Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1)

what I’m looking for. A male figure cloaked in black ambles through the crowd in the Reaper’s wake. His robes are unmistakable. Whereas the Councilspirits wear red cloaks and the Reapers, red tunics, black cloaks belong to the members of Veltuur who reside between the Councilspirits and the Reapers, the title I desire.
This Reaper is being tailed by a Shade.
Subconsciously, I straighten, not too dissimilar to how I’ve seen mortals straighten in the presence of guards. The Shades are our watchers, the enforcers of the rules and ways of the realm of the dead. Despite being exactly where I should be, following my orders without a fault, finding myself in the presence of a Shade puts me on edge on any day, but especially today. Today I can’t afford for anything to go wrong.
I put myself in the Shade’s path, preparing to bow deeply as he passes to express my gratitude for his work, and desperate to be seen and deemed worthy by one of my future colleagues.
Where the sun hits his flesh, I see the blue veins beneath nearly translucent skin. He tilts his head up at me as he walks by, revealing two black eyes framed by hair as golden as the bread baking just a few roads back. But once his eyes catch the light, I see the red that dazzles deep within them like deep chasms of blood.
Many of the Shades are unknown to me because they work separate from the Reapers, but this one I recognize. His name is Nerul, and not too long ago, he was also a Reaper.
Until his ascension as a Shade a few moons ago.
Before I can move out of his path, Nerul knocks a firm shoulder into mine. “Watch it, Reaper,” he snarls, looking at me with such vehemence that it’s hard to believe we once knew each other at all, let alone that we belong on the same side, serving Veltuur.
The force sends me stumbling back into the carcass of some animal—likely a hog, judging by the size—and I watch speechless as Nerul continues to follow the other Reaper.
I stare at the back of their bobbing heads until they disappear around a corner. Sure, somewhere in the back of my mind there might be an ounce of sympathy for the Reaper and the fate he might be facing soon—having the Council send a Shade after him is not a good thing—and I can even admit that part of me churns at Nerul’s dismissal of me, as if I was no more than a pesky gnat hovering near his food. But mostly, as I watch them vanish from sight, I find myself daydreaming about my own ascension. Soon, Nerul won’t be the only one with prestige. After today, we will be equals once more.
The reminder that today is my last day as a Reaper is like a burst of warmth in my cold veins.
I steady the swaying carcass and signal overhead. “C’mon, Crow. No more wasting time.”
Crow swoops down from the sky to soar beside me as we enter the front door of the meat market together.
If the stench of flesh was pungent from the outside, it’s even more rancid baking beneath the tin roof of this stifling stall. The stacked displays of meat cuts leave little room for anything other than standing in the center of the small enclosure, while we wait to be greeted.
The woman inside stops fidgeting with one of the few slabs of raw meat and stands to face us with a smile that falls the instant she sees my rune-less forehead and the crow sitting like a scavenger on the counter before her.
Her plump cheeks, already pink from exertion and heat, falsely brighten further at our entrance.
“Well, hello, f-friend,” she says, the word sticking to her lips like a horse rearing away from the edge of a cliff. “Glad you could come.”
Her grin widens, likely hoping I don’t notice how it’s edged with fear and disdain. I do though. I always do. No matter how hard some of the mortals try to conceal their true feelings about us, there are others that wear their abhorrence like armor, and it speaks loudly enough for the whole.
“Th-this way,” she stammers again. “We got them out back.”
Before she turns around, I see the markings on her forehead: the star of birth; the teardrops of fear that frame it; the three dots forming a path beneath it that signify her proficiency in speech; and lastly, the symmetrical lines above either eye that mark her experience with heartbreak. Her runes are as light as peaches, almost seeming to glow from her mahogany skin.
Crow stretches its wings and launches off the counter, only with no room to fly, it lands shortly after on my shoulder and together we follow the woman.
She leads us outside, through a simple wooden door that opens into a small pasture—if that’s what you can call it. There’s a trough, a bale of hay, and a corral barely big enough to fit two cows. Instead of bovine though, its crammed with four hogs and a single crate that’s so stuffed with chickens that their wings jut from every opening in the twisted wire.
Seeing all of her livestock makes me realize that when she guided us out here, she had said them not just it.
“The contract is for one pig,” I say flatly, making my way to the fence.
The pigs squeal at my presence, but the space is too confining for them to put more distance between us, sending each of them into a greater frenzy. I inspect them briefly, letting my gaze fall over the rear, the belly, and the shoulder of each one. One of them squirms more than the others, rearing and thrashing with every step I take. I feel the pull between us and recognize instantly that it is the one I’ve been sent to kill.
“B-but we need more meat. I’ll hardly have enough loin and ham from just one sow. My customers will