breaking his self-imposed vow of silence.

I let the bear-nose roll back into place. The smells shifted, water-soaked and grassy, hints of feathers and mud weaving through the fog. We were closing in on a reservoir—one of those marsh sanctuaries where birds gathered by the thousands. Tall reeds. Still water.

Phillip didn't slow his pace. "This is where my boss sends people who need to disappear." His voice didn't waver. "And the man you're after worked for him. Or with him. Given what happened, maybe both. Add in his obsession with birds, how close we are to the church, and the direction those crows flew when they left… this is the most likely place."

I had to admit—he wasn't wrong. Sharp guy. Sharper than I wished, considering the circles he apparently ran in. And he had played us clean earlier. The whole arm routine. The fake limp. The blood not being his. He got me good. I'd practically shoved my father's miracle soup into his hands without checking a damn thing.

A man that good at reading people was either someone you wanted on your side… or someone you never turned your back on.

And walking behind him through the fog, I couldn't decide which one he was. Even him opening up could be a calculated play.

"We should call the cops on this guy after we're done," Gin whispered, low enough that Phillip wouldn't hear. "He's a gangster. No doubt."

"Since when do you care?" I muttered. "You just don't like him."

"Yeah, I don't like him. Piss off."

"It's not our call. We deal with mage business, not mortal crime."

Gin shot me a glare. "Would you be saying that if he killed your little boy? Or your girl?"

That hit me harder than his usual whining. My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice level. "No. I wouldn't. But we haven't seen him do anything wrong. Innocent until proven guilty, asshole."

Gin threw his hands up. "Fine. Whatever."

I hated when he dragged my kids into things. Not like that. Not for some cheap jab. So I let silence take over as we walked deeper into the marshland.

A few minutes later the quiet shattered.

First came the cawing. Loud. Wild. A sound sharp enough to scrape the nerves raw. Then the sky cracked open as a storm of crows rushed overhead, each one dipped in gray shadowlight that flickered across their wings. They weren't just birds anymore. They moved with purpose, violent and focused, like knives stitched from feathers.

And then I saw the sparks.

Red, glowing—Rocky's fireflies. They zipped into the swarm, latching onto wings, eyes, beaks. The crows answered with claws and snapping beaks, ripping into any bug they caught. Fireflies burst in tiny explosions, peppering the air with glowing embers. Crows crashed down smoking and stiff, splashing into the reservoir like mortar rounds.

Black sky. Red streaks. Feathers drifting like ash.

The whole scene looked like someone just started the apocalypse.

"Gin," I said quietly, "we're gonna need every drop of your luck right now."

"I'm already twisting the odds, big guy," he answered, voice tight. "You see them?"

"Yeah," I breathed.

Two mages fought at the far end of the marsh, right outside some kind of research facility perched beside the water. Cameron Growley stood on top of a tower, looking like a damn crow king with the sky breaking around him. Rocky flickered in and out of existence, teleporting along the trajectories of his own bullets—one instant crouched behind a pipe, the next standing on a railing, the next suspended midair just long enough to fire again.

Shot after shot cracked through the battlefield as he tried to land a blow on Growley.

It wasn't a fight.

It was a goddamn myth playing out in front of us.

When the Gods fought

We had to get close if we wanted even a chance of apprehending Growley. Neither I nor Gin were worth a damn in long-range combat; we were brawlers, grapplers, break-their-face-with-your-own-face types. At that point I realized that when we had met him Rocky was just playing with us. This man wasn't just a mage; he was a goddamn natural disaster wearing a human skin.

We watched Growley send a wave of crows—ten, maybe more—straight at him. Bugs appeared mid-air, already reloading his Smith & Wesson with a flick of his wrist, orange shadowlight coiling around his limbs like smoke rising in reverse. For a fraction of a heartbeat he simply hung there, suspended on raw light and momentum, and fired.

Growley twisted aside at the last possible moment. His arms burst into long black feathers, sleeves shredding, fingers bending into wicked talons. He didn't fall—he took flight, wings beating once, twice, launching him higher. Rocky appeared right underneath him, standing exactly where the bullet had passed through.

That's when the barrel of Rocky's gun crawled open like a hive.

A swarm of fireflies in the shapes of wasps or dragonflies, miniature living furnaces—poured out of it. They fanned around him in perfect formation, catching fire mid-flight until each one became a burning speck. In less than a second they wove themselves into columns of flame, interlocked like ribs of a cage, sealing him in a sphere of pure, roaring fire.

The crows hit it head-on.

They tried to turn, desperately banking their wings, but momentum is a cruel mistress. They streaked into the flames and vanished in bursts of black-and-orange, raining ash and half-cooked feathers.

Under the tug of Gin's luck, we slipped through that battlefield unnoticed. It felt like holding our breath while sprinting through a fireworks display. The air above was murder—birds and insects tearing each other apart, splashing the marsh with wet thumps and steam—but on the ground the odds bent for us. Just barely.

