Long ago, in a time when the Earth was young and the sky was ever-stretching, there was a crow who did not caw or fly for the sake of mere flight. His wings, dark as night, had a purpose, and his eyes glimmered with wisdom from the worlds unseen.
One day, as the people gathered around the fire, fearful of the coming winter, the crow watched from the treetops. The winds had grown cold, and the shadows of the mountains seemed deeper. But the crow did not fear the night. Instead, he listened.
“The flame is fading,” the Earth whispered.
With a single, sharp cry, the crow flew from the trees. His talons gripped a branch, and in his beak, he carried a single ember—small, yet powerful.
The people watched in silence as the crow soared across the sky, flying with purpose. The flames of his journey flickered as he passed, lighting the way. When he landed, the embers he carried grew into a fire, warm and strong, the heart of life returned to the people.
From that day on, the crow was known as the bringer of light in the darkest times. Not by force, but by carrying the flame of hope, the flame that never dies.
Now, when the sky is quiet and the people look to the stars, they remember the crow who flew for the fire—not for himself, but for all who walk in the dark.
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