Hope

The crow ate its seeds upon the windowsill, pacing itself. They were good seeds, very nutritious. There was a tapping and then banging on the window, but the bird was too busy with its meal to pay it any mind. It was also a good meal, very nutritious. It listened through the closed window like any real crow could, taking in the delicious morsels.

When the people left, so did the crow. It quickly scarfed up what was left of the food in quick jabs of its beak, then took flight. The creature was different that day, without understanding why. Not even really perceiving the change, nor when it had happened. Real crows were smart, but introspection was not one of their strengths.

Some people mistook that for stupidity. If the bird ever heard them, it would scoff at being perhaps mistaken for their dumb cousins, fake crows. Fake crows fell for the simplest snares and couldn't even talk, so no one in their right mind would mate with them. Real crows could calculate the artillery curve of an arrow before it was released and dodge, see through most thin walls, and teleport past simple barriers. It sometimes baffled it that the people who could do none of those sneered at it with disdain.

Case in point, the not-quite-human who thought they were being sneaky. They probably were, since the other people were not paying them any attention. It swallowed that bit up and flew on. The critter watched the two highborns failing to reattach severed limbs and the old man sitting in his office, frantically scribing letters - the contents of which it remembered even though it couldn't read.

It was a really chaotic day. Next, the crow smelled that delicious aroma from within the building, but when it looked there was nothing there. It flew five circles around the area, but never actually found that particular meal. It had just tired itself out for nothing. Annoyed and irritated, the bird left.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The crow then flew for three hours into the middle of the woods, far enough from any settlement that there would be no finding it. There it reached the spot where real crows in the region gathered, a good hundred of them, sitting on branches in an otherwise unimpressive spot in the deeper woods. Obscured by tall hills, steep cliffs, and a natural, magical current that would obscure most divination. Barely passable in all honesty. The crow had seen better further north or south.

Some people would call what was occurring a murder, which was wrong. The birds didn't kill anyone. Not directly, at least. This was a covenant of crows, obviously. A real gaggle of real kin, each dancing, singing, gawking, or caring for the orb.

The newcomer partook in the first three, but the last was its purpose. Bit by bit, it skipped across the covenant, reaching the middle where the ever-growing white globe was. Then it barfed on it, secrets spilling out of its stomach by the mouthful.

The delicious morsels flung through the aether. Like dreams after waking, gone and forgotten. They joined the pile in the middle, coming up to a mound about a dozen Ruins high. Some on the bottom had already long spoiled. The crow was not questioning any of that. A real crow did not question these trifles or the orb itself. Just because no one had come to collect the harvest in decades didn't mean the crows would stop. It merely gathered secrets, then fed them to the accumulation like it would any chick.

Thereafter, the crow flew away, the uniqueness of the day receding from it like the tide. It would probably not return for a while. At least not until it smelled a particularly delicious secret again.