I led in front, Phillip staggered along behind me, and Gin closed our little line. I didn't trust Phillip, but right now in the middle of all this hell I couldn't just leave him.

I pulled out one of my father's lesser tricks—taking the salt from the food, shaping it with my Authority into a smooth crystal lens and bending it into makeshift binoculars. It bit cold against my eyes, but it let me see the tower clearly.

The swarm of fireflies forming the sphere shot after Growley, who glided through the air like a hunting raptor. The sphere spun into a blazing vortex—a twister of fire-tongues twisting upward, ravenous, as if trying to devour the very darkness itself.

Even as we ducked between old trees, a crow sliced down toward us, trying to snap at a stray firefly orbiting nearby Gin's shoulder. The bug exploded like a tiny grenade in the crow's beak; the bird spiraled downward trailing smoke, crashing into the marsh with a wet slap. And as it hit the water, three, four, maybe five new fireflies crawled right out of its corpse and shot back into the sky, glowing bright red.

Gin muttered, "This guy scares the shit out of me."

For once, I couldn't disagree.

As if on cue, the cars in the research center's lot coughed awake—one by one—headlights flaring, engines snarling like metal hounds ready to bite. Our ignition mage was showing off, proving he could puppeteer more than bullets and bugs. He could bend any spark, any combustion, into obedience. Even parked cars.

The sudden roar pulled Growley's gaze. Something flickered in his black-feathered eyes, panic or instinct, hard to tell, but he twisted mid-air and dove toward the lot. The way he angled his fall told me one thing: he wasn't just checking the cars.

There were people inside that building. People he didn't want leaving.

Rocky seized the opening. He flickered out of the fiery sphere and reappeared in the middle of a cluster of his remaining fireflies, right on the asphalt of the parking lot. The air cracked loud enough to rattle my teeth as he fired.

Growley dropped from the sky like someone cut the strings holding him up. He slammed into the ground hard, wings folding in on themselves, feathers burning at the edges.

But Rocky wasn't doing much better.

His firefly swarm had thinned to a few dozen embers orbiting him like tired satellites. Every one of them looked dimmer, sluggish. Growley's crows were nearly gone as well—maybe a handful still looping above the marsh, fighting gravity like they were drunk.

Both men were burning through their souls at a pace no sane mage would risk. They were running on fumes. This was the moment.

I didn't even need to speak. I threw a look at Gin—one of those wordless exchanges.

He read me perfectly.

I let the iron rush through me, turning skin into plates, spine into a goddamn anvil. My shoulders cracked outward, frame widening, snout forming with the weight of a battering ram and tusks of a swine.

By the time I hit full iron-bear form, the earth under me shook from the force of my sprint.

Gin followed, his shadowlight flaring around him like a storm halo, luck twisting the world to smooth our path. Pebbles rolled away from his boots. Mud stiffened under his steps. A crow diving for him mid-flight suddenly choked on nothing and dropped dead at his feet.

Phillip stayed behind. But the two of us, we were closing in fast.

Aftermath of Ragnarok

By the time we hit the parking lot, Rocky was huffing like a busted furnace, but he wasn't done yet, still trying to squeeze off a shot at Growley. The guy got up, spun, and sent a whirlwind of feathers slicing through the air like black steel.

Luck—still on our side—kept them from hitting us. They buried themselves in the concrete with wet thuds, like someone had hammered knives into the ground. Bugs wasn't so fortunate; he had to dive aside, losing his aim and chance for a shot.

And that, of course, was all the opening Growley needed. He slipped into the facility, leaving us coughing dust and frustration behind him.

"How the hell did you track this guy?" I asked Rocky. He looked wrecked, like someone had drained all the fight out of him, but there was still that spark in his eyes.

"Asked around town," he rasped. "Strangest places people tend to avoid. Most directed me here. Didn't expect to find an outright battle waiting. But I welcomed the challenge."

"We'll take him down," I said. "Inside should be easier."

"Good luck," he panted. "He's near his end. Most of the crow clones? Dust by now."

"Clones?" Gin's voice cut through the haze.

"Mhm. There's one true corvid partner—the rest are just knockoffs. He channels all his power through the original. Take it out, and he should be powerless until he bonds with another… I think.." He exhaled slow.

"Got it," I said. "Thanks for softening him up."

He squinted one eye at me. "Your welcome, bearboy."

Phillip showed up right then.

"He with you guys?" Bugs asked.

"Yeah. Would-be victim of the birdman," I said. "He got us here. Keep an eye on him?"

"Sure thing," Bugs said.

Phillip just nodded, taking it all in. The man didn't flinch, didn't sweat, didn't even blink. He scared me a bit, but I liked this kind of badass energy coming from a human.

