little crow
no one
You keep to the shadowed ribs of the forest, where light thins and sound travels wrong. It has been this way for weeks—padding the long edge of something you do not name, watching how the land tightens, loosens, holds its own. The forest here is different from the Northwoods. Softer, in a way. The ground does not crunch with crackling frost beneath your paws. It gives, springy with rot and leaf-mold, breathing back when you step. Oak and beech loom overhead, their branches knitted thick enough to turn the sky into fragments. Sunlight filters down in warm, slanted bars instead of the thin, silver glare you know. Even the air smells alive—green, damp, threaded with prey-scent so thick it almost feels careless.
You have watched them hunt. You have watched them patrol. Not close—such would be a death wish—but near enough to learn the rhythm of their movements. Borders walked and re-walked, scent refreshed, like a vow repeated until it becomes belief. They move with confidence that borders will hold. That no one will cross unless arrogant or foolish. You are neither of those things. For weeks you have circled wide, marking trees with your eyes instead of your claws. A bent birch split by lightning. The fallen log hollowed by ants. The shallow stream where pawprints gather and vanish. You know where they pass most often, where they linger, where they relax enough to speak aloud. You know the sound of their voices now—open, unguarded, unafraid of being overheard. That, more than anything, unsettles you. In the Northwoods, voices are claws, kept sheathed. Here, they are wind through the leaves.
You crouch now at the last rise before the border, belly low, tail tucked close. The line itself is invisible, but you feel it the way prey feels jaws before they snap shut. The scent is stronger here—cat-scent layered thick and deliberate, not the wild scatter of feralborn scraping by. What you scent is ownership. It is a claim made with numbers, with time and the quiet assumption that it will be respected. Your whiskers twitch. Your ears turn, catching the scold of a jay, the rustle of a squirrel, the distant padding of paws that do not hurry. No alarm. No tension. The forest does not brace itself. You think of the Plateau, of thorn walls and stone shadows. Of rituals carved so deep into bone that even breathing wrong could cost you blood. Of how borders there were lines written in fear, not scent—crossed only by spies, exiles, or the doomed. You have survived by knowing when not to be seen. But survival is not the same as living. You learned that, too, though it took longer.
You shift your weight forward, then still. For a heartbeat you consider turning away, slipping back into the nameless space between territories. You could keep watching. You are good at watching. You could let curiosity starve until it goes quiet.
You do not.
Something in this place pulls with a feeling like possibility. A dangerous thing. Possibility is how cats die. It is also how they change. Your claws flex, sinking into loam instead of ice. You straighten slowly, deliberately, making no attempt to mask your presence further. If you are seen, you will be seen as you prefer. Alone, alert. Not fleeing; prey flees. Not charging; threats charge. You do neither. One paw steps forward. The scent washes over you fully now, wrapping your fur, seeping into every breath. You lift your head, scanning the trees ahead. No figures break from the undergrowth. No challenge comes. All that lays ahead is forest, alive and waiting. Another step. Your heart does not race. It steadies. This, at least, is familiar—the moment of choice before consequence, the quiet where everything balances on a single breath. You have crossed worse lines than this. You have survived colder welcomes. Still, you do not rush. You stop at the edge and let yourself rest, decision having been made. Neither hiding nor advancing.
You have watched them hunt. You have watched them patrol. Not close—such would be a death wish—but near enough to learn the rhythm of their movements. Borders walked and re-walked, scent refreshed, like a vow repeated until it becomes belief. They move with confidence that borders will hold. That no one will cross unless arrogant or foolish. You are neither of those things. For weeks you have circled wide, marking trees with your eyes instead of your claws. A bent birch split by lightning. The fallen log hollowed by ants. The shallow stream where pawprints gather and vanish. You know where they pass most often, where they linger, where they relax enough to speak aloud. You know the sound of their voices now—open, unguarded, unafraid of being overheard. That, more than anything, unsettles you. In the Northwoods, voices are claws, kept sheathed. Here, they are wind through the leaves.
You crouch now at the last rise before the border, belly low, tail tucked close. The line itself is invisible, but you feel it the way prey feels jaws before they snap shut. The scent is stronger here—cat-scent layered thick and deliberate, not the wild scatter of feralborn scraping by. What you scent is ownership. It is a claim made with numbers, with time and the quiet assumption that it will be respected. Your whiskers twitch. Your ears turn, catching the scold of a jay, the rustle of a squirrel, the distant padding of paws that do not hurry. No alarm. No tension. The forest does not brace itself. You think of the Plateau, of thorn walls and stone shadows. Of rituals carved so deep into bone that even breathing wrong could cost you blood. Of how borders there were lines written in fear, not scent—crossed only by spies, exiles, or the doomed. You have survived by knowing when not to be seen. But survival is not the same as living. You learned that, too, though it took longer.
You shift your weight forward, then still. For a heartbeat you consider turning away, slipping back into the nameless space between territories. You could keep watching. You are good at watching. You could let curiosity starve until it goes quiet.
You do not.
Something in this place pulls with a feeling like possibility. A dangerous thing. Possibility is how cats die. It is also how they change. Your claws flex, sinking into loam instead of ice. You straighten slowly, deliberately, making no attempt to mask your presence further. If you are seen, you will be seen as you prefer. Alone, alert. Not fleeing; prey flees. Not charging; threats charge. You do neither. One paw steps forward. The scent washes over you fully now, wrapping your fur, seeping into every breath. You lift your head, scanning the trees ahead. No figures break from the undergrowth. No challenge comes. All that lays ahead is forest, alive and waiting. Another step. Your heart does not race. It steadies. This, at least, is familiar—the moment of choice before consequence, the quiet where everything balances on a single breath. You have crossed worse lines than this. You have survived colder welcomes. Still, you do not rush. You stop at the edge and let yourself rest, decision having been made. Neither hiding nor advancing.