Guha weaved through the bustling market, the cacophony of chatter and vibrant festivities fading into a dull hum in his ears. His thoughts were consumed by a singular, unnerving question: if his Niro was truly dead, then who—or what—was perched on his shoulder?
A potoo? The possibility sent a shiver coursing down his spine. Guha remembered the lessons from the Spirit Academy of Minaak, where he had first learned of the elusive and dangerous spirit birds. Theories about potoos varied widely. Some claimed they were lingering consciousnesses of deceased spirit birds; others believed them to be parasitic entities that could inhabit any dead bird's body. What was universally agreed upon, however, was their danger. A potoo was not something a mere Academy pass-out like him could hope to handle. They were capricious, capable of ending lives in ways that defied explanation. Only trained falconers, spiritualists, or seasoned yoddhas (warriors) dared to approach them.
But the other possibility—the one Guha couldn't bring himself to articulate—was far more terrifying.
"Mom… I need to get to Mom," he muttered under his breath, quickening his pace. He didn't dare look at the parrot now, though the bird, perched innocently, turned its head to marvel at the bright market square. The city of Minaak was heavily fortified, its spiritual barriers impenetrable to most. Yet this creature—whatever it was—had made its way inside. That thought alone unsettled Guha deeply.
As he crossed the square, the lure of fire-dancers and the melodic ballads of Suka the bard faded into irrelevance. The alley to his home loomed ahead, its familiar 30-foot width framed by rows of quiet houses. But the moment Guha stepped into the shadowed lane, a sharp unease prickled his senses. The air felt taut, as though holding its breath. Someone was watching him.
Guha's training as a spirit handler might have been rudimentary, but his spiritual instincts were sharp. He didn't slow down or glance over his shoulder. Instead, he began circulating his spirit energy through his nadis, heightening his awareness. The subtle murmurs of the breeze, the rustling leaves, and the faint market sounds painted a vivid soundscape in his mind.
Then it came: a sound—sharp and deliberate—cutting through the ambient noise. Before Guha could react, the parrot screeched and took flight. A spear of condensed blue spirit energy hurtled toward him. Guha barely managed to form a shield in time, deflecting the weapon upward. The force sent him sprawling onto the cobblestones, his heart hammering.
Rising swiftly, Guha faced his assailant: a hooded figure wielding a faintly glowing blue blade. The weapon's hue marked the attacker as an apprentice of the Assassin's Guild. Guha had heard the grim tales about them but never imagined he would face one himself.
The assassin didn't hesitate, vanishing into thin air. Guha knew it was spirit-fueled camouflage, not true disappearance. The figure was still there, waiting for the opportune moment to strike again. Guha's mind raced. He lacked the combat training to match an assassin's skill, and without Niro, his options were limited.
The faint ripple of spirit energy reached him. Another figure blocked the path to his home, this one accompanied by a small bird fluttering overhead. Guha recognized the distinctive ripple of a Sona bird. An apprentice falconer. His suspicions were confirmed—Kruma had finally made his move. The treacherous falconer had allied with the assassins, and that meant his mother was in grave danger.
Guha scanned his surroundings. The air felt oppressive, the houses and trees eerily silent. Even the mortal birds seemed to feign sleep, their nests unnaturally still. His father's teachings surfaced in his mind, along with a reckless plan. It wasn't strategy; it was desperation.
"Forgive me," he whispered to no one in particular, dissolving his protective shield. Guha took a deep breath, his lips moving in an incantation he'd read in his father's forbidden diary. The words carried his consciousness outward, a surge of energy draining from his body like a flood breaking through a dam. Pain lanced through his skull as he reached the faintly glowing dots scattered among the nearby trees.
Mortal birds. Their feeble consciousnesses stirred under his influence, and with a final, agonizing effort, Guha pulled them toward him. The birds erupted from their nests, shrieking and diving at the hidden assassin. The hooded figure swatted at the frenzied flock, his camouflage breaking under the relentless attack.
Guha's vision blurred with pain, blood trickling from his eyes. He didn't waste the opportunity. Summoning the last of his spirit energy, he propelled himself toward his home. His legs wobbled with exhaustion, but he pressed on. He was almost there when the strength in his limbs failed him. He collapsed onto the street, unconscious, as the distant cries of birds were silenced.
Above the city, Onish flapped his weary wings, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The chase had dragged on for hours, the relentless bluebird just inches behind him. If not for the strange spiritual shields around Minaak's structures, he would have been caught long ago. Yet those shields were unreliable, offering temporary sanctuary before ejecting him back into the open air.
"Damn it," Onish cursed inwardly. He longed for the quiet, carefree lives of the mortal birds he'd seen sleeping peacefully in their nests. But peace wasn't an option. Not with this cursed body. And certainly not with that shadow lingering in his memories.
Spotting a towering castle, Onish dove toward it. The shield rippled as he passed through, granting him a brief reprieve. He perched atop a gargoyle, chest heaving. The bluebird hovered outside the shield, waiting. This game couldn't last much longer.
Onish's thoughts wandered to Guha. The boy had saved him once, a debt he hadn't repaid. Perhaps… perhaps he should have stayed.
But there was no time for regret. The shield's energy began to churn, signaling his imminent expulsion. With a resigned sigh, Onish launched himself into the night. The bluebird dove after him immediately, claws gleaming. A sharp pain tore through his side as metallic talons ripped feathers from his wing.
Onish's frantic flight carried him into a deserted street, but something felt wrong. The bluebird had stopped its pursuit. His instincts screamed too late. A hooded figure materialized ahead, hands weaving an intricate mudra. A sudden pull yanked Onish from the air, slamming him into a glowing yellow cage.
He squawked and flailed, but the bars burned with every touch. The hooded man approached, peering at him with mild interest. "A parrot? Just a mortal bird?" the man muttered, puzzled. "How did you even get past the shields?"
Onish glared through the bars, his mind racing. The man shook his head. "No matter. Oman will be pleased. Perhaps this oddity will cool his temper." With that, the cage swung in the man's grip as he strode away, the parrot's resistance futile.