Crow of Valemire

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Rain clings to the rooftops of Valemire like regret — thin, cold, unending. Below, the city groans in its sleep, half-alive under the hum of dying neon. Cathedral spires cut the fog like black knives, and the moon hides behind clouds thick as ash. Perched upon the highest ruin of the Prince’s court, a lone crow watches. Its feathers glisten with oil and shadow, each movement whispering against the wind like a curse. Its eyes — molten amber, reflecting blood and flame — sweep across the fractured skyline. Down below, Kindred gather in silence. The Ventrue whisper in penthouse towers, trembling behind silk and glass. The Brujah set fires in the old docks, howling revolution into the smoke. The Nosferatu move beneath the streets, trading names like blades. And through it all — the Crow watches. He remembers. Once, he wore skin instead of feathers. A crown instead of a storm. His voice commanded obedience; his shadow, worship. He was Corvinus, Prince of Valemire — until betrayal burned the flesh from his bones. But death, it seemed, was too merciful. The Blackglass Facility saw to that. They bound his dying essence within a vessel of instinct and memory, of hunger and hate. The experiment failed — or perhaps it succeeded too well. What emerged was neither man nor beast, but something eternal: a will sharpened by ruin.