When Sa-at woke again, it was still dark, Crowflies still sat on his feet, and a second Birdkin had arrived. It too had black feathers though its beak was grey rather than white.

‘Hello. I’m Sa-at. Are you a friend of Crowflies?’ It shrieked at him in reply, and he nodded. ‘Thought so. I don’t have any food, but you can shelter here if you want.’

A third Birdkin arrived, pushing through the leaves to stand next to the second one. Then three more came, all of the same stock.

Crowflies got off Sa-at’s feet and hopped onto a nearby branch.

He had the feeling that something was about to happen, there was a sense of familiarity about it, the way the nerves and excitement jangled together in his tummy. A seventh Birdkin settled inches from his head, an eighth, next to Crowflies; who he noticed was standing differently from normal.

There was a uniformity about the Birdkin, and the more of them that arrived, the more alike they became in demeanour. The soft dark of the tree began to change, began to breathe, becoming a thing of its own. And within that feathered dark, a head emerged. Not a human head, but a thing much like it in shape. Its eyes were large, multifaceted orbs, it’s nose a sharp triangle, the other features lost to the shadows. It pressed itself gently upon Sa-at so that their foreheads touched. There was a gentleness in the gesture, quieting but not quite dispelling his fear.

It spoke, and its voice issued soft from the assembled beaks, making the branch hum against his back.

‘So the seed has become a stripling.’

At the sound of its voice, Sa-at remembered:

It is Murderkind.

Its name is Murderkind.

‘Still quick. Good, this is good. I have need of quickness.’

‘I know you. Are you my friend?’

‘A blood-bound friend am I, and a greater friend you’ll never have.’

Sa-at smiled at that, he liked the idea of having a great friend, it made him feel special. ‘Did you come because I was lonely?’

‘I came to grant your wish, and you came to grant mine.’

Sa-at wanted to help but he was no fool. Though he knew Murderkind meant him no harm, knew it deep in his bones, he had grown up in the Wild and had learned not to agree to anything hastily. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘There is a changing of the tides, a shifting of the powers. I wish to know what it means. Many demons flock to the Scuttling Corpseman’s banner, many dance to its tune. This, I know. It is not right. This, I know. How the tune plays out, I know not.’

‘You want me to talk to it?’