In the canyonlands of the Red Silence, where the wind carved stone into screaming faces and the sun set the cliffs ablaze each dusk, hunters told stories of the hawk that flew backwards.
They called it "Chronos" —a rust-colored peregrine with feathers that grew sharper the closer you looked, until they seemed less like plumage and more like a thousand tiny knives slicing the air. Its shadow moved independently, always three wingbeats ahead or behind, never matching its body.
But the true horror lay in its hunting cry.
When Chronos shrieked, time stuttered .
— Arrows would freeze mid-flight, then shatter like glass
— Campfires burned without consuming their wood
— Wounds took days to bleed, though the injury just happened
The canyon nomads left offerings of obsidian blades and hourglass sand at the base of its nesting cliff. They knew better than to hunt when its shadow passed over.
