Dawn rose wrong.
The first light came filtered through wings—hundreds of ravens in strict squares, wheeling like letters on a printing press. Their feathers flashed with a silver sheen that made the sky look freshly inked. Beneath them, the fields lay waiting: ditches, thorn ropes, ash circles, and a hundred frightened lungs learning discipline.
The Reviser reached the far ridge as the sun cleared it. Gray coat straight, hair neat, quill poised. He didn’t raise his voice. He wrote.
BEGIN.
The sky obeyed.
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Ravens of Script
The foremost flock folded into glyphs mid-flight—shapes that had once been birds, now strokes and hooks that slashed down the field. Where a glyph brushed a fencepost, the wood smoothed. Where it kissed a patch of wheat, the stalks forgot they had heads.
“Shiel
