At night, I come alive. My talons, sharpened on rough bark, curl into the arms of the yew tree as if we were one. The leaves brush my head, but I don’t shiver. My eyes are trained on the prey below me: two morsels of meat crawling across the forest floor. My home is filled with such delicacies, and tonight I’ll catch a few for myself. All mine. They don’t even know I can see them. I wonder sometimes if in their cozy, underground homes, they whisper to each other of the legend of the Night Terror, sweeping down like hail and grasping their children in rough claws to be consumed.

Only, I’m not a legend: I’m real, feathered, living and breathing chaos. And tonight, I hunt.