Corvus circled above the hill that loomed on the edge of the hamlet of Widdershire, his sharp eyes piercing the night, searching for signs of life—a warm breath curling in the cold air, the brief flare of a match, the ember glow of a pipe, smoke or cigar—an unnatural shadow where none should be.


    Tonight’s work was best done in the secret of darkness—a necessary, yet profane desecration of grave and body—a ritual of dark enchantment meant to pry secrets from the dead.


    The tombs below were no place for the living.


    Here, the dead rested beneath crooked stones and moss-covered engravings that whispered forgotten names while naked trees cast their shadowy veil across the graves of those who had forsaken all earthly concerns.


    He followed the dirt road from the village, parallel to the murmuring brook, its chill waters black under the night sky. The road wound towards the old wrought-iron gate, hanging ajar as if inviting intrusion.


    The road bore fresh scars—deep cartwheel grooves, heavy hoofprints, and the mourner’s scattered steps. All preserved in the frozen earth—a grim record of the tragedy that enshrouded the village.


    Corvus settled on a low branch that creaked beneath his weight. It offered a clear view of the turned earth at the boy’s grave.


    A simple stone marked the site.


    Scattered flowers lay around it—frozen in time, their colors still vivid in death, as though clinging to a life that had not yet slipped away.


    He lingered a moment longer, his sharp eyes combing the shadowed recesses where someone—or something—might lie in wait. These darkened hollows offered refuge to watchers, poised to mark the approach of any who dared slip into the cemetery, whether their purpose was fair or foul.


    All was still—silent, as if the world was holding its breath.


    Corvus waited, unblinking, as cold gusts swept the clouds across the half-moon, deepening the shadows into an impenetrable black.


    Satisfied, Corvus’s low caw signaled to his master that all was clear.


    He watched the shadowed form of a dog slip from the woods, hugging the road’s edge before gliding into the tall grass beyond. Its storm-gray fur melted into the night, twin yellow glints betraying its presence in the hush of shadows.


    The dog was massive for a lupine, its lean frame masking its actual heft as it moved with rangy grace through the night. The wolf-like beast embodied raw power and fluid grace—and though it lacked Corvus’s keen intellect, the creature occasionally revealed flashes of cleverness that even Corvus could not dismiss.


    This was Harrow, his master’s pet—a creature Corvus regarded as friend and nemesis.


    <hr>


    Harrow moved cautiously through the grass, his pads silent on the frost-stiff earth, the whisper of stalks lost in the sighing wind. The air carried the scents of the countryside—crisp and clean, layered with the tang of woodsmoke and dew.


    It was unlike home in every way. The city’s air—thick with smoke, refuse, and the stench of humanity—was an inescapable miasma. The peacefulness of the countryside stood in stark contrast to the city’s clamor: the endless clattering of carriages, the roar of engines, and the whistles that split the air like jagged glass.


    He reached the gate and crept further up the hill.


    A dry leaf crunched beneath his paw, sharp as glass in the faltering stillness. He froze, ears swiveling, breath held, waiting for anything to stir.


    Above, the bird shuffled on a branch, feathers rasping in the silence. Corvus watched with that eternal air of superiority, head cocked in disapproval. Harrow glared back, but the raven clicked and twitched, urging him forward.


    With a defiant huff, he resumed his patrol, stalking through the deeper shadows, weaving between weathered stones, and pausing wherever darkness pooled into hollows.


    All was clear.


    He returned to the gate and sat waiting, ears flicking as he stared down the empty road. Rising, he skulked toward the top of the hill, taking up sentry duty, nudging the raven away with disdain,


    Corvus gave an indignant caw, launching into the air and circling back to the gate to await his master.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    <hr>


    Corvus watched as two figures stepped onto the road, their long coats sweeping around them like shadows deeper than midnight. One was his master; the other, Elsbeth. An unlit lantern swung in her hand as his master’s staff tapped the ground with rhythmic certainty.


    Though their cowls hid their faces, he could make out his master’s wild hair and pale skin beneath.


    They strode steadily forward in silence, the weight of their unspeakable purpose pressing upon their steps. It would be a long night—they must be prepared to act at the third hour. Corvus did not doubt that when the moment came, it would be done.


    As they approached the gate, his master extended her hand, offering Corvus a fresh bramble as a reward. He hopped down, snatching the berry before gliding to perch on her shoulder. Through the cowl’s shadows, he caught her smile and felt pride swell in his chest. Unlike that clumsy dog, he understood the vital importance of precision.


    Nearing the grave, he saw Harrow watching, envy gleaming in his eyes. Corvus spread his wings wide and puffed out his chest—a pointed reminder of who truly held their master’s favor. The dog had his uses, but only for tasks bound to the earth. Brute work. Lesser things.


