Onish had signed away all his pretty feathers, surrendering not out of will, but exhaustion. His frantic flights had drained him of energy, leaving him a crumpled, feathered husk in the cage. Hunger gnawed at his insides, thirst burned his throat, and despair clouded his thoughts. He had only held on this long because of the will to survive—a will that now flickered like a dying ember.
The hooded captor strode through the deserted streets, occasionally stopping to exchange brief words with patrolling guards who seemed hurried and restless. Onish, too weak to protest, observed from his prison of iron bars. After what felt like an eternity, the figure halted before a towering castle. Its marble stairs gleamed under the moonlight as the captor rummaged through his cloak, eventually producing a black coin.
The coin slid into the mouth of a brass lion-head knocker. The metal wriggled unnaturally, and moments later, a face materialized where the knocker had been. A deep scar ran from the man's left cheek to his forehead, and his hawk-like eyes scrutinized the hooded figure before turning to the caged bird. A frown creased his weathered face.
"Was it not Oman's command to bring back the spirit bird causing havoc in the city?" the scarred face rasped, his voice hoarse and grating.
"Yes, Sire Amora," the hooded man replied humbly, bowing his head. "This humble fowler has captured the culprit, delivered for judgment."
Amora's scrutinizing gaze lingered on Onish. "Are you certain this roasted chicken is the same bird that disrupted the spirit-navel?"
"Without a doubt, Sire," the fowler affirmed.
"Very well," Amora grunted. The brass knocker reverted to its original form as the massive gates swung open, creaking ominously.
Inside, the great hall was illuminated by hundreds of moon-pearls, their soft glow casting a silvery sheen on the polished floor. Cushioned chairs lined the room on either side, but all were empty. At the far end stood a grand throne, imposing and lonely.
"Wait here. Oman will come soon," Amora's voice echoed, seemingly from the very walls.
The fowler occupied himself with admiring the murals on the high walls, while Onish brooded in his cage. The aura of the scarred knocker-face still unsettled him, its faint whisper of discarded souls gnawed at his unease. Yet no one seemed to recognize his true identity—a fact that gave him small, fragile solace.
The silence was soon broken by approaching voices from a side corridor.
"...So, there's no hope left?" one voice asked, tinged with despair.
"None, my lord. I warned you. The spirit-navel—once damaged—cannot be repaired," another voice replied gravely.
A pause, heavy and somber, followed.
"How much time does he have?"
"Two, maybe three hours at most," the second voice admitted.
Footsteps shuffled closer, and a man entered the hall. Clad in a rich silk surcoat, his face bore the weight of sleepless nights and a heavy heart.
"Lord, I have captured the culprit bird," the fowler declared, saluting.
The man, Oman, seemed momentarily distracted before his sharp gaze fell on the cage. He approached, tapping the bars, which clicked open. Gently, he ran his fingers over Onish's ruffled feathers. The parrot remained still, suppressing every instinct to flinch. Oman's touch was probing, almost unnervingly so.
"Are you certain this bird is the culprit, Bhadra?" Oman's voice was calm but carried an edge of doubt. "It doesn't seem like a spirit bird."
"This servant is sure, my lord. The bird attacked the house-anima, and the cage would not have caught it otherwise," the fowler explained.
Oman's sharp eyes lingered on the parrot's own dark gaze, which met his unflinchingly. Something about the bird intrigued him. It wasn't fear he saw, but an unsettling, almost human intelligence.
"Leave the bird and forget what you've overheard," Oman instructed. "You are dismissed."
Bhadra bowed low and departed. Oman picked up the cage and carried it through a maze of corridors until he arrived at a dimly lit chamber. As he entered, Onish was overwhelmed by an oppressive aura of death—an energy so intense it prickled his every feather.
Inside were three figures: a sobbing woman in a corner, a young girl Onish recognized from the bird tower, and an elderly man dressed entirely in white. Despite the palpable aura, none of them seemed like harbingers of death. The woman, Padma, wept inconsolably. Oman knelt beside her, his voice low and tender.
"Padma, you must pull yourself together. We always knew this time would come," he murmured. "The spirit-navel merely delayed the inevitable."
Padma clutched at his hand, her grief spilling over. "But I had hoped… even a little… that he might recover."
Oman sighed, his face a map of weariness and sorrow. For years, they had clung to the slender thread of hope that their son might be saved. But as he gazed at the pale boy lying motionless on the bed, he knew that thread had finally snapped.
Yet, a shadow of suspicion lingered in his mind. Too many strange events had converged recently: Ronan's disappearance, the mysterious illness afflicting his son, the damage to the spirit-navel, and now this peculiar parrot. His warrior's instincts—honed over decades—told him these weren't coincidences.
Oman rose, determination hardening his features. He turned to the cage.
"You're no ordinary bird," he murmured, his voice low but resolute. "And I will uncover the truth, no matter the cost."