The Ravens of Somnivale

The first raven came on a cold, winter morning. The air was dry and frigid, and the wind whipped at the barren tree branches that hung over the small village from the forest beyond. Sera trudged up the winding dirt path that snaked out of the village and up the steep slope of the foot of the mountain. Her house —a small hut made of stacked stones and layered hay —peeked through the first few tree trunks. A mere panel of bark acted as her door. She prayed to the gods above that she would last through the winter. It would be a miracle.

She knew she couldn't go back to the village, though. The people feared her, hated her. The suspicious stares followed her every time she stepped into the quiet, little town. She had spent her whole life running from it- those words the Oracle had whispered to her mother the day of Sera's birth:

"When the ravens return to Somnivale, the eldest daughter will bring ruin."

Her mother had wept at the words, the darkness that tainted the joy of her firstborn. Word got out quickly: the baker's daughter carried an omen of death. After all, the Oracle's word was law in Somnivale. The old crone had lived nearly three lifetimes. Some thought she was a descendant of the gods themselves. A decade before Sera was born, the Oracle had announced the coming of a terrible avalanche. The villagers fled, taking only the essentials. Less than a day after her decree, thunderous rumbling shook the valley, and a mountain's worth of snow slammed through the forest and into the village. After that, the people never dared to ignore a prophecy from the Oracle. Therefore, when the ancient woman decreed that Sera's destiny was destruction, no one defended the young girl.

Sera had grown up fearing even her own shadow. Her mother kept her hidden from the village, perhaps hoping they would all one day forget the evil that was her eldest daughter. When she was younger, her father tried to teach her the ways of the bakery, but she could barely manage to light a fire before her mother interrupted. Her mother forbade her from going near anything that might be dangerous.

Her parents soon had a son, and then another daughter. Neither of those children was born to a devastating prophecy; neither of them carried the weight of knowing they caused their mother shame. They didn't suffer the judging stares as they walked into the plaza, nor did they have to watch the other children playing from behind the curtains of their bedroom windows. Their mother told them that they loved them.

When Sera was fourteen, she left her family's house. She traveled up into the woods before the mountain, and she built her little hut from the few stones she was able to lift and carry. It was a shoddy construction at best, but she knew nothing of building houses. She lived her new life out of fear and caution, always carefully considering every step, every choice. She would not bring darkness to her mother's doorstep.

A year later, the drought started. Rain rarely came, and the river that came down from the mountain had nearly dried up. The village's crops in the valley below withered and died. The people were starving. Sera was starving. That morning, she had come down to her mother's house for the first time in months.

The baker's wife looked at her in disgust.

"This is the ruin you bring," her mother spat, gesturing to the town- to the suffering- around them. "The gods punish us because you are here." Sera glanced behind her mother to her siblings. Her brother and sister stared at her, fear lacing their wide eyes. After all her caution, all her planning, all her distance… she had somehow brought their ruin anyway.

Now, Sera walked up the sloping path, back to the hut in the woods that offered her the only comfort in the world. Deep down, Sera was not sure how she had caused the drought. Was it truly the work of angry gods, or perhaps some cruel coincidence? That was when she saw the raven.

It was a mammoth bird, bigger than she'd ever seen. It was black as oil against the pale, winter sky, perched on a branch high above her ramshackle house. Dread pooled in her gut as Sera slowed to a stop. Her blood went cold. It stared at her, its lifeless, black eyes boring holes into her very soul. It was as if it knew her, as if it were waiting for her—a burning rage lit in Sera's heart.

"You did this!" she cried. "You made the rain stop!" The bird looked back blankly, unfazed. Sera picked up a stone from the path and chucked it upward. It didn't come close to the branch, and it landed with a thud in the woods. The raven still did not move.

She heard a rustling noise behind her and turned to see another raven land on the path behind. It gazed up at her, the same unyielding stare as the first.

"What do you want from me?" she breathed. "How do I fix it?" No reply came from the birds. She scowled. Without another word, she stormed up the path, content to reach her hut and shut out the stupid birds forever.

