Let me tell you a story of a demon not the kind that creeps from the dark, but the kind who sits beside you, smiling in the shape of a friend. Cunning, shifting, growing on power and gold, the kind that gives demons a bad name.

Around a table, they met: the canary and the head of black. Spilling into a poem that tasted of future, their minds collided in a beautiful spark.
“Oh, how wonderful the beauty of creation,” said the dark-haired one, raising a cup in salute to many more. The canary answered with coins of gold and words from its very core. The forge burned hot, but not without turmoil. Malice rippled through the sound, shattering the altars of creation as the sound barrier broke the ground.
“Do not fret,” the canary said, “I will give you the last of my gold to mend it.” It wrapped its wing around the black-headed prince as the chambers were stitched back together.

Years passed, the paths have split, the thread between them thinned. But it did not break, well, at least not where anyone could see. In the prince’s absence, his eyes began to turn toward the halls of gold. He learned the weight of riches, the power that numbers hold. He did not care to confess that among the starry skies, a constellation was made with sparkles of the small riches the canary poured into his hands. Greed was not a sudden storm it was a growing cloud, a slow reshaping of his mind until hunger for more was loud. 

When the canary was ready for the flight chanting of eternal good night, it was struck wounded, confused and all alone with no shield in sight. This was the moment it had waited for, but the wings faltered mid-air and the bird fell from height. Alone through the sweltering heat and the blistering freeze, it wandered the dust in search of a kindness to seize.

The black head thrived, fed by numbers & frequencies, and the canary’s golden trinkets lay buried in faded memories. Still, the bird pushed upward, its wings bound, chasing faint echoes that carried a once a beautiful sound. It never saw the scope aligned to its crown.

The black head held a rifle, rhinestones glitter along its frame, the sight locked on the singing flier, intent on ending the game. An army gathered as the change began, teeth grinding the threads of what once was, turning melodies into codes and harmonies into shadows.

Then, in a flash, the bird was gone, yellow feathers dotted in a crimson light. In this final scene there are no winners, only the the dance of gallows at night.

Silver bullets ripped through its core, the canary would chant no more.