Prologue: Et non erit qui liberet
The doors slammed open in the small church as a murder of crows burst inside, cawing loudly and violently. The crows moved in perfect unison, almost acting as a hive mind, with every flap seeming coordinated and no movement wasted.
Father Cecil, an older man who was in charge of the small church, had remained behind to prepare for the next morning’s mass, falling backwards in shock at what he saw.
He watched as the crows flew in all directions, going into every room the church had to offer. “O’ Lord, protect me against the demons invading our church. Give me the strength to survive and the will to fight these demonic forces,” he muttered in a desperate plea to God, closing his eyes in fear and pressing his palms tightly together.
It was then that the church went dead silent. Father Cecil wondered if his prayer had in fact protected him from the demons, but as he saw a single man standing before him, he was sure he was wrong.
“Who are you?” Father Cecil asked, “What are you?”
The man did not speak; instead observed quietly for a moment. He was a young man, probably in his mid-20s, with neatly styled dark hair and clothes that suggested he came from wealth. His body was strange for the time as he bore no scars, no imperfections; it was as though he was carved of stone, or someone’s attempt to design a perfect human.
“I am Corvan,” answered the young man after a long pause, “You know exactly who I am.”
Father Cecil’s eyes widened at the name, his expression shifting from shock to guilty dread, as though he had already sinned. He slowly made his way up from his knees, trying to regain his composure after the sudden shock. He wasn’t sure if he could speak, and even if Corvan allowed it, he wasn’t sure if his body would as well.
“I am looking for the Hawk,” began Corvan as he walked around on stage. He seemed comfortable in this environment, confident. “It was told to us by what you would call...seers? Pardon me, I am not familiar with your religion.”
With what little strength remained, Father Cecil managed a single word, “Prophets.”
Corvan’s expression remained serious, “Yes, prophets,” he said before moving over to the candles the crows had extinguished, “You ought to avoid keeping these lit up for long periods, it is a fire hazard. Churches are quite fragile… especially yours.”
Father Cecil nodded, unsure as to why he was receiving a safety lesson from the man who burst in with crows.
Turning around, Corvan’s gaze pinned itself directly onto Father Cecil. It was clear that Father Cecil was being examined, evaluated, and assessed. Father Cecil had never felt as sub-human as in that moment; something about the way Corvan stared at him felt akin to how a predator assesses another animal.
“What do you know about the Hawk?” Corvan asked calmly, taking a few steps towards Father Cecil, “It was said that this church would be where the Hawk would begin its journey to us.”
“I do not know of any Hawk,” answered Father Cecil, “I’m deeply sorry, but I do not know what you speak of. Please I-”
Stopping in his tracks, Father Cecil watched as Corvan adjusted his robe and then began to walk towards the exit. “I believe you , Father,” replied Corvan, “But you will find me the Hawk, and send it to me.”
Pausing before reaching the exit, Corvan turned around, assuring Father Cecil understood the message, “For if you don’t, your prayer will not save you. No one will come for you but me. And there shall be none to deliver.”
Father Cecil fell back to his knees the second Corvan left the church, his legs giving out from beneath him. His mind was scrambling to figure out what Corvan could mean by the Hawk, for he knew nothing of it, nothing except…
“Helena?”
