The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on frost that should have been trampled by eager feet. Landre adjusted her white robes, brushing away invisible wrinkles as she prepared to exit. In all her formal visits, children always come running with laughter, and the sound of wooden tools knocking in the distance was a constant, reassuring hum of village life.
But not this time.
"We have arrived, Saint Landre," Crusader Sarvin announced, though his usual formality carried an edge.
Landre nodded, her face settling into the serene mask she'd perfected over the years. The transformation from Landre Novalance to Saint Landre of the Light was second nature now—shoulders back, chin slightly raised, eyes soft yet commanding.
She stepped from the carriage, her breath forming misty clouds in the frigid air. The village sprawled before her, nestled between towering pines and rocky outcroppings. But something was wrong.
Silence. Complete, unnatural silence.
No children running to see the grand Church carriage. No village elder approaching with nervous bows. Not even dogs barking or chickens clucking.
The divine light she always felt within her seemed to dim, recoiling from a wrongness in the air that the cold alone couldn't explain.
Crusader Sarvin's hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt as he scanned the perimeter. His eyes, always vigilant, narrowed as he held the carriage door for Sister Imelda.
"Perhaps they didn't receive word of our arrival?" Imelda suggested, her voice barely above a whisper as she exited the carriage. She stood close to Landre.
Landre shook her head slightly. "The Church always sends messengers ahead. They knew we were coming."
Landre took a few steps forward, her boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. Empty windows stared back at her like hollow eyes.
"Why is no one greeting us?" she murmured, more to herself than her companions.
Landre took a cautious step forward, her white robes almost luminous against the muted grays of the village. Sarvin raised his hand, signaling the driver to remain with the carriage.
"Wait here," he commanded. "Be ready to depart quickly if necessary."
The crusader moved ahead, his armor catching what little sunlight filtered through the heavy clouds. His hand never left the pommel of his sword as he led their small procession down the main path. Landre followed, with Imelda staying close behind her, the woman's quill scratching nervously against her parchment.
As they walked deeper into the village, Landre peered through windows and open doorways. The homes stood completely still—chairs pulled back from half-eaten meals, doors left ajar. It was as if everyone had simply vanished in the middle of their daily lives.
"Something isn't right," Landre whispered, her trained serenity slipping for a moment. "There should be at least thirty families here according to the Church records."
Imelda flipped through her notes. "Thirty-four families, to be precise. Population of one hundred and seventeen as of last year's census."
Landre stopped at a cottage door, pushing it slightly wider. A pot of stew hung over dying embers, the contents congealed and cold. A child's doll lay abandoned on the floor. No blood, no signs of struggle—just... emptiness.
"Could it be illness?" Imelda suggested, her voice tight with worry.
"No bodies," Sarvin replied grimly. "No burial markers. This isn't plague."
Landre felt a growing unease in her chest. The reports had mentioned strange illness and disturbing dreams, but nothing about an empty village.
As they continued down the silent path, Landre noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from a larger building at the village center. Unlike the dying fires in the homes, this chimney released a steady stream that suggested active tending.
"The community hall," Sarvin said, nodding toward the building. "Someone's there."
Landre studied the structure—the only building showing any sign of life in this ghost of a village. Windows glowed with warm light from within, a sharp contrast to the abandoned homes surrounding it.
"Let's proceed carefully," she said, straightening her shoulders and once again becoming Saint Landre, servant of Shizka's light.
Landre approached the community hall, her steps measured and deliberate. The building loomed before them, ordinary in every way except for being the only structure showing signs of occupation. The smoke continued to rise steadily from the chimney, promising warmth and perhaps answers within.
Sarvin raised his hand, signaling for Landre and Imelda to remain several paces back. His other hand rested on his sword hilt as he moved toward the heavy wooden door.
"Stay behind me," he instructed, his voice low but firm.
Landre nodded, feeling her heartbeat quicken beneath her composed exterior.
Sarvin raised his fist and delivered three firm knocks that echoed through the silent village.
No response came from within. Not a footstep, not a voice, not even a shuffling sound.
They exchanged glances, uncertainty reflected in each other's eyes before returning their attention to the door.
Sarvin knocked again, louder this time, the sound almost violent in the unnatural quiet.
Still, silence answered them.
"There must be someone inside," Landre said, gesturing toward the chimney. "That fire didn't light itself."
The smoke continued its steady ascent into the gray sky, mocking their confusion with its evidence of human presence.
Sarvin's jaw tightened as he reached for the iron handle. He pushed against the door, which swung inward without resistance. It hadn't been locked or barred—another unsettling detail in this mystery.
Landre peered past Sarvin's shoulder. The hall stood empty, rows of benches arranged neatly as if awaiting a gathering that never came. A large hearth dominated the far wall, flames dancing brightly within it, well-tended and fed with fresh logs.
