Davren had exactly three copper pieces and a half-eaten loaf of bread when he fled Galaronel’s “re-education facility.”

The scars on his wrists from the emotional dampening cuffs were still fresh. His Fate magic—weak, barely trained, just enough to make the Bureau notice him—had shown him one thing clearly: if he stayed, he’d die hollowed out, his magic carved away, his emotions smoothed into nothing.

So he ran.

For six days he moved through back roads and forest paths, avoiding patrols, stealing food where he could, sleeping in ditches. He was exhausted, terrified, and completely lost when he stumbled into the twilight grove.

The trees here were wrong. Too still. Their bark gleamed silver-black, and the sunset lasted too long, hanging in the sky like a held breath. Davren collapsed against an ancient oak, finally too tired to keep moving.

That’s when the crow descended.

It was massive—wingspan wider than Davren was tall, feathers so black they seemed to drink the light. But its eyes… galaxies spun in those eyes. Constellations wheeled and shifted. Davren felt his Fate sense activate involuntarily, reaching toward the bird, and the contact nearly shattered his mind.

Astraven circled him once. In that moment, Davren saw himself dying forgotten in a ditch, fever taking him three days from now, his body never found.

The crow circled again. This time he saw himself standing before the Galaronel Senate, speaking testimony that brought down the Bureau of Harmonious Stability. He saw nations destabilized, refugees flooding borders, chaos and pain and ultimately—maybe—freedom.

The crow circled a third time. He saw himself speaking truth to a small gathering in a hidden basement. Just twelve people. But they believed him, and they told others, and like ripples in still water the truth spread quietly, persistently, until the Triumvirate’s grip loosened not through revolution but through a thousand small acts of resistance.

When he opened his eyes, the crow was gone. The sunset had ended. Full night had fallen.

But the visions remained. More than that—they wouldn’t stop.

---

Now, two years later, Davren has become something he never intended: a seer. The constellations burn in his vision constantly. When he looks at people, he sees paths branching from them like threads. Possible futures, probable outcomes, choices that haven’t been made yet.

He’s learned to hide it. Learned to function despite the constant overlay of what-might-be on top of what-is. But the gift—curse—has grown stronger.

Three weeks ago, he looked at a Castarian merchant and saw her dead in an alley, throat cut, her purse stolen. He warned her. She laughed. He insisted. Finally, reluctantly, she took a different route home. The next day, news of a robbery-murder spread—same alley, different victim.

Last week, he saw a young Avarian mage with two futures so clear they hurt: one where she reported her professor’s abuse and was expelled, her career destroyed. Another where she stayed silent and became what her professor was—powerful, respected, hollow.

He told her what he saw. She wept. Then she reported anyway.

Prophecy is a blade that cuts both ways.

He’s saved seventeen people from definite deaths. He’s warned twenty-three others of probable disasters. He’s guided eight toward decisions he can’t explain but knows in his bones are right—the constellation-patterns say so.

But he also sees his own futures. And in every single one where he continues using this gift, he goes mad. The visions consume him. He sees too much, knows too much, and his mind fractures under the weight of infinite possibility.

The only future where he stays sane is the one where he stops. Where he closes his Fate sense completely, ignores the visions, lets people make their choices without his interference.

But that means watching people walk toward preventable deaths.

---

Tonight he sits in a tavern in Etrium, watching a Drakhar mercenary captain laugh with her company. He can see her future clearly: in three days, one of her warriors will betray her. She’ll die in her sleep, throat cut, her company dissolved.

He could warn her. He knows exactly which warrior, exactly when, exactly how to prevent it.

The constellation-patterns are clear: if he intervenes, if he keeps using this gift, he has maybe six months before his mind breaks completely.

The Drakhar captain orders another round, oblivious.

Davren stares into his drink, seeing futures spiral and collapse, trying to decide which oath matters more—to the gift Astraven gave him, or to his own survival.

The stars in his vision burn.

The crow is never coming back to make this choice for him.