This time Gin took point, slipping through the door. I followed close. The place looked like any nine‑to‑five graveyard—fluorescent lights humming their tired tune over cubicles. Only thing out of place was a smear of blood leading deeper in, like a wounded man had tried to crawl away.

We tracked it, step by slow step, until the whispers started.

Soft and muffled.

"Please… let me go. Help me…"

I flicked two fingers and Gin glided toward the nearest cubicle.

"Help me…" the whisper croaked again—right before the whole damn illusion shattered.

"Fuck!" Gin barked.

A crow burst out of the shadows like a thrown knife, its claws glinting with that sick grey shadowlight. They tore straight through Gin's armor like it was wet paper, carving red lines across his ribs. Gin retaliated, blade flashed once, clean cut, and the crow split right through.

Both halves hit the floor and started melting into grey mist.

I exhaled. "Guess that's how he leads folks where he wants them. Had me thinking it was a real person calling."

"Could be," Gin grunted, pressing a hand to the blood sliding down his side.

I turned toward the steel door at the end of the hall. Behind it, I heard shouting. Cawing. And underneath all of that—the scent of Growley, sharp and sour like old feathers rotting in the gutter.

I pushed forward, slow but steady. I didn't want the same kind of surprise Gin just got carved with, but I wasn't about to let the bastard catch his breath either.

The basement welcomed us like the mouth of Hell—wide room, high ceiling, chains dangling from above. Bodies hung there like butcher's cuts, stripped of any dignity they might've once owned. Older victims, half‑eaten and half‑forgotten. Skin gone. Eyes gone. Faces erased. Just meat and misery.

We moved between them, chasing the sound of the living.

"…it wouldn't have happened if you just delivered what I asked!" a man shouted. Then a hacking cough, wet with blood.

Gin slipped behind me, armor dimmed, didn't want to glow like a target.

"You think I can produce bodies at the rate you require?" the beaten man spat. "I told you—it's not possible."

They were arguing. That was good. It meant Growley was distracted. It meant he thought he had time.

"They'll kill you now," the man warned.

"They think they will," Growley hissed back.

That was my cue.

I dropped to all fours, shadowlight flaring through my veins. The power in my gut surged—my authority—turning my muscles into those of a bear and my teeth into tusks sharp enough to shear bone.

I charged.

Every inch of me became the weapon.

And I aimed all of it at Growley. Only he was there. Talking to himself?

He looked young—black hair, sharp features, cunning eyes. I slammed into his chest, thinking it was over, that I'd cracked him. Thought I'd won.

Then his body shredded into a storm of feathers, steel knives slicing across my face and shoulders, spraying blood everywhere. My guts twisted, my senses screamed.

From the feathered maelstrom, a crow shot to the far side of the room. And there, rising from shadow, stood a perfect copy of the man I'd just attacked. Or rather the original, given the crow perched on his shoulder.

He pointed at me. Calm and indifferent. And then the crow multiplied, launching a miniature death squad straight at me.

I didn't hesitate. I went rubbery like a cheese I'd consumed, stretched and twisted my limbs, and flung myself away from the incoming missiles. Reflex, instinct, and maybe a little luck—everything I had just to stay in one piece.

Even though I twisted and ducked, Gin was already there—cutting through the flying crow like some samurai straight out of legend. His strike precise and surgical. Luck? Yes. But in his case luck was pure skill.

He dodged another bird, leapt at the man behind it all, and thrust the tip of his blade toward his neck. A black feathered shield sprang up around the guy's arm—he tried to block, but Gin's blade slid between the gaps and sliced clean through. The arm hit the ground; the guy's eyes went wide with shock.

I seized the moment. On all fours, powered by shadowlight and every trick my Domain offered, I slammed him into the wall. His head met concrete with a wet thump, and he slumped unconscious.

The crow, though… furious. It dove at Gin like a raptor, talons shredding armor and drawing blood. Gin dropped the blade, swearing under his breath.

I went for the bird next, swinging a punch like a slingshot—my body twisted, rubberized, stretching out. The crow dived too, and somehow caught the wakizashi in its beak as it landed. I froze for a heartbeat—but I didn't flinch. Smart pivot, leap, and my iron-encased bear paw met it just in time. I pummeled the thing into the ground.

When it was over, all that remained was the weapon and a wet, bloody mess—feathers, bones, guts, and the shadowlight authority that had fueled the corvid.

"Well done," Gin said, voice calm but edged with relief. I cracked a grin.

"You too. Let's clean up this mess and call it in."

**********

The aftermath was quick. Growley was restrained, and we searched the room where he'd stashed Phillip's boss. No luck—he wasn't alive. Surprisingly, Phillip took it well. Calm, measured, almost eerie in his composure. I didn't dwell on it, however I found it strange. He'd forget soon enough, like Reality had a way of doing to mortals.

We waited—four of us, and an unconscious man who had murdered with crows—waiting for the extraction crew Gin'd called.

What a day.

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