The crows have been everywhere, lately. They're a common enough sight in the Nexus, but they were getting rarer as the autumn wore on and winter began to nip at her heels. Now, though? The past few days there've been dark-feathered birds rummaging in alleyway trash cans, beating wings over the heads of Nexus shoppers, squabbling over the last shreds of a bacon sandwich. It seems as if every time one looks around, there they are, huddled in twos or threes on windowsills, rails, the most shadowed branches. Watching. Whispering. Waiting.

Take now, for example. Who knows how long that crow has been sitting on the back of the couch, hunched up against the cold at the far end? He was watching the plaza, but as Azwel finishes speaking the bird's head turns. He scrutinizes the man with a glossy black eye, then speaks in a harsh voice.

"Night is coming."