Trigger warning for descriptions of violence

The owl could feel it in the air.

A crackling, a thickening. Someone was going to summon his wisdom, soon. It was the way with all owls-even before the request was made, they knew it was there, felt the echoes of the request start to sharpen them, readying them for flight before the fated words rang through their heads, tugging them towards the person or people who had uttered those words.

There was, after all, a reason it was called the wisdom of the owls.

But this owl did not want it. He was tired, tired of the humans and their pesky demands, their so-called more evolved brains that still demanded the wisdom of the owls. They demanded and coveted it, summoning owls wherever and whenever, whether they were simply idle or in the midst of trying to feed their young, whether healthy or sick. They were 'respected' for the wisdom, but not really. Not truly.

When the owls were needed, the humans sniveled and sucked up, and when they didn't, the owls were 'just birds', feathered nuisances, chased out of their trees and pelted with stones. Sneered at, forgotten. This owl knew that better than most. Hated it, more than most, for he was old enough to have seen many things but not old enough to have become resigned to it.

So, why would the owl want such a thing? The truth was, he didn't. All the same, when he felt the anticipation of the call in the air, he straightened, hopped out of his hole and onto the branch it led out onto, raising his wings and then waiting. Waiting.

And then…

"We need the wisdom of the owls."

A young female voice this time, thick and ink-soft, yet inexplicably clear. Even if the owl had decided not to go, he would have not been able to prevent his hoot calling through the air to let the other owl that he was on the way. He would not have been able to stop his raised wings flapping and his claws lifting off of the branch. It was the way of the humans, and their need for the wisdom of the owls. And even though he resented it as he had come to resent it on all the other nights, this time, he didn't try to fight it.

Because this time, he was going to remind the humans just what owls were truly capable of.

…

The owl arrived at the open window of a warm-glowing room, stuffed to the brim with books. Volumes of human wisdom-and yet, even with all this, they still needed an owl. It was laughable, and the owl would soon be able to laugh. For now, he alighted at the window and gave a hoot to the two inhabitants of the room, standing facing each other across a table. Two Novice Scholars, both female. One had her back turned to him, ruby-red hair tumbling down over tensed shoulders while the other young woman was directly facing the window he now sat at. Her blue eyes widened and her mouth curved into a smile.

"He's here, Emer," this other young woman said, her voice marking her out as the one who had done the summoning. "He's here now and he'll settle it, you'll see."

An anger under the thread of her words, as silky-dark as her own hair. It was not something the owl had detected before, and he noted it as interesting, but ultimately unimportant.

The redhead-Emer-turned around and gasped.

"Wow, what a beauty."

Her voice was glittery, sweet. She sounded frivolous, did not look as if she belonged in the Novice Scholar uniform that she wore. She, too, seemed unimportant but the owl watched her carefully all the same, watching and waiting. Looking for his moment to make his mark.

"What a beautiful owl you are, come in, come in."

Weariness stole over Emer's far-too-pretty features as she rubbed her face, and shot a look over at her dark-haired companion.

"Go on then, Cardew, give him your request," Emer shook her head. "We're sorry for bringing you her-"

"No, we're not, Emer," Cardew snapped. "That's what the owls are for, so that we can gain their wisdom. We need to know for sure if these documents mean what they mean. If we are to publish these findings in front of the counsel we could be executed if they decide it is heresy. But if the owls say it is true, then we'll be fine. "

The owl waited, anger rising. Documents indeed. Yes, they could do it, but did they not know what a strain this was, for a creature who could not read the human alphabet. He would bet his best feathers that this Cardew would laugh about how the owls lacked this ability when she went out drinking afterwards. Maybe that silly, sparkly Emer would too, since the meaning of the pained look that she shot her dark haired companion was all too obvious. Not that the owl had any compassion for this. If anything, it would make his statement sink deeper.

The only question was, who to attack?

"Cardew…."

Emer paused, rubbed her face again, though it did nothing to smooth out the frown creasing her face or dry the wetness that had appeared over her eyes.

"Cardew, please. We don't need the owl yet, surely? It's too soon, and we have not finished our research. Can't we get Mentor Kenzo to look on it?"

"Mentor Kenzo? But then it'll be too late!" Cardew threw up her arms. "You know that, I keep saying that!"

