Chapter 7: Another One

Evening came in orange — the sun pulling itself down behind the rockvine walls in long, slow strips of color that turned the village amber and warm. Inside the house, the stone dining table had become a battlefield.

Two hands moved across it with frightening speed — grabbing meat, vegetables, mushrooms, rice, and several things that had not finished being passed before they were already gone. No bowl. No dissection. Just a direct, systematic elimination of everything within reach.

Her parents watched with eyes slightly wider than usual.

"My my..." Her mother broke the silence first. "Are you hungrier than usual, dear?"

"YEF MOHTHER AH COHD EAT LIKE TEN COWS RIGH NOW!" (Yes Mother, I could eat like ten cows right now!)

Nuriar reached for the water jar, unstuck several things from her throat, and resumed.

The little crow ate from its small bowl beside her with the quiet composure of someone who had decided not to have opinions about any of this.

Jonard set down his fork. "Nuriar — slow down. I know the trial has you worked up but eating this much will finish you off before you even get there." He watched another fistful of rice disappear. "And — and if you arrive full and sluggish, the messenger might not even pick you."

"AHM FIIHN FAHTHER MAHH STOMMACH IS LIKE A SMAHL UNIVERSE!" (I'm fine Father, my stomach is like a small universe!)

She stopped. Sat very still for exactly two seconds.

Then stood up so fast the chair scraped backward across the stone floor.

"I'LL BE BACK IN A MOMENT!!!"

"Take your time, my dear!"

Her mother watched the doorway until the sound of retreating footsteps faded, then looked down at the crow. The crow raised its head.

"Did you do something to my daughter?"

"What would I even do?" It took another small bite. "Turn her into a crow? She was probably always like this."

"Not quite this extreme," Jonard said, his expression pulling into something quieter. "She is excited. I just hope she is not chosen."

The crow set down the last piece of meat in its bowl. It already knew the answer. It said nothing, and resumed eating.

A knock at the door — firm, deliberate.

The parents startled. The crow did not.

Nuriar came running from the back of the house, trousers halfway fastened, one braid coming undone, still pulling her shirt straight as she crossed the room.

"I'll get it!"

The knocking came again — harder this time. She did not slow. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

Blue cloak. Blue mask. A full head taller than her. White eyes that glowed faintly in the evening light, currently fixed on Nuriar with the intensity of someone who had been walking a very long way and had opinions about what they had found at the end of it.

Nuriar's smile came out slightly nervous. "Ha... hello... Mister—"

"Miss." The voice was controlled. Barely. "Did my lord just make you his Avatar?"

"I... think so?"

The glowing eyes went very still.

"I have been his messenger for over a hundred years. Shepherd of Souls. And he chose a twenty-one year old village girl."

"I am... very sorry—"

"Then would you prefer to fight the gods yourself, Myra?"

Myra went rigid. The crow was perched on the doorframe above Nuriar's head, looking down at her with its small, level eyes.

"My lord!"

"Crowle — Ashvern!" Nuriar caught herself. Then at the crow's look: "Sorry. Crowley."

"Keep that name while we are here. It is better as a cover." The crow glanced at her. "And stop being formal. It does not suit you."

"But you are my... you know... boss now, so—"

"Be the same Nuriar. You are better that way."

She fidgeted with the end of one braid. Then, reluctantly: "Okay... Crowley."

The three of them moved to the doorstep — the crow on the frame, Myra standing just outside, Nuriar between them, doing her best to look like someone who was not incredibly out of her depth.

"The gods — the golden eyes, elder god Razan in particular — devised a plan to eliminate me," the crow said. Its voice was matter-of-fact in the way that only very old things can be. "If the Death God is gone, they believed they could install a replacement of their own choosing and use that to make themselves immortal."

It turned to Myra.

"If I were truly gone, the next closest thing to death's domain would be you. My messenger. The Shepherd. They intended to force you into ascension — but a forced ascension drains the mind until nothing remains. You would have become a god in name, with nothing left of yourself inside it."

Myra said nothing. She nodded, once.

"You seem to know a lot about that," Nuriar said, studying the crow. "As if you have done it yourself."

Myra's eyes sharpened. The crow raised one wing before she could say anything.

"I did. A long time ago, with the others." A pause. "That is why I left them. And that is how I know exactly what they are capable of."

"My lord..."

He looked at Myra directly.

"A messenger acts on behalf of their god — carrying out duties at a smaller scale, without direct contact with the other gods. It is a role that requires subtlety, patience, and the ability to move unnoticed. That is precisely what you are best at, Myra. I will not put you in front of them. That is not a slight — it is the only assignment that makes use of everything you are."

She bowed her head. "I am sorry for the doubt, my lord."

The crow turned to Nuriar.

"We have known each other for barely a day. But you have the instincts, the wit, and the stubbornness that I cannot afford to let another god get hold of. So — in plain terms — you will be the next Death God. My successor. My abilities will pass to you, when the time comes."

Nuriar's eyes went wide. "I am going to be the Death God?"

"Eventually. Right now you cannot do anything with my power, so focus on the trial."

Her face fell.

"Whaaaa... so I am useless right now."

The crow flew to her shoulder.

"I marked you as my Avatar because I believe you will win this on your own. That is not nothing, Nuriar. That is everything."

She straightened. "I will do my best. I promise."

