The bird ate another berry.

  Just one more.

  But the world was already doing that pleasant spinny thing. It felt good. If only he could stay like this permanently.

  The chicks love a confident male.

  Though it was concerning that his talons weren’t quite where he remembered leaving them. Somehow he was now, upside down.

  I’ve got this under control.

  He ate another one anyway.

  The branch his talons were holding onto seemed significantly less stable than it had been six, no seven no many berries ago.

  But he was fine. Completely fine. The tree was fine. Everything was fine.

  The world tilted.

  Still fine.

  ***

  The boy’s voice cracked on the high note.

  Not a little crack. A full break, voice spiraling from hopeful tenor into something that sounded like stepped-on cat. Someone in the crowd groaned. Another person muttered something about wanting their money back.

  “Keep going mate, you’re doing good!” called a young man with wild black hair, grinning from his seat.

  The man who had grumbled about wanting his money back gave him a filthy look, then his expression changed to surprise when he saw it was Dain of the Hollow Road.

  The boy froze mid-verse, face crimson.

  Dain clapped loud, deliberate, alone. “C’mon then! Finish it, you can do this!”

  A few people joined in hesitantly. Then a few more.

  The boy’s shoulders straightened slightly. He made it through the last verse, voice still cracking, but nobody booed.

  When he finally finished and fled the stage, at least half the crowd was clapping.

  The announcer called Dain's name. The crowd perked up—finally, someone who could actually sing. Dain stepped forward, lute in hand, grinning as he walked to the stage.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Something blue-green and feathered crashed through the rowan tree's branches and landed in the mud with a wet SPLAT.

  The crowd went silent.

  It was a rooster. Or... mostly a rooster. Dog-sized, which was wrong. Chest covered in scales instead of feathers—iridescent blue-green scales that caught the firelight and shimmered. Peacock-colored plumage, tail feathers spread in the mud. When it lifted its head, its eyes had slit pupils.

  Someone whispered: "Is that a—"

  "Cockatrice."

  ***

  "Eldmere... Eldmere gets a new king!” He hiccuped “Tomorrow! No wait—soon. Very soon. The old king... the old king is…” He frowned “...useless? No, that's rude. The old king is—what's the word—inadequate. Yes! Inadequate for modern kingship requirements and—” He belched “—and Eldmere needs... needs someone who understands the common... the common bird. Chicken. Cocka-person. Common PERSON. Someone who—"

  The cockatrice tried to get up and listed sideways.

  "—someone who can FLYYYY— and the rain! The rain stops... will stop..." he squinted up at the sky "...tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow. No more rain. Three weeks of wet misery, DONE. New king, dry footwraps, everything's coming up... coming up..."

  He crashed into the tent pole and sat down in the mud. He stayed there, one eye open, scales and feathers glinting.

  "...new king. Tomorrow. You'll see."

  He promptly passed out.

  "A new king! Tomorrow! The cockatrice prophesied!" someone shouted.

  "Wha—? I said what now?" The cockatrice stirred, lifted his head and looked out of one eye. Having two eyes open wasn’t so good for his brain.

  Someone shouted, "The prophet!"

  "Tomorrow we get a new king!" Another voice called.

  "He said the old king is inadequate!"

  "The cockatrice has spoken!"

  His one eye focused on the crowd pressing closer.

  Oh shit.

  Someone reached out towards him.

  He pecked their hand. Realised what he'd done.

  Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!

  Then he exploded into flight—or what passed for flight when a bird is thoroughly drunk. He careened sideways, smacked into a different tent pole, ricocheted off someone's shoulder, and crash-landed in the mud ten feet away. Iridescent blue feathers scattered in his wake, dislodged by panic and impact. Then he was up again, half-running, half-flying, zigzagging toward the edge of the festival grounds and into the forrest.

  The announcer didn't bother calling the next performer. Half the crowd had left. The other half was still arguing about what they'd seen. The Eisteddfod was over. He threw his list over his shoulder and walked off to get a drink.

  ***

  The tavern was alive with everyone discussing the cockatrice incident.

  Near the fire, Dain looked at Seren—lean, athletic build, dark skin, a sword resting against her leg. She held mulled wine in both hands. “Did you see that? A cockatrice!”

  Seren’s fingers tightened around her cup, she took a sip then answered “That was probably the best performance in the entire festival.”

  “Don’t be like that. You reckon that was a prophecy?”

  The fire reflected on her golden skin. “Who knows. What do you think, Ink?” She looked at the sleek shepherd sitting next to her.

  Ink’s ears went back. She woofed in agreement.

  “That settles it.”

  Dain’s smile lit up his entire face. He bit his lip. “It could be epic.”

  Epigraph 1:

  "The cockatrice, being of dragon-kind, possesses the power of death and life. Its gaze turns men to stone; its voice commands the dawn. To encounter one is to face either your doom or your destiny." —A Bestiary of Mythical Creatures, author unknown

  Epigraph 2:

  "My great-uncle swore he saw a cockatrice once. Said it was the size of a horse, breathed fire, and spoke in riddles. Also said it stole his boots. We don't talk about great-uncle anymore." —Tavern Tales of Doubtful Origin