And indeed, both their words had that particular exhaustion to them, sounding worn out and rubbed out like a carving that had been smoothed out, an eroded rock face. And yet Emer was wide-eyed and pleading and Cardew's cheeks pinked periodically. The owl decided to watch as they continued going around in circles and circles over their puny, ridiculous dilemma, their world shrinking to the two of them. Gradually, it became clear that they had all but forgotten him, despite the crux of their argument having been all about him and in the end he decided just to do it.

He puffed up his feathers, summoned all the power that normally lent itself to the wisdom that the owls were supposed to be famed for, and let out a long hoot to silence everything.

The two Novice Scholars looked over at the owl. Emer, who had just reached for Cardew's hand, let go, stumbling back.

"Oh, I'm so-"

She was cut off as with a flap of his wings, the owl put out the lamps. Then, before either girl could scream, he lunged.

…

Since of course he could see just fine, it was easy enough to aim for Cardew, to knock her to the ground, use his beak to pull away her required weapons from their sheaths and fling them away, even as she swore and fought. He gouged out a track in her abdomen, to make her double over and then went to do the same for Emer. But because she cried and sniveled instead, curling into a ball and practically let him steal from her, he decided instead to just pull at her hair a little and leave her be. The focus of his attack would be Cardew. Arrogant, dark Cardew, the one who had insisted on summoning him.

He expected that someone like Emer would either continue snivelling, or would run to get help. In a Learned Establishment such as this, at this time of the night, it would take her too long to find someone. By that time, he would have finished with Cardew, and her fate would clearly spell out the cost of treating owls like him so trivially. It was the way of the world, and the way of such girls like Emer. Someone like her had no buisness going through the training stages of being a Scholar, and so he had no real need to hurt her directly. Just Cardew, who clearly believed in her own brilliance, whom Emer would piteously cry over when it was all over, guaranteeing his cautionary message spread.

So, he focused on Cardew.

He bit, and clawed, and scratched, and pulled apart, pretending that she was little more than another meal. Exposing muscle and bone, shredding the skin that humans (and no doubt, Emer in particular) considered pretty. Pulling out the long dark hair and marring that face, soaking her in blood. He left the eyes, though he could have easily gouged those out too. He wanted that bright blue to watch him, to witness her own demise and realise it. So as he continued his attack, aiming a new blow on whichever arm or leg she used to try and fight back in addition to ever blow that he was inflicting anyway. When she attempted a Novice spell, he ripped out her tongue.

And gradually, she weakened. Soon, he realised, he would be able to finish and leave, blood-stained and glorious, bringing a new respect for his kind with him. He was almost done, almost-

Pain exploded in his side.

He hooted, a strangled noise, and hooted again. Whatever had just stabbed him was pulled out, and then stabbed in again, and again, and again. It did not slide in easily, seeming to catch against his bones and muscles and feathers each time, and he groaned. He lost his grip against Cardew's arm, his vision blurred, and then suddenly a pair of hands gripped him. With a cry, and gasps as initially he slid, the hands gripped him and pulled him off Cardew properly, and then threw him off.

Then, the owner of the hands leaned over him, weapon clasped in both hands, breathing heavily. And at that moment, light burst into the room, along with a flurry of noise. But even if that light hadn't been in there, the owl would have been able to see who had bested him.

Emer.

Sugary, weak, delicate Emer, her hair more of a mess and her face soaked with tears and creased now with fear. Her breathing was raspy, and the weapon she held was now almost completely soaked with blood. Indeed, it looked like a Blood Tube, that weapon so coveted by Dark Warriors, for how red it was. But this was no Blood Tube, and Emer was not just a little weakling, but a Novice Scholar.

No, what she was holding was wholly unexpected.

It was a pen.

The owl hooted again, tried to meet her eyes-he knew the colour, of course, but had not thought it important-but felt his strength start to wane. And then Emer let out a cry and sunk the pen in his chest, causing yet another new pain to spark and flower, blooming across him, leaking the slippery dusk of ink into his blood.

At that moment, others arrived, pulled him away from him. He barely paid attention to them, only used the last of his strength to watch the girl spring up and rush over to Cardew, kneeling over her battered form, grabbing her hand again and this time holding on as yet more others worked on her, the atmosphere around her thick with healing spells while a doctor worked with more practical tools of healing in tandem. He watched Cardew's intelligent eyes-still with life in them-meet Emer's, an apology glowing within them.

The owl wanted to hoot with indignation, rise up again and then gouge the eyes and brains out of the pair of them. But even without the others and their spells now holding him down, speeding up his death process, he knew he couldn't.

Not with Emer's pen deep within his chest.