Page 13 of Lana Pecherczyk

The familiar sound of cawing pierced the din of the market. Trading, no doubt. Every crow vied for the glory of bringing the rarest treasure to the Great Murder.

Travelers bottlenecked at the citadel gates, papers scrutinized by dead-eyed guards. Usually, he’d soar right over, protocol be damned. But with portal stones keyed to open outside for safety, he found himself relegated to walking in like a commoner.

He despised lines. Loathed waiting.

A gift for his sisters and mother first—that’s what he needed. Showing up empty-handed after all this time would cost him more than a few feathers.

He strode into the crowded cobblestone laneway, a giant among the fae. His leather armor marked him apart.Peacemaker, his shiny steel chakram, hung at his hips and reflected the sunlight with his prowling gait. The blue, luminescent teardrop beneath his left eye elicited gasps. Whispers raced ahead: “Kingfisher in flight.”

River scoffed at the warning. The old Guardian uniform had kingfisher blue piping on the trim. Although the leather was now black, the association clung like a stubborn shadow, as if Guardians were oblivious to the coded warning for fae to hide their contraband. The fools had no idea what was in their best interest.

It was stupid to get worked up over it now. Despite having a Guardian as their king, opinions forged over centuries wouldn’t change overnight. Elphyne remained in chaos. The taint’s decade-long havoc lingered in every crumbling wall and fearful glance. The vacant Unseelie winter throne and its unclaimed Well tithe left a power vacuum in the north. Mana-warped and taint-sprung monsters multiplied like vermin.

And Nero had been silent. Regrouping, no doubt. Quiet, but not forgotten.

A butterfly carved from rose quartz caught River’s eye, its UV color variations shifting with each angle. As he approached the stall, he was met with a blend of fear and disgust from other shoppers.

“Fuck you, too,” he muttered, blowing a mocking kiss at a couple scurrying away.

He reached for the carved figurine when the merchant spat on the ground near River’s feet and said, “Your taxed coin ain’t worth shit here.”

River’s fingers tightened. His arm trembled with the effort not to hurl the quartz at the man’s skull. He’d put down three new unclassified monsters this week alone. Maybe he should have left his stained uniform on to remind them of the danger lurking beyond their walls. The public should be showering Guardians with gratitude, not spitting at them.

Without raising his head, he locked eyes with the bearded wyrm-turd. The merchant stumbled back, nearly toppling a stack of crates.

River weighed his options for delivering a lesson on respect: thePeacemakermethod, the pointy dagger method, or the table-flipping method?

A burst of cawing yanked his attention down the market.

Few outsiders were aware of the intricacies of crow communication. Over five hundred distinct calls existed, each a coded message embedded in their DNA. River cocked his head, intently listening.

The second round sent prickles racing down his spine. It was a call to arms, specifically a hunt that rallied every cousin within earshot to join in the recovery of a rare treasure. While not always blood-related, crows formed tight-knit groups. Each murder consisted of multiple family settlements called kettles. Some murders, like the one in the Southeast where River came from, housed a population of hundreds.

“You’re so generous to refuse Guardian coin,” River said to the merchant, pocketing three pretty carvings without paying. “I must remember to recommend your stall to the rest of the Twelve.”

“No, no, no.” The merchant frantically shook his head and hands. “Take them. It’s fine. Go. No recommending.”

“Floater,” River grumbled as he left. If Cloud were here, he’d?—

His fists clenched. He took a steadying breath, forcing the thought away. It had been five years, yet he still slipped into old habits. When would it end?

By the time he reached the gathering crows, his mood had curdled beyond salvaging. Even a healthy brawl was unappealing. Considering his dick hadn’t stirred since realizing he couldn’t fly, a fuck to release his tension was out of the question.

He longed for simpler days, ignoring responsibilities, diving off cliffs into roaring rivers, pilfering from unsuspecting merchants, bedding their daughters until dawn, then drowning in ale with his two favorite crows until walking became an adventure.

The crowd parted, and a rainbow shard assaulted River’s vision. His breath hitched from the surge of dopamine flooding his system, filling him with a mix of pleasure and visceral yearning. He blinked rapidly as flecks of prismatic light danced across his face.

Every fae was unique, from their biology to their elemental affinity and capacity for holding mana, to their fingerprints, if any. Crow shifters had the added benefit of individual and unique reactions to external stimuli, including UV responses, courtesy of their avian side. What appeared dull and gray to one crow exploded as a riot of glittering color to another.

When the moving crowd swallowed the sparkling rainbow, it felt as if the world had stopped turning. Emptiness. Darkness where there had been light. An aching, black hole spread in his soul. Instinct propelled him forward. He weaved through the throng, chasing, hunting, needing, wanting, heart hammering for more until?—

There.

He gasped. Stumbled. Stared and felt his heart ache. She was so beautiful that only a rainbow dared clothe her. Sparkling fabric hugged her curves like a second skin from shoulders to hips to…

“Fuck me,” he breathed, stifling a groan as his gaze slowly dragged down, down, her smooth, toned legs.

But it wasn’t just her body that stirred something awake within him. Her long, dark hair was a maelstrom of ever-shifting hues where the sunlight caressed it. Each sparkle peppered light into that dark, empty expanse trapped inside his ribcage. The colors faded as she lingered in the shade of the canopy, and all he wanted to do was drag her back into the open.