A terrible sound came from one of the birds, like the scream of a child. She whirled around. They stared. Unmoving. Waiting, as if they were here for her.

"You already brought this drought to the village," she bit out. "The prophecy is fulfilled. You can leave now."

That night, seven ravens surrounded her house. Four sat in the branches above. Two of them stood on the path back to the village. She caught one circling ahead, its silhouette illuminated by the full moon. Occasionally, she heard them scream, calling to her. Their cries cut through the silent woods. Sleep could not calm Sera, not now. Not with the omens of death calling out her name.

Sera had an idea then, in the place between dreams and reality. In a daze, she climbed to her feet and shuffled out the door. If the ravens wanted her to act, she would. They brought this suffering to the village, so she would make them pay.

She found a few sticks in the woods around her hut. She dropped to the ground, placing the sticks in a little pile. She took two rocks in her small hands. Then, using the only skill her father had ever taught her, she struck them together.

Sparks danced onto the sticks, and a fire roared to life. She picked up the largest stick, holding it like a torch. She waved it at the ravens. For the first time since they appeared, they reacted to her. The birds jumped away from the burning light, screeching at the heat. They flapped their massive wings, and Sera worried that they might put the fire out altogether. Instead, they moved down the dirt path, inching towards the village.

"Stay away from there," she hissed at them. She swung her torch again, and they hopped further towards the town below. A raven shrieked at her.

"Stay away!" She hurled the torch at the closest raven, and it screamed as the flame made contact with its body. The bird scrambled and flew away. It disappeared into the night sky, leaving behind several singed feathers. The other ravens followed suit. Sera thought they looked like demons from Hell as they tore through the trees. The ravens were gone. For a moment, Sera felt relief.

A burning scent filled her nostrils. She glanced down at the fire, the torch she had thrown at the devil-spawn. Flames caught quickly, the grass on the ground a perfect kindling. Dead leaves curled into ash as the fire spread. Thick, black tendrils of smoke curled upward through the forest. Sera's breath caught in her chest.

Then, she saw it spread. Crisp branches crackled in the heat, sending sparks onto the trees around her. The forest, dried up from the drought, was ablaze. The sparks, carried by the winter winds, traveled farther than her feet could carry her as Sera hurtled down the mountain. She screamed and hollered, hoping by some miracle that the villagers would hear her in time. But the same wind that carried her fire also silenced her warnings. She was only halfway down the path when the first thatched roof of the village caught fire. By the time she reached the town's edge, the sky was a scarlet fury.

With every ounce of strength and desperation, Sera stomped at the flames. She screamed until her throat was raw, and her eyes stung from the smoke that invaded the air. All around her, she could hear screaming. Was it the villagers or the ravens? She started to get dizzy as the smoke thickened. All she knew was the heat and the smoke and the screaming. Her head was spinning, and her vision blurred. Heat. Smoke. Screaming.

So much screaming.

Sera opened her eyes to the familiar, pale sky of winter. This time, though, black and gray clouds formed overhead. Something cold hit her cheek. Water. Sera lay on her back, staring up at the sky as the rain began to fall. There were no sounds but the pattering of raindrops over the town. She didn't dare to glance around her, so she focused on the sky. She knew without looking that Somnivale was gone, reduced to ash in a single night. If anyone survived, she couldn't hear them.

She may have called out to someone, anyone, but her throat was shredded and stinging. Her voice did not come. She felt heavy, the kind of weight that burdens a soul rather than a physical body. Sera's tears blended with the rain streaming down her face. The Oracle's words echoed in her memory, suddenly clear in their precision:

"When the ravens return to Somnivale, the eldest daughter will bring ruin."

Not the birds. Not the gods.

Her.

And in the sky above, the ravens ducked and dipped through the air, unbothered by the rain or the carnage below. They were silent witnesses to the truth that had always been waiting, the destiny she could never have escaped.