Prince of Crows

 In the heart of the Forbidden Woods, shrouded in mist and mystery, stood a mansion of unparalleled beauty and grandeur. Built five centuries ago through the magic of Branwen, this imposing structure rose like a sentinel against the backdrop of towering trees and twisting vines. As one approached the mansion, awe washed over them, for its Gothic architecture commanded attention and reverence. Tall spires reached skyward, their silhouettes cast eerie shadows upon the forest floor, while intricate carvings adorned every surface, depicting scenes of arcane rituals and black avians.

  The façade of the mansion was a masterpiece of stone and mortar, weathered by centuries of wind and rain yet still bearing the mark of its former glory. Large ravens leered from the rooftops, their stone frozen in eternal vigilance, while ivy crept along the walls like a living tapestry, weaving tales of ancient magic and forgotten lore.

  As one approached the mansion, awe washed over them, for its Gothic architecture commanded attention and reverence. Tall spires reached skyward, their silhouettes casting eerie shadows upon the forest floor while intricate carvings adorned.

  Throughout the sprawling interior, rooms of exquisite beauty awaited discovery. The parlor is adorned with plush velvet furnishings and ornate candelabras. At the same time, the library boasts shelves lined with dusty tomes and ancient manuscripts, their secrets waiting to be unlocked by those brave enough to delve into their depths.

  But perhaps the most enchanting aspect of the mansion is its hidden enchantments—spells woven into the very fabric of its walls and floors by Branwen herself. To the untrained eye, the mansion appeared as nothing more than a feeble ruin, lost to the ravages of time and neglect. But to Branwen and I, it was a sanctuary, a haven of safety and solitude in a world of danger and uncertainty.

  Outside, the Forbidden Woods encircled the mansion like a protective barrier; their dense foliage concealed its secrets from prying eyes. Branwen's magic weaved through the trees, creating a more substantial barrier each year, ensuring that only those deemed worthy may enter its hallowed halls.

  The mansion in the Forbidden Woods stood as a testament to the power of magic and the resilience of the human spirit. It was a place of beauty, wonder, mystery, and enchantment where Mother and I could practice our magic through the boundaries of time and space. As we walked its hallowed halls, we knew we were safe and secure within the embrace of their ancient sanctuary.

Inside Rook Manor

  As Mother and I sat down to our morning meal in the opulent dining room of our mansion, the air was filled with a sense of quiet tranquility. The room was bathed in the soft glow of morning light streaming through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns upon the polished wooden floors.

  The dining table, an elegant masterpiece of dark mahogany, stretched across the room like a grand stage awaiting its actors. Fine china and silverware gleamed in the sunlight, arranged precisely upon the crisp white tablecloth. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh flowers adorned the centerpiece.

  As we began to eat, Branwen's keen eyes caught sight of movement outside one of the windows. A moment later, a raven swooped down from the sky, its feathers ruffling in the gentle breeze as it landed gracefully on the windowsill.

  With a flick of its beak, the raven dropped a newspaper onto the dining table before taking flight once more, disappearing into the canopy of trees beyond. Branwen reached out to pick up the newspaper, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected delivery.

  As she unfolded the paper, her eyes scanned the headlines, her expression growing increasingly grim with each passing moment. ‘I wonder what it says to make her look so troubled.’ 

  As Branwen carefully folded the newspaper, I saw her mind weighed heavy with the news she had just received. She glanced across the table at me. “What is it, mother? What news did your messenger raven bring this time? Upon the look on your face, I can tell it must be dreadful.” I must admit I was worried about what she would announce.

  "Malakai," she began, her voice tinged with a solemnity that belied her years, "tomorrow, we will bear witness to the ugliness of humankind." At those words, I narrowed my eyes.

   "What do you mean, Mother?" I needed clarification. Thanks to my last life, I was familiar with humankind's ugliness. I may have been bedridden, but I read a lot. I saw the heinous things humans are capable of from the news. I read stories of recorded instances of humanity’s cruelty. It was disgusting.

  Branwen sighed, "There are those in this world who fear what they do not understand," she explained, her words measured and deliberate. "They lash out in ignorance, seeking to destroy anything threatening their narrow view of reality."

  “I see. Mother, will we only bear witness, or can we help those who are innocent?”

  Branwen considered my question carefully. I saw her mind racing with the weight of responsibility. "We can only do what we believe to be right," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "We cannot save everyone, Malakai, but we can strive to protect those who have done no wrong."

  Thinking her words over, it sounded reasonable. It would be idiotic to try to save everyone. “Very well, mother. What time are we leaving?”

  “Two hours before sunrise. We will go in Avian form to prevent us from getting cut.”

  “Understood Mother.”

