Father of Crows: Chapter One: Uneasy Peace

The remnants of corn stalks jutted from the barren soil, brittle and broken under the weight of years. Once golden, their mournful brown hue mirrored the somber landscape. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the fields an hour south of Minneapolis.

Ian moved with measured caution, his wavy dark hair brushing his forehead. His chestnut-colored eyes scanned the growing darkness, alert to movement. Behind him, a group of Brotherhood mercenaries followed in tight formation, their expressions grim.

They weren’t there to marvel at the vastness around them. They were mercenaries; trained to do what many wouldn’t have the courage to do.

Ahead he saw an old home, its timbers rotted by time. Ian raised his hand, signaling the group to halt but one once mercenary, braver or perhaps foolish than the rest, continued forward and approached the splintered door. His hand reached for the rusted handle and before he grasp it, the door exploded outward with shards of wood scattering like shrapnel.

A blur of motion tore through the group. Chaos erupted as screams filled the air. Ian hit the ground instinctively, the coppery scent of blood already sharp in his nostrils. He swept his hair away from his eyes and surveyed the area around him. The Deamhan moved impossibly fast.

“Pull back! Pull the fuck back!” one of the mercenaries—a woman clutching her weapon—screamed. Her voice cracked under the weight of fear. “We need backup!”

Ian motioned for her to hit the ground, but she stood frozen, paralyzed by the carnage unfolding around her.

“I thought you said the others are coming!” she yelled at him.

“They are,” he barked back.

Their numbers dwindled quickly. Where there had been eight, only four mercenaries remained. Just as frantic as it once began, everything went silent.

 Ian slowly rose to his feet and scanned the area.

“We’ll all be dead by the time they get here,” the woman now whispered.

In the distance, a figure materialized under the pale moonlight. Its eyes burned with a cold, white fire, and glint of razor-sharp canines caught the faint light.

“Estrie,” Ian muttered. Seeing one was rare—a Deamhan breed long thought nearly extinct. The creature’s supernatural speed and strength were legendary.

The rare Estrie Deamhan darted in and out of their defenses. Ian felt the warm spray of blood on his cheek as another mercenary fell. The remaining fought valiantly, but they were no match for the Estrie’s supernatural speed and strength. Its laughter was a chilling sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, taunting them.

Ian watched as one of his mercenaries—a young man—was tossed aside like a ragdoll, bones snapping upon impact with the ground.

“Screw this! Fall back!” the female mercenary shouted. She took off, with another mercenary in tow, but their attempt to escape was short-lived. A blur of motion and moments later, Ian heard the sickening crunch of bones. The Estrie went into hiding again.

“Your friends are dead, Behesian,” came a taunting reply from the darkness. “You’re all alone now. I can smell your fear.”

Ian felt impending defeat upon him. He had no choice.

He reached for the dark magic buried within him—a force that never felt entirely his own. It surged through him like wildfire, threatening to consume more than just his enemies as he called on his gift, and with one thought, green mist expelled through his fingertips in hopes to obscure his location.

“Is that all you got?” The Estrie laughed. “I thought you Behesians were stronger than this.”

Ian refused to let the insult go unanswered. With a cry, he unleashed what little power remained within him, pointing it in the direction of the voice. The mist barely grazed its smirking visage before dissipating into nothingness.

It was then that two shadowy figures emerged from the darkness.

Anastasia’s form materialized from the shadows, her piercing brown eyes scanning the carnage before transforming into dark pools. Beside her, Remy’s figure danced into view, a grin playing on his thin lips.

“You called?” he smirked.

The Estrie now hesitated, its attention shifting between the newcomers.

“It’s an Estrie this time,” Remy said to Anastasia. “Aren’t they still… like… rare or something?”

Without responding, Anastasia leapt at the attacker. Her movements were graceful, a deadly dance of precision and power. Remy joined the fray, his body contorting with an agility that bordered on the impossible.

The Estrie fought back with ferocity, but it was outmatched and for a good reason. They too were Deamhan.

Anastasia caught the creature mid-lunge and slammed it into the ground. Her fangs gleamed in the moonlight as she snarled. The Estrie looked up at her, its voice ragged but defiant.

“You have no idea what’s coming,” it rasped, blood dripping from its lips. “But you will beg for its mercy—but none will come.”

Anastasia’s expression remained cold. “I know exactly what’s coming,” she said, driving her hand into its chest. “Death.” With a swift, brutal motion, she ripped out its heart.

The Estrie’s body disintegrated into a pool of blood, ash, and dust.

Ian’s chest heaved as he took in the aftermath. The house loomed in the shadows, its timbers groaning with age. The air smelled of mildew and decay, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood now soaking the ground.

He glanced at the fallen mercenaries before turning his glare to Anastasia and Remy. “Where in the hell were you two?!” he demanded, his voice raw with anger.

Remy folded his arms, an infuriating grin plastered on his face. “Me? I was out getting dinner. Got a little hungry along the way.”

Anastasia stepped forward, her piercing brown eyes surveying the scene. “It’s handled now,” she said, her tone as cold as her gaze.

“Handled? Everyone is dead! What took you so long?”

Remy shrugged. “Time moves strangely when you’re immortal. You should try it sometime.” His smirk faded as he turned to Anastasia. “You know this one?” he asked, motioning to the remains.

“Why would I?” she replied.

“It’s just… like the one last week. He seemed… unsurprised to see you.” He then shrugged off his own question. “Well, you do have a reputation to keep.”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Ian interjected. “What did he mean?”

Anastasia straightened her posture. “Nothing. Just another ominous riddle for a dying breath.”

Ian stood amidst the carnage as a storm of questions brewed in his mind. The Estrie’s words had to mean something and whatever it was, he wasn’t ready.