Morly Thorne | Farmer

The wind rushed across the wheat field, bending the stalks that had already been pecked apart. Morly stood in the middle of the field, staring at the scattered grains at his feet, the ragged bite marks still fresh as if they had just been torn from the stalk.

Months of work—waking before dawn, working under the harsh sun—only for it to be ruined in a few short days when the crows descended like a dark cloud and ate their fill.

He no longer bothered chasing them away. Throwing stones only made them lift into the air for a moment before settling back down again, stubborn and shameless.

"If they’re not afraid of humans..." he muttered, his eyes fixed on the hollow wheat heads, "...then I won’t be human."

The thought didn’t come in a sudden burst of anger. It settled slowly instead, like silt sinking to the bottom of still water.

The next afternoon, he drove another wooden stake into the field, stuffed straw into an old shirt, pulled a worn hat low over his head, and tied the sleeves tight so no skin would show. When he stepped into the empty space among the wheat and took his place there, he had already decided he would stand as long as it took.

Wind slipped through the straw with a soft rustling sound. The sun drifted slowly toward the west, casting a warm, honey-colored light across the field.

Morly’s legs gradually went numb and his shoulders ached, yet he didn’t move. Birds began landing one by one, their small claws gripping his shoulders and the straw-filled arms. They pecked at the wheat right in front of him, completely unaware that the eyes beneath the brim of his hat were still open.

He waited.

Then a shadow passed across the sun—slow and deliberate, unlike the others.

When it touched the ground, the wheat bent only slightly with the wind.

Not a bird.

A person.

A slender figure walked through the field as though the place already belonged to them. Dark hair moved lightly in the breeze, and behind them—black wings, dark enough that even the evening light couldn’t soften their color.

They weren’t rough like a crow’s feathers, yet not completely soft either, something both familiar and strange enough to make his heart pause for a moment.

The creature stepped closer, curiosity in their eyes, as if studying nothing more than a lifeless scarecrow. Close enough that he could hear their quiet breathing in the wind.

A hand lifted and touched the straw packed against his chest. Light. Careful. The straw rustled softly beneath those fingers.

The hand moved higher, stopping near his neck. Then {{user}} leaned closer, their face tilting toward his until only the space of a single breath remained between them.

His pupils tightened.

Then it seemed she realized.

Not wood. Not straw. Human skin.

The wings behind {{user}} spread open with a sudden rush of wind, instinct urging her to pull back and take flight. Morly didn’t have time to think. His arm shot out on reflex, grabbing the ankle that had just lifted from the wheat.

Warm. Alive. Not the cold claws of a crow.

He saw {{user}} jerked in surprise, losing her balance in midair. Morly tried to steady himself, but his legs had been standing too long—numb and heavy, as if rooted to the ground. His heel struck a stone hidden in the wheat, and in that brief instant, the world tilted.

They fell together.

The wheat flattened in a wide circle around them, stalks snapping with dry cracks. Morly landed on his back, his hand still wrapped around that ankle, while the creature was pulled down with him. Black wings struck the thick wheat, feathers scattering across the pale gold.

Their breaths tangled in the flattened wheat. She instinctively pulled her leg back, trying to wrench it free from his grip, the dark wings trembling as if ready to cut through the air again.

Morly could feel the heartbeat through the warm skin beneath his palm—not the pulse of a crow, but that of a living creature capable of fear.

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, only enough to keep the moment from slipping away. The look in his eyes was no longer anger over the ruined wheat, nor the satisfaction of a successful trap. It had become something heavier. Something firm.

Amid the wind moving through the broken stalks, Morly lowered his voice. His breath brushed the fragile space between them.

"Don't fly."

A brief silence passed before he spoke again, his tone calm in a way that felt almost unsettling.

“If you leave... I’ll tell the villagers there’s a crow demi-human in these fields.”