The Columbian main city hummed beneath a late-afternoon sky, its golden light softening the edges of the bustling streets.
At its centre stood a grand fountain, its marble basin shimmering as water cascaded in gentle arcs.
A small girl darted around its edge, her dark curls bouncing as she skipped across the damp stone, her laughter a bright thread in the city's tapestry.
She stumbled mid-step, nearly tumbling, and bumped into a peculiar figure standing nearby.
He wore a crow-shaped mask, its dark polish catching the sun's gleam, paired with a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his gaze.
A long black coat flowed around him, its hem brushing the ground, and he leaned lightly on a cane—ebony wood capped with a silver tip that glinted faintly.
The mister steadied her with a gloved hand, his voice warm and inviting.
"Greetings, little one," he said kindly.
"Would you like to see a magic trick?"
Her eyes sparkled with delight, and she nodded eagerly.
With a flourish, he reached behind her ear, producing a card—an ace of spades that seemed to flicker into existence.
She gasped, clapping her hands, and he chuckled softly.
"One more, then," he said, flicking his wrist.
A silk handkerchief—vivid red—materialised in his palm, and with a gentle tug, it stretched into a chain of knotted colours: blue, yellow, green.
Her applause rang out, sharp and gleeful, drawing a few curious glances from passersby.
"Another!" she chirped, bouncing on her toes.
The mister obliged, tapping his cane once against the stone.
A puff of smoke swirled at its tip, and when it cleared, a small, shimmering coin rested in his hand.
He flipped it high, and it vanished mid-air, only to reappear balanced on her fingertip.
"How'd you do that?" she asked, her voice bubbling with awe as she clapped again.
"That's a magician's secret," he replied, his tone playful yet cryptic.
"What's your name, young marvel?"
"Lina!" she said proudly, twirling the coin between her fingers.
"You're the best magician ever, mister!"
He dipped his head in a slight bow.
"Hamelin, at your service. Keep that coin—it's yours now."
Before Lina could say more, he stepped back, his form blurring at the edges.
In an instant, he vanished, leaving only the echo of her delighted squeal and the coin glinting in her hand.
High above the city, Hamelin reappeared, floating amidst the wind's currents.
He tapped his neck lightly, a faint shimmer rippling across his frame as he prepared to speak.
His voice thundered outward, amplified beyond natural means, reaching every ear in the plaza below and igniting a ripple of confusion that swelled into an uproar.
The crowd halted, faces tilting skyward as his words sliced through the air.
"I am Hamelin," he declared, his tone fierce and unyielding, each word a hammer strike.
"The prophet of the Abyss. The judge of bastards. The retribution of karma. Oh, you blue bloods who have forsaken those you swore to shield—oh, you fallen whose lives are steeped in sin—I have come to deliver. I am but a messenger."
His body quaked, a strange distortion twisting beneath his coat, yet his voice remained resolute, unshaken by the chaos rending him from within.
"Face your punishment."
With a final, piercing cry, Hamelin's form shattered—a violent eruption that tore his silhouette into shards of shadow and flesh.
From the breach surged an endless swarm of crows, their black wings eclipsing the sky in a living tempest.
Their shrieks filled the air, a relentless din of flapping feathers and snapping beaks, descending upon the city in a wave of retribution.
The crowd scattered, screams rising as the birds swooped, their eyes glinting with an unnatural sheen, driven by a will beyond mere nature.
***
In the heart of Columbia's opulent district, Lord Reginald Varnholt sat ensconced in a high-backed leather chair within his sprawling mansion.
A Liberi of distinguished lineage, his sharp beak-like nose and piercing golden eyes—framed by faint, iridescent feathers along his temples—marked him as a noble of both wealth and pride.
The room around him dripped with extravagance: polished mahogany walls, a chandelier of glittering crystal, and shelves laden with gilded tomes.
He gripped a phone in one clawed hand, his voice a low growl as rage simmered beneath his cultured tone.
"You swore you'd bring him down," he snapped, addressing the bounty hunter on the line.
"A week of failures—do you grasp how this looks? That detective's head should be mine by now!"
The voice on the other end stammered assurances—success within the week, they promised.
Reginald sneered, slamming the phone down onto the desk with a sharp clack, the sound echoing in the cavernous study.
He reached for his wine, a deep burgundy swirling in the crystal glass, and twirled his chair toward the window.
Beyond the glass stretched Columbia's skyline—towers of steel and ambition piercing the dusk.
A mere detective, he thought, incredulity twisting his gut.
Howard Leyman had unravelled their plans, toppled their plans to build a new weaponry empire, and left them scrambling.
Remove him, and we rebuild—stronger, untouchable, he mused, a small grin creeping across his lips.
But the grin faltered as an odd sensation prickled his senses.
A bizarre scent wafted through the air—metallic, acrid, like blood laced with something unnatural.
His chest tightened, a sudden convulsion wrenching his frame.
The glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the hardwood as he toppled from the chair, crashing to the floor with a thud.
Pain erupted within him, a fire blazing through his ribs, searing his lungs with every ragged breath.
He clawed at his throat, trying to scream, but the agony choked his voice into a guttural wheeze.
His skin began to rot—patches along his arms and chest darkening to a sickly grey, then peeling away to reveal glinting black stones of Oripathy.
The infection spread rapidly, crystalline lesions blooming where flesh decayed, their jagged edges cutting into his nerves.
Blood trickled from his eyes and ears, staining his feathers crimson, pooling beneath him as he writhed.
"Help!" he rasped, the word tearing from his throat in a desperate plea.
But no footsteps came—no servants, no guards, only silence beyond his gasps.
Then, faintly at first, screams began to echo through the mansion—shrill cries of terror reverberating from the halls, the drawing rooms, the servants' quarters.
The air grew thick with dread, a chorus of horror swelling as the same fate gripped others within the estate.
Reginald's blurred vision caught a glimpse of the door—blood seeping beneath it, a slow, viscous tide creeping across the floor.
His mind reeled, grasping at the impossible. What is this? he thought, panic drowning his reason as his body betrayed him further.
Beyond the mansion's walls, the same nightmare unfolded. Every noble tied evil — began to convulse, their opulent lives unravelling in unison.
The Varnholt house fell first, its screams silenced by the crows' cacophony.
Then, across the district, another noble estate crumbled—a grand villa of marble and gold, its windows shattering as the same red haze seeped within.
Crows descended there too, circling the rooftops, their wings a dark shroud as the inhabitants writhed, their flesh rotting and crystallising in unison.
One by one, the noble houses of Columbia succumbed—each marked by the flock's arrival, each echoing with the same tortured wails.
The air grew thick with the gas, a blood-like mist drifting from broken panes and chimneys, carried by the crows' relentless flight.
It spared the common folk, targeting only the elite, but its presence sparked panic in the streets below.
Servants fled, collapsing as they glimpsed their masters' fates, while the birds tore at rooftops, rending slate and steel with equal disdain.
Blood trickled from balconies, stained manicured gardens, and seeped into the gutters—a scarlet tide heralding ruin.
Soon, a pandemic settled over the city, an unseen plague born of Howard's vials and Hamelin's crows.
The noble district became a graveyard of the living—mansions standing as silent tombs, their occupants trapped in bodies that rotted yet endured.
Reginald clawed at the floor, his vision fading to a crimson haze, the crows' shrieks a relentless dirge in his ears.
Despair settled in as he realised his final thought was lost to the torment as the flock pressed against the shattered window, their beaks snapping inches from his face.