Deep in the ancient forest, where the branches of century-old oaks wove themselves into the vault of the sky, there was a kingdom of owls. The older ones, with feathers silvered by time, ruled from the heights of wisdom, while the younger ones, the owlings, with down like moonlight, frolicked below, unaware of the weight of the ages. But the balance was deceptive.

The elder owls, once guardians of knowledge, were immersed in dark wisdom - secret rituals where truth mingled with shadow. They scratched runes into bark, drank elixirs from fern tears, whispered with night spirits, losing clarity. The forest began to wither: rivers slowed, flowers closed their buds, and stars were afraid to look into the thicket. The owlings, however, with their clear eyes, saw the point: the elders were tangled in a web of their own doubts. “They have forgotten how to ‘see’,” saddened the boldest of the fledglings, whose eyes shone like two untainted crystals.

One day the owlings flew into a cave where the elders were conducting ceremonies. The air was thick with the smoke of rotting scrolls, and the walls were covered with hieroglyphics that “moved” like worms. “You are ruining the forest!” the tiny owling shouted, but the elder owl, Owldaddy, only laughed hoarsely, “Wisdom requires sacrifice.” Then the owlings decided to teach them .... “NOT wisdom.”

They danced at dawn when the elders hid from the sun, sang without words, and round dances with fireflies. A tiny owling brought a drop of dew in his beak and dropped it on a withered scroll: “Truth is not in complexity, but in simplicity”. The owlings showed how to rejoice in the first snow without thinking about its melting, how to listen to the wind without looking for messages in it. Gradually the elders began to throw off their shackles: Owdaddy laughed for the first time in centuries when he saw another little owling somersaulting through the air.

The forest was coming to life. But as the last shadows seemed to dissipate, the little owling spotted “him” - an owling with feathers the color of darkness, whose single eye burned with scarlet light while the other was hidden behind a bandage. The stranger watched from the thicket, not joining in the games. “Who are you?” - The little owling asked. “One who remembers...” - whispered the dark chick, dissolving into thin air. The fledgling felt an icy prick in his heart. Perhaps not all owlings chose the light. Or perhaps the darkness only feigned innocence to infiltrate the nest itself.....

The Dark Owling left a single mark on the ground - a charred feather with a barely visible symbol: a sword with a scarlet eye on the blade...

Oops I did it again

3 owlings left

30 min left

Nice avatar 👀