The pied raven.

On the rugged cliffs of Faro Island, where the winds howled like ancient spirits and the waves carved stories into the stone, there lived the last Pied Raven. She was a creature of myths and whispers, her feathers a mix of black and white, like the meeting of night and dawn.

For years, she had made her nest in a hidden crevice of the island’s tallest cliff, where few could reach. The nest was a careful weaving of twigs, seaweed, and the odd glint of silver—a lost fishhook, a fragment of glass polished by the sea. She had built it with patience, generation after generation, as her kind had once thrived here. But now, she was alone.

The raven spent her days gliding over the island, scanning the shore for food. She was a clever forager, picking at the remains of fish left by the fishermen, snatching eggs from unwatched nests, and scavenging among the tidal pools where small crabs and shellfish lurked. The sea was both her larder and her mirror, reflecting her solitary existence.

At dusk, she would perch on the ruins of an old stone tower, watching the horizon, waiting for something—perhaps another of her kind, or perhaps just the stories the wind carried from distant lands.

One evening, as the sky burned with the colors of a setting sun, she saw movement below. A boat, unfamiliar, had docked on the shore. A group of people, cameras in hand, were searching the cliffs.

They were looking for her.

She tilted her head, considering them. Humans had told her kind’s story for centuries, calling them ghosts, omens, and relics. They had recorded the last sightings, not knowing she still remained.

With a final, thoughtful glance at the sea, she spread her wings and took flight, vanishing into the twilight, leaving behind only the echo of her call—one last whisper of the Pied Raven of Faro Island.