Her mother's voice came from just behind the door frame. "Is everything all right out there, Nuriar?"

Jonard appeared beside her, saw the blue cloak and mask, and went very still — then bowed, deeply, with the expression of a man witnessing something he had only heard about in old stories.

"The messenger of death... what an honor to have you at our door. Are you here to select our Nuriar?"

Myra cleared her throat. Turned to face Nuriar squarely.

"Nuriar of the south rockvine village. You are hereby summoned as one of eight participants in the battle royale of the Rockvine Chosen One Trial."

"...Kay."

The smile she produced was technically present. Myra, who knew exactly why it looked the way it did, said nothing.

Nuriar's mother looked down at the stone step. Jonard looked up at the darkening sky and let out a long, quiet breath.

Then, without a word between them, they both stepped forward. Arms open.

Nuriar turned around and walked into the hug.

The three of them stood there in the doorway — her father's arms around her shoulders, her mother's around her back — while the crow lifted off quietly and landed on Myra's shoulder instead. Myra went rigid, then deliberately did not move.

Above them, the sky had finished its turn from orange to deep blue. The first stars were out. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked once and went quiet.

The rockvine gate rose slowly — pulled up by the stone mechanism hidden in the wall behind it — until it locked open with a heavy, final clunk. On the other side: torchlight, the smell of packed earth, and the noise of a crowd.

Myra walked through first. Nuriar followed, the crow on her shoulder, her parents just behind.

A voice cut through the crowd from somewhere ahead. "The messenger of death and Nuriar have arrived!"

The north village opened around them. Stone platforms, training grounds, the kind of architecture built by people who had decided long ago that strength was not an occasional requirement but a permanent one. Most of the faces that turned to look were men — broad, weathered, with the unhurried posture of those who had never once questioned whether they belonged in a place like this.

Nuriar leaned slightly toward the crow and dropped her voice. "What is with the welcome? Am I the last one here?"

"You are the last one," Myra said, just loud enough to carry back. "I do not know their customs well, but that appears to be the case."

Then Myra slowed. Not much — barely noticeable — but Nuriar caught it.

The crow moved first. It dropped from her shoulder and pressed itself down between her breasts, pulling its wings in tight."

"There is another messenger here. I need to stay out of sight — sorry for the inconvenience."

Nuriar blinked. Nodded quickly, a faint color rising in her face. "Ay — okay."

...Maybe that is why I was chosen as the Avatar of Death. Because of my boobs.

She then followed Myra's gaze.

In the middle of the crowd, a circle had formed. At its center, two figures sat across from each other at a stone table — hands locked, arms braced — in the focused stillness of an arm wrestle already well into its final seconds. One of them was a large man from the north village. The other was the biggest person in the room.

Red cloak. Red mask. Arms that made the stone table look like furniture built for someone else.

The red-cloaked figure pressed the north villager's hand down in one smooth motion. The crowd erupted.

"The messenger of strength wins again! Sixty-seven straight! UNSTOPPABLE!"

The red-masked figure stood, rolling his neck with visible satisfaction, and let the noise wash over him for a moment before scanning the crowd. His gaze landed on Myra. He walked toward her, unhurried, parting the crowd without effort.

Myra gestured briefly — hand behind her, toward Nuriar and her parents — and Nuriar took the cue, steering them sideways through the crowd while the two messengers closed the distance between each other.

The height difference was substantial. The red-masked man had nearly half a meter on her, possibly more. He looked down at her with the specific good humor of someone who was used to winning things.

"This is my domain of selection, Torus. Why are you here? Did the Strength God send you?"

"You already know the answer, Myra." He smiled — clean white teeth beneath the mask's edge. "The gods do not trust you here alone. My lord's Avatar is overseeing the selection, so consider everything above board."

"I hope you are here to observe. Nothing more."

"Of course." He leaned in slightly. "You have done well with the seven — I would have picked the same ones. But the eighth—"

His gaze drifted past her shoulder toward Nuriar, who was standing with her parents at the edge of the crowd, pretending to admire the torches.

"She has no strength to speak of. In a blunt-weapon arena, she might take down the younger boy — but that boy is essentially a lighter version of her with more raw power. Surely this was an error on your part?"

"Right. She is weak."

Torus blinked.

"THEN WHY IN ALL THE HEAVENS DID YOU CHOOSE HER OVER ANY OF THE STRONG MEN HERE!?"

"Because you are too simple to see it."

She walked past him.

"There is more to this than strength, Torus. You will see."

"Heh." He watched her go, arms crossing. "Coming from death — not exactly a reliable endorsement."

From the edge of the crowd, Jonard watched with wide eyes and visible emotion. "The messenger of strength as well! Both messengers in our village — what a blessed night!"

"Mm." His wife smiled quietly beside him.

Nuriar, standing just ahead of them, glanced down at the small shape pressed within her chest.

"Are you all right in there, boss?"

"Fine. As long as my form stays hidden, I am undetectable."

"Hehe. My breasts have never had this many uses before."

"What."

"Whaaa?"

He decided not to pursue it.

"Listen carefully. You must win this on your own. I will only act if you are in genuine danger — something unexpected, or if the gods decide to interfere directly."

"Interfere? Would they do that?"

The crow's gaze moved across the courtyard to where Torus stood with his arms folded, laughing at something one of the north men had said — easy, unhurried, completely at home.

"You never know when the gods may intervene."