Duskwarden, Keeper of the Graves

They always arrive before the mourners.

That is the way of it.

I hear them first—wings folding into the bare branches, claws ticking softly against stone. My birds know the sound of grief. They know the rhythm of a shovel biting earth. They know the difference between weeping and rage.

Today, they knew something else.

The stranger came just before dusk, coat too fine for our little hillside cemetery, boots too clean for the climb. He did not remove his gloves when he passed through the iron gate.

That was the first sign.

The second was how he read the names.

Not with sorrow. Not with reverence. His eyes moved across the markers as though tallying debts.

I stood from where I was trimming back the ivy along Old Henric’s plot. The shears made a patient snip, snip.

“You’re far from the main road,” I said.

He glanced at me briefly, then back to the stones. “I go where I please.”

The crows shifted.

There are twelve of them who roost here regular. Three more come and go as they fancy. They are not pets. They are not tame. But they understand tone.

The stranger stopped before the newest grave—fresh soil, wreath still bright.

He crouched and pressed two fingers into the dirt.

The air tightened.

Magic has a smell when it is forced—sharp, metallic, like blood on old coins. I caught it then.

“Best not,” I said quietly.

He did not look up. “The dead have secrets,” he murmured. “Some are worth asking for.”

One of the crows dropped from the branch above and landed on the stone beside him. It tilted its head, black eye fixed.

He waved it away with an impatient flick of his wrist.

The bird did not move.

I stepped closer, resting my hand on the handle of my spade.

“These graves are not doors,” I told him.

He smiled thinly. “And yet I have the key.”

The soil trembled beneath his fingers.

That was enough.

I whistled once, sharp and low.

The sky answered.

Wings unfurled from every tree, from the chapel roof, from the leaning cross at the hill’s edge. A rush of black swept downward—not chaotic, not frenzied, but precise. They did not claw or tear. They simply pressed.

Onto his shoulders. Onto his arms. Onto the ground around him.

The stranger staggered under the sudden weight of feathers and accusation. His spell unraveled, the metallic scent snapping away like a cut wire.

He tried to stand, but every movement earned another beat of wings, another hooked beak tapping insistently at his knuckles.

I walked until my boots were inches from his.

The crows parted just enough for me to meet his eyes.

“My birds don’t like your tone, stranger,” I said.

He swallowed, finally understanding that this hillside belonged to something older than his curiosity.

I gave a softer whistle.

The weight lifted at once. The birds returned to their perches, feathers settling, silence restored.

The stranger rose unsteadily, brushing at his coat. He did not look at the grave again.

“Druidic theatrics,” he muttered, but he was already backing toward the gate.

I watched until he disappeared down the path.

The crows resumed their quiet vigil.

I knelt and smoothed the disturbed soil with my palm.

The dead deserve their rest. And my birds don't like it when they wake.