   And with those words, Branwen and I lapsed into a heavy silence, our thoughts consumed by the world's weight outside our enchanted sanctuary. Tomorrow would bring darkness and despair to the land, but for now, we would find solace in each other's company, grateful for the safety and security we shared within the walls of our ancient home.

Two Hours before Sunrise

  As I stood on the threshold of the bustling town of Lancaster, York, my heart weighed heavy, knowing what lay ahead. The air was thick with tension, a palpable sense of fear and anticipation hanging over the crowd like a shroud. I glanced at My mother, Branwen, who stood beside me with a look of grim determination etched upon her face.

   We had traveled through the ancient magic of blood teleportation to reach this place – a small shack hidden deep within the woods, where we would witness the trial of the acclaimed Pendle Witches. Branwen had built the shack a hundred years prior, imbuing it with the same enchantments that protected the mansion, ensuring our safety and anonymity.

   As they stepped inside the dimly lit shack, my eyes fell upon the blood-stained floor. The blood was in the form of our family crest. A Raven holding a sword in its beak. Vines of thorned roses wrapped around the sword. It was a silent testament to his mother's sacrifices to protect them. The blood never faded, reminding Branwen of eternal vigilance and the lengths she would go to ensure their safety.

    "Malakai," Branwen said, her voice echoing in the room's stillness. Listen carefully. This trial will test your resolve like never before. But remember, we are here to do what is right—to protect those who have done no wrong.

   I nodded solemnly, my heart pounding as I prepared to face the horrors that awaited us. Together, we ventured into the heart of Lancaster Castle, our forms shifting seamlessly into those of raven and crow as they soared through the dark sky.

  Looking around, I noticed the prison. The cells in Lancaster Castle were dark, damp, and oppressive, their stone walls bearing the weight of centuries of suffering and despair. Each cell was a small, cramped space, barely large enough to accommodate a single occupant. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and decay, a testament to the neglect and brutality that had become synonymous with the prison's existence.

   Inside the cells, the accused witches languished in silence, their faces drawn and haunted by the specter of impending doom. Some sat huddled in the corners, their eyes hollow with resignation, while others paced restlessly back and forth, their movements like caged animals desperate for freedom.

    Branwen wasted no time using her blood magic to knock them out. Looking at me through her Raven form,  she used telepathy to talk. “It will be safer if they are unconscious to determine the accused's innocence.” I simply nodded in agreement.  With a careful touch, she drew blood from each woman, using it to peer into their souls and uncover the truth hidden within.

     To our relief, we found that only one accused was guilty of inhumane activity—the rest were innocent victims of superstition and fear. Branwen decided not to interfere in that person's trial, knowing that justice must be served for those who had committed wrongdoing.

   Using our blood magic once more and the people's skin and hair, Branwen and I created clones of the accused witches, swapping their identities with their innocent counterparts. With a final flourish of magic, we teleported the innocent party outside the shack, erasing their memories of us to protect our anonymity. We didn't wish to take any chances, even if we were in our avian forms. I drank from each for my nourishment. I used a lot of blood magic. My body was returning to a cold state.

    In the dim light of dawn, the town square of Lancaster was shrouded in heavy silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant cawing of crows. As the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a golden hue upon the cobblestone streets, a sad procession made its way toward the gallows.

    Branwen and I watched from a hidden vantage point, our hearts heavy with the knowledge of the deception that was about to unfold. Below them, the accused witches – now replaced by their innocent counterparts – stood in silent resignation, their faces pale and drawn with fear.

    The crowd gathered in the square murmured, their voices hushed with anticipation as they awaited the spectacle that was to come. A sense of dark enjoyment hung in the air, a palpable tension that seemed to crackle with electricity. ‘They get off on this.’ Disgusting.

    At the foot of the gallows, the executioner stood with stoic determination, his face obscured by a hooded cloak. With practiced efficiency, he fastened the nooses around the necks of the accused, his hands steady despite the weight of his task.

    Branwen and I watched silently as the condemned witches were led to the platform's edge, their faces turned towards the heavens in silent prayer. The crowd fell silent, their breath caught in their throats as they awaited the moment of reckoning.

    And then, with a solemn nod from the executioner, the trapdoors beneath the witches' feet were released, sending them plummeting into the abyss below. The sound of the trap doors slamming shut reverberated through the square, a chilling echo of the finality of their fate.

    For a moment, time seemed to stand still as the accused witches dangled lifelessly from the gallows, their bodies swaying gently in the morning breeze. And then, with a collective gasp from the crowd, the moment passed, and the grim reality of their demise set in.

     As Branwen and I turned away from the scene, our hearts heavy with sorrow, I knew we had done what was necessary to protect the innocent. But the memory of the hanging would linger with me for years to come, a haunting reminder of the darkness that lurked within the hearts of men.