Second host

Sal started to laugh—a low, ragged sound, half-choked by the dryness of his throat. Was this madness? Most likely. But what did it matter now? He stretched out his only hand toward the jug, fingers trembling as they closed around it, expecting it to vanish. Yet it stayed. The cold, rough clay felt blessedly solid in his grip, grounding him like a lifeline.

With a shuddering breath, he brought the jug to his lips. Water spilled over his cracked mouth, and he gasped, the liquid like a shock of life itself—cold and biting, the taste of salvation. It traveled down his throat, soothing his rawness, filling his belly with a warmth that pushed against his hollowness.

A laugh bubbled up again, light and nearly delirious. "Heh... Seems like the heavens don't want me dead just yet," he muttered, staring at the crow in front of him, feeling an odd, misplaced sense of gratitude.

But perhaps not heavens, he thought—maybe just the crow's master, some unseen hand who'd decided he was worth a drink of water. And who would care to help a dying thief out here? The crow's gaze fixed on him, unblinking and vast, a bottomless black hole that swallowed the moonlight.

"Hehehe... little human, thrown away like trash, drinking water so greedily..."

The voice struck him—a sound as rough as sand underfoot, dry as the desert air, yet it had a depth that seemed to stretch beyond the world of the living.

Sal's heart leapt. His mind, thick with pain and fatigue, grasped for clarity, then settled in a strange, chilling calm. He exhaled, letting the fear slip through him. 

So this is it, huh? The end.

He looked back at the crow. It was massive, easily the size of a large cat, and its feathers looked less like plumage and more like shadows given form. Its left eye was hollowed out, an empty socket that seemed to pull him in like the abyss itself, while the remaining eye glinted with a cold, calculating intelligence. And eeriest of all, as the crow tilted its head and hopped forward, its feet barely stirred the sand—it moved as if it were only a thought, a ghost.

A spirit...

There were no friendly spirits in the desert. Every child knew that from the moment they could speak; the only way to survive was to run if you met one, unless you had a powerful bender by your side. 

Sal could feel the phantom pain in his severed arm throb with each heartbeat, a painful reminder of his own weakness. He didn't have the strength to run or resist. All he could do was watch, trapped between terror and a twisted fascination.

"Little human, little human... you are in luck. More luck than all your ancestors, more luck than everyone in this desert combined, more luck than all the souls of the earth together..."

It sounded so certain, each word dropped into the air like the chime of a bell, clear and inarguable. Sal stared, silent, his lips pressed tight against his anger, every bit of him knowing better than to speak.

"Would you like to hear a story?"

Sal wanted nothing less.

"Of course, oh great spirit," he said, each word slipping out like a sigh of surrender. "This lowly one would be honored."

The crow's eye seemed to gleam brighter, an amused glint hidden in its murky depths. "Listen then," it crooned, leaning in close. "It is a story of a king long lost to the world. The King of Envy, they called him—though some say he was the ruler of the Earth Kingdom, others the Fire. It does not matter which, for his story has been erased, yet his shadow lingers like smoke in forgotten corners."

Sal's throat tightened as the crow tilted its head, slowly, deliberately tearing a feather from its chest. Dark blood oozed in a thick rivulet, but the crow continued to speak.

"This king," the crow continued, "was the mightiest of mortals, strong enough to move mountains and shatter the earth. Whole armies fell at his word, yet… he was still nothing compared to the Avatar. The Avatar, chosen by birth, a god's vessel… The king, he had nothing but his own toil and struggle. And that gnawed at him, consumed him until envy twisted his very soul."

Sal swallowed, unable to hide his discomfort. The crow's gaze never left him, dark and all-knowing, as though every bitter corner of his mind was laid bare.

"So, what did the King of Envy do?" he asked, voice strained, feeling compelled to play along in this strange madness.

The crow's beak twitched in what might've been a smile, "Ah, he forged his own luck, of course. The king abandoned his throne, left his people to ruin as he scoured the earth, from the sunlit peaks to the depths of oceans. He sought artifacts, pieces of power—he stole a feather from the sun, a shard from the moon, a scale from the sea, a heart from the earth, and bound them all with his own blood."

The bird dug its beak deeper into its chest from time to time, tearing through feathers and sinew with a brutal determination that left Sal paralyzed.

 "He sacrificed everything he had left—his strength, his lifeblood, his very soul, twisting it into a single object. A ring. A ring crafted with the pieces of gods, imbued with a power meant to rival the heavens. The one ring," the crow's voice dipped into a hushed, terrible reverence, "to surpass them all."

Sal's chest tightened as the words echoed in his mind. "A weapon to surpass gods… a ring." His eyes darted to the crow, and for the first time, something like hope flickered in his gaze. "W-where is it now…?" he whispered, his voice a tremor.

The crow gave a twisted laugh, as if pleased by the reaction, and with a shudder of its mutilated body, it dropped a gleaming golden ring from its chest onto the sand.

"A greedy crow swallowed it," it said, voice laced with dark humor.

Sal's eyes locked on the ring. It glowed faintly, slick with the crow's blood. His mind screamed caution, every fiber in him knew he was staring at death—but his hand, trembling, reached forward of its own will. Power beyond anything he'd known lay in his grasp. The gold felt cold against his fingers, as if the metal itself was alive, waiting.

The ring was perfect, its golden band unmarked, shimmering in the light that slanted across the sand, blood still slick on its surface but gleaming through. Sal slid it onto his finger, feeling his mind go numb. A part of him felt like he was wrapped in warmth; he could feel the sand's embrace beneath him, but now he felt something else, too—a whisper of the air itself, gentle, around him.

With a slow breath, he rose to his feet, feeling his joints steady, his steps silent. He stared down at his only hand, raising it slowly as a soft breath of wind circled through his fingers. For a moment, disbelief clawed at him, but the feeling gave way to something… more.

"Very good... you catch on fast," a voice murmured, slipping into his thoughts like a breeze. Familiar yet foreign.

Sal's head snapped back to the crow...now lying lifeless on the sand, its eye empty, and behind it… stood a figure...

Grey like wet clay, its form roughly human but featureless—no eyes, no nose, only a wide smile of jagged teeth gleaming like diamond shards.

Sal's head spun, dizziness hitting him as he realized how quickly he'd moved. Before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees, bowing, pressing his forehead to the sand. The man... spirit… creature chuckled, the sound grating like gravel.

"Good attitude. We'll get along just fine," it said, the voice filling the air around him. "Tell me your name."

"Salamander, sir. But… Sal is fine," he said, heart hammering in his chest.

"Sal," the spirit repeated, savoring it. "Good, simple enough…"

Sal risked a glance up, meeting the wide, gleaming smile that seemed to stretch even further. "Since you like simple things," it murmured, "then I shall keep it unpretentious…"

The figure leaned forward, its voice curling through the air like smoke. 

"You may call me… Crow."