But no one tended it. No one sat on the benches. No one stood in the shadows.
Sarvin turned back to Landre, his expression grave. He raised his hand in a clear gesture.
"Stay outside," he commanded. "Both of you. I'll check it first."
Landre watched as Sarvin disappeared into the community hall, her heart pounding despite her outward calm. The silence felt suffocating, broken only by the sound of Imelda's nervous breathing beside her. Moments stretched like hours as they waited for the Crusader's return.
Suddenly, the door flew open. Sarvin's face was grim, his usual stoic expression replaced with barely concealed urgency.
"Saint Landre, please come in quickly," he said, his voice tight.
Something in his tone made Landre's stomach clench. She exchanged a quick glance with Imelda before gathering her robes and hurrying forward. The three of them rushed into the hall, the door swinging shut behind them with an ominous thud.
Inside, Sarvin led them toward the hearth where the fire crackled with deceptive cheerfulness. As they approached, Landre noticed a bench had been pulled close to the warmth. Upon it lay a figure—a young person, or what seemed to be one at first glance.
Landre's breath caught in her throat. The person's skin was wrong—deeply wrinkled and sagging like an elder of many decades, yet their frame and features suggested youth. Their chest rose and fell in short, labored breaths. Besides the unnatural aging, there was nothing to indicate this was an elderly person.
Landre approached carefully, calling upon Shizka's teachings to maintain her composure.
The figure's eyes fluttered open as Landre knelt beside the bench. Recognition flickered in those young eyes, trapped in a withered face.
"You came," they whispered, voice raspy and dry.
Landre leaned closer, her training taking over as she pushed aside her horror. "What happened?" she asked gently.
The person's lips trembled with effort. "The illness... last night... it took everyone... gone..."
A trembling hand reached out, grasping weakly at Landre's robe. Desperation shone in their eyes.
"Please... don't let me fall like them..."
Landre's mind raced as she processed the man's fragmented words. Illness? Something that aged people overnight and made others vanish?
"What do you mean?" Imelda pressed, stepping forward with her quill poised above parchment. "What illness? Where did everyone go?"
Landre raised her hand, signaling for Imelda to wait. The man's breathing had grown more labored, his withered chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Whatever had happened here, this survivor needed immediate attention.
"Sister Imelda, please give me space," Landre said quietly but firmly.
Landre knelt beside the bench, stretching her arm toward the man. She closed her eyes briefly. The words came to her lips naturally, flowing from years of devotion and practice.
"Luxis minorevju Sentio," she intoned, her voice gaining strength with each syllable.
Light formed around her hand—not the blinding flash of combat magic, but a gentle, pulsing glow that spread outward like ripples in water. The warm illumination wrapped around the man's body, seeping into his withered skin. Landre felt the familiar drain on her energy as the blessing took effect.
The man's breathing steadied, his pained expression relaxing slightly. The magic hadn't reversed his unnatural aging, but his condition appeared to stabilize. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on Landre with gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice slightly stronger than before.
Landre nodded, maintaining the gentle flow of healing light for a moment longer before allowing it to fade. "Can you tell us what happened?" she asked softly.
The man nodded weakly, still lying on the bench. His gaze moved between Landre, Sarvin, and Imelda before settling back on Landre.
"You must be the Saint," he said, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Came here for the illness." He paused, gathering strength. "It started slow. A lingering cough, a chill that wouldn't leave. Then... the weakness. People lose their strength, their spirit."
He closed his eyes briefly, the effort of speaking clearly taxing him. When he opened them again, despair clouded his gaze.
"The healers' poultices do nothing. Even Father Kael's prayers..."
Landre listened intently as the withered man continued his fragmented explanation.
"I had night duty," he said, his voice cracking. "I wasn't at the village last night. I only came here near dawn."
Landre's brow furrowed slightly, the only break in her otherwise serene expression. She glanced around the empty hall, trying to picture what the man had encountered.
"Came into this hall, hoping to catch some sleep,"he continued, his withered hand trembling as he gestured weakly. "When I woke up... already like this. Could barely move."
His eyes clouded with fear as he looked down at his aged body. "I waited... called for help. But only silence. That's when I knew... everyone was gone."
Landre's breath caught. Whatever affliction had struck this village didn't simply make people vanish—it aged them unnaturally, stealing decades of life in mere hours. She glanced at Sarvin, who remained vigilant by the windows, scanning the village exterior for any movement or threat.
Beside her, Imelda's quill scratched against parchment, documenting every word the man spoke. The woman's hand moved swiftly, recording details that might later prove vital to the Church's understanding of this mysterious affliction.
Landre turned her attention back to the man, gently placing her hand on his withered arm. The contrast between her youthful skin and his aged flesh was jarring and disturbing. Through her touch, she channeled a small, continuous flow of healing light—not enough to drain her reserves completely, but sufficient to