    Corvus was a finely tuned instrument meant for the delicate, vital tasks that truly mattered.


    When she stopped, he glided to rest on a nearby stone, watching as she removed her cowl and shook free her wild mane—curls of red hair cascading down to veil her face.


    Cordelia Greaves crouched to grasp a handful of dirt, rubbing it between thumb and fingers, eyes locked on the small stone at the head of the plot.


    Dirty but legible, the words cut in stone told a tragedy too cruel for such a young soul.


    ?? Oliver Wright— Born 2 Sept 1855—Tragically taken by his father’s hand on 8 Dec 1861


    She paused, recounting all she knew about that awful night. Too many questions remained unanswered.


    She scattered the remaining dirt back onto the grave, brushing her hands clean.


    Other forces were at play—she could feel it.


    Strange things shrouded in darkness and mystery.


    She hoped the boy could provide answers—a tangible explanation for why the young child lay interred in a plain wooden box, buried in the cold earth beneath this lonely hill.


    <hr>


    Hex gripped the reins with practiced ease, the wheels of the carriage crunching over the gravel road, a rhythmic sound broken only by the occasional clink of harnesses and the low snort of the horses.


    The cold air bit at their exposed faces, but Hex seemed unbothered.


    Percy hunched against the cold, his fingers white-knuckling the overcoat drawn tight across his chest.


    “Do we have to take this road?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wheels.


    “Seems… darker than the other way.”


    Hex shot him a sideways glance, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.


    “It’s the shortest route to Widdershire. Besides, the horses know the way. They’ve made this trip before.”


    Percy’s eyes darted to the shadowy woods lining the road. The trees loomed like watchmen, their gnarled branches twisting toward the sky, black against the faint moonlight.


    “Even so, I wouldn’t mind an extra hour if it meant staying on the main road.”


    Hex chuckled, snapping the reins as the carriage rolled over the uneven road.


    “An extra hour would mean an extra scolding from my sister. You know how Elsbeth gets when she’s annoyed.”


    The thought of Elsbeth in one of her moods was unsettling, but Cordelia was the one that genuinely terrified Percy. Her presence made his hair stand on end, like a cat sensing a prowling dog. And yet, she had the power to twist him into an eager, foolish thing, desperate for her approval.


    “You’re sure we’re just meeting them, right?” Percy asked, leaning closer to Hex. “This isn’t one of their… nights?”


    Hex raised an eyebrow, amused.


    “One of their nights?”


    “You know,’ Percy murmured, glancing at the woods, ‘when they’re doing… things.”


    Hex laughed outright, the sound echoing before fading into the night.


    “You’ve been listening to too much gossip. Cordelia and Elsbeth are special investigators, nothing more.”


    Percy gripped the rail as the carriage lurched into a deep rut, the lantern casting little light beyond their faces and the swaying hindquarters of the horses.


    Once steady again, Percy persisted. "But they''re always mixed up in things. Etheric things. Strange things, like... that bird."


    He pointed upwards, where the dark outline of Corvus circled in the moonlight. The raven gave a sharp caw, and Percy flinched.


    “Corvus is just a bird,” Hex said with a shrug. “He’s handy for keeping watch. Besides, he’s smarter than most people I know.”


    “That’s what worries me,” Percy muttered, pulling his collar higher to shield his face from the biting wind.


    He hesitated before adding, ‘And what about… tonight?’


    Hex’s grip on the reins tightened, though his tone remained light.


    “Tonight is just a job. Same as always. You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”


    Percy opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he sank lower in his seat, muttering.


    Earlier, Percy had helped load the carriage with ropes, shovels, long, thin boards, and various tools—each adding to his growing sense of unease. With Widdershire looming ahead, the unease that had lurked at the edges of Percy’s thoughts took root.


    “Hex… does this have something to do with the case of Henry Wright—the man who murdered his son?”


    “It does,” Hex said, though his gaze lingered on the hill beyond the town.


    “As Wright’s solicitor, Durry asked the girls to do some digging.”


    Edward “Durry” Durham was a friend of the family and a close associate of the girls.


    Though Percy barely knew him, Durry involved the sisters whenever a case took an unusual turn. Their work was always peculiar and strictly confidential. Percy rarely learned the full details, but what little he knew made him grateful to be excluded.


    “Digging,” Percy whispered, a grimace on his face.


    The horses tossed their heads uneasily as Hex slowed the carriage. His grin slipped into something unreadable, his gaze fixed on the mist-shrouded village.


    He extinguished the lantern, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness ahead.


    “Stay sharp,” he said quietly. “We’re almost there.”