No one knew when the war had started. It seemed to have always been. It was a stream of constant battles between the vampires and werewolves. No one could really say when or how the initial conflict began, but an eye for an eye was a proverb both sides followed almost religiously. Authorities had been called countless times to break up the riots. They stopped coming.
The crows and ravens were the messengers of violence. The smart folk knew to stay away from where they flocked; the clever ones bribed them with food for safe passage. The birds took no sides. They only served whoever best served their desires. They watched. And they waited.
The vampires trusted the ravens. The werewolves knew they could count on the crows.
Until one day they couldn’t.
The day she came.
Whispers spread ear to ear. Rumours. Who was she? Where did she come from? Why this school? She was one of the fae. A siren. An elf. A witch. Something else entirely.
Watching her glide by, her feet hidden beneath the hem of her skirts that trailed behind her, made everyone fall silent. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, her hair gold and ethereal, shining even beneath her hood. When she’d passed, everyone blinked a fog out of their eyes and wondered if she’d been real.
The birds flocked to her, an ominous murder foretelling some doom.
All the fighting stopped when she entered the fray. She always walked into the crowd boldly, and it parted before her footsteps like a mist. All breath was stolen from their lungs. Every head turned to watch her pass. When she was gone, they dropped their arms and walked back to whence they came.
All was silent.
The vampires and the werewolves, once bitter enemies, huddled together in fear of her. They cowered whenever a black shape soared over them and spoke only in hushed tones.
One night, when the moon was full and the wind was still, they gathered in the courtyard to confront her. She stood in the centre, head bowed and smiling as though she’d known all along they would be coming.
All the fire in their eyes went out, replaced by a sheer terror whipped up by the sudden gale that whipped around them.
She may have said something. She may have not said a word. All they knew was that she lifted her arms, calling the black birds to her on the wind. When they surrounded her, a whirlwind of nearly impenetrable darkness, she let out a cry.
And she was gone.
No one knows when the war stopped, or when the carrion birds ceased to flock here. In a single night, both were gone, replaced by a fog of memory long gone.