Crow

They called it a harbinger of doom.

But the crow was never just a bird—it was a curse given wings.

Centuries ago, in a forgotten village nestled deep in the fog-drenched hills of Durwan, a curse was born not from evil, but from truth twisted too many times.

The story began with a woman named Kaari—gentle, wise, and silenced.

She tried to warn her people about an impending invasion. But a council of men, threatened by her knowledge, spread rumors instead.

“She speaks lies.”
“She consorts with shadows.”
“She summons death.”

And then came the lie that sealed her fate.

“She can turn into a crow.”

Fear spread like wildfire. Kaari was banished to the dark forest. And when the enemy struck—as she had foreseen—the villagers begged for her return.

Too late.

On the night of a blood-red moon, her hut was found burned to ash. No body. Just feathers. And silence.

From that night on, crows filled the skies.

They circled above the village every dusk, never cawing, only watching. The villagers whispered of strange dreams, voices telling them truths too painful to bear.

And then—the speaking began.

Every word they uttered twisted itself into cruelty.

Lovers turned on each other. Children cursed their mothers. Priests muttered blasphemies in their prayers. Words, once tools of hope, now poisoned the air.

“What is happening to us?” cried the village elder.

And a crow perched beside him whispered, “You feared truth. Now you’ll live in lies.”

The curse spread beyond the forest. Across kingdoms. Cities.

Wherever the crows went, perception shattered. Kindness was mistaken for weakness. Justice mocked. Truth denied.

People turned against their own. Books burned. Monuments fell. Trust was drowned in noise.

The world, once loud with dreams, echoed only with blame.

But deep within the chaos, a young scribe named Vihaan began noticing something strange. In the places where people dared to speak kindly—even in whispers—the crows retreated. Briefly.

One evening, while copying an old scripture in the ruins of a monastery, he found Kaari’s final warning scratched into stone:

“The curse was not the crow. It was the choice to believe the worst.”

Vihaan stared at the line, heart pounding. The crow had never lied. It had simply echoed the world’s true nature, magnified by fear and refusal to see light.

He began writing. Not histories of war, but stories of redemption. Truths others denied. Kindness wrapped in courage. He read them aloud, each word chosen with care.

And the crows listened.

For weeks, Vihaan spoke to empty rooms, crumbling towers, fields littered with ash. Slowly, people gathered. Some wept. Some fought it. But they listened.

And with each story, the skies cleared.

One evening, a single crow flew down to him.

It did not speak.

It dropped a single black feather at his feet and vanished into the mist.

Vihaan smiled.

The world had nearly destroyed itself under the weight of its own lies. But perhaps, through truth and mindful speech, they could start again.

And somewhere, in the forest that birthed the curse, Kaari’s spirit finally rested.

Not in revenge.

But in release.

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