Every bone half-buried on the battlefield was picked clean long ago, but still, crows land on them. At least... They look like crows from afar. Do you get closer? What do you see?

The wind howled across the moors, a mournful sound that seemed to carry with it the weight of centuries of forgotten battles. The fog clung to the earth, swirling in the air as if it, too, had never left the battlefield. Camellia’s lanterned staff illuminated the path ahead, casting a faint glow that barely penetrated the dense mist. The air was damp and cold, and though the land seemed still, there was an undeniable sense of unease, as though the very earth beneath her hooves was holding its breath.

Tyffyn bounced ahead, her energy undeterred by the oppressive atmosphere, but Camellia’s gaze was fixed on something up ahead. A dark shape perched on the half-buried bones of fallen warriors. At first, it appeared to be a crow—its black feathers gleaming in the dim light, its wings slightly unfurled. But something was wrong. Something was… off. Camellia’s ears flicked as she squinted into the fog, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Tyffyn,” Camellia called softly, her voice a whisper over the wind. “Do you see that?”

Tyffyn’s ears twitched, and she stopped mid-step, her gaze following Camellia’s. She frowned, her expression shifting from playful to uneasy as she spotted the dark shapes ahead. “Crows?” she asked, her voice hesitant. “But… they’re not acting like crows.”

Camellia’s heart quickened as she watched the figures more closely. The creatures were perched on the bones of the battlefield, their skeletal frames almost blending into the mist. Their feathers were not glossy or smooth but ragged, clinging to their bones like tattered rags. Their eyes—empty sockets where there should have been living, gleaming orbs—glowed faintly, an eerie, unnatural light.

“No,” Camellia said quietly, her voice firm despite the unease creeping along her spine. “They’re not crows.”

Tyffin took a step back, her usual bravado faltering. “I don’t like this, Cam,” she muttered, her voice tight with anxiety. “Those...things… they’re not normal. I don’t care if they look like crows. I’m not sticking around to find out what they are.”

Camellia didn’t respond immediately. She was too focused on the creatures—on the way they moved, or rather, didn’t move. They were still, unnervingly so, their bony forms frozen in place. But as she drew closer, the birds—if they could even be called that—shifted slightly. The sound of their bones creaking echoed across the battlefield, like the rustle of dry leaves in a long-forgotten tomb. They weren’t alive, not in any sense that Camellia could understand, yet they weren’t entirely dead either. They were something in between—something unnatural.

Tyffyn’s ears flattened against her head, her hooves shifting uneasily on the ground. “Camellia, we need to go. Now,” she urged, her voice rising with a note of panic. “I don’t care if they’re not crows, I don’t want to be anywhere near them.”

Camellia paused, her gaze locked on the skeletal birds. Their hollow eyes seemed to follow her every movement, as if they were watching, waiting. She felt a chill run through her, but she didn’t back away. Something about these creatures, about the way they were positioned on the bones of the fallen, felt significant. They were tied to this place, to the history of the battlefield. They were part of the land’s story—whether she liked it or not.

“I don’t... I don't think we’re supposed to leave just yet,” Camellia said, her voice steady but soft. “I think ...we need to understand them.”

Tyffyn's eyes widened, and she took a few steps back, her tail flicking nervously. “Understand them?” she repeated, her voice high with anxiety. “Camellia, those things are made of bones! Bones! You want to talk to skeleton birds? No way. Not today.”

But Camellia didn’t move. She was drawn to them, to the strange, unsettling presence they exuded. She had to know why they were here. Why they lingered on this cursed land. She stepped forward, her lantern casting long shadows over the half-buried bones and the skeletal creatures perched upon them.

As she drew closer, the birds shifted again, their skeletal wings rustling with a sound like the scraping of stone. Their empty eye sockets glowed brighter, their gaze never leaving Camellia. She could feel their eyes on her, piercing through the mist and the fog, and though they didn’t move toward her, their presence felt suffocating.

“They’re not crows,” Camellia murmured what she already knew to herself. “They’re something else.”

Tyffyn’s voice was barely above a whisper now, her words laced with fear. “I don’t care what they are. I just know they’re not friendly. Camellia, please. Let’s go. We can’t stay here.”

But Camellia’s gaze was fixed on the creatures. She took another step forward, her lantern’s light flickering in the dense fog. The birds didn’t flinch. They didn’t move. But they were waiting. Waiting for something. For her, perhaps. She couldn’t explain it, but she could feel it in the air—an unspoken tension, a pull, like the land itself was holding its breath.

One of the birds tilted its head, its bony neck creaking with the movement. It stared at Camellia with its empty, glowing eyes, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. The silence was deafening, broken only by the soft rustle of the birds’ wings. Then, in the stillness, a low, rasping sound escaped from one of the birds’ skeletal throats. It wasn’t a call, not like the caw of a crow, but a wordless sound—deep and hollow, as though the bird were trying to speak.

Tyffyn flinched, her eyes wide with fear. “Did… did it just…? Did it say something?”

Camellia didn’t answer right away. She was too focused on the bird, her heart pounding in her chest. The sound it made was more than just noise—it was a vibration, a pulse that seemed to resonate with the very bones of the battlefield. It was as if the land itself was speaking through the creatures, as if the battlefield had never truly been silent.

The bird let out another rasping sound, and this time, Camellia thought she heard something more distinct. A word. A name. She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like a command. Something that reached deep into her soul.

“Leave…” the bird seemed to whisper, its voice a dry rasp that echoed in the silence. “Or… stay.”

Camellia’s breath caught in her throat. The words were faint, barely audible over the wind, but they were unmistakable. The bird was speaking to her. To them.

Tyffyn’s voice was shaky as she pulled closer to Camellia. “I don’t know what they want, but it’s not good. Please, Camellia. Let’s just go. We’re not welcome here.”

But Camellia remained still, her eyes locked on the skeletal birds. She could feel their gaze, feel the weight of the battlefield pressing down on her. The creatures weren’t just guardians—they were part of the land itself, part of the story that had been buried here long ago. They were waiting for something. Waiting for her to understand.

“I can’t leave yet,” Camellia whispered, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her. “I need to understand why they’re here.”

Tyffyn’s ears flattened against her head, her anxiety palpable. “Camellia, please…!”

But Camellia took another step forward, her lantern casting a trembling light over the skeletal birds. The creatures didn’t move, but their eyes burned brighter, watching her with an intensity that was almost suffocating. They were waiting. And Camellia had no choice but to wait with them.

The wind howled again, and in the distance, the sound of the battlefield seemed to whisper, as if the land itself was speaking to her.

“Leave… or… stay…” the bird rasped again, its hollow voice a haunting echo in the stillness.

And Camellia knew, in that moment, that the choice was hers.