Whispers of the Valravn

Your pulse jumps first — too fast, too loud. The hill goes silent,

like it’s listening. Then it appears. A raven twisted wrong: wings too long,

legs too thin, chest caved in like something hollow trying to breathe. Feathers oily,

iron-black, dripping cold. It shouldn’t be here. Your body knows

that before your mind does. It lands without sound. Tilts its head in

that slow, human way that makes your stomach drop. Its pale,

milky eyes lock onto your heartbeat. The air shivers. Your breath fogs. Your spine tries

to step back on its own. The Valravn leans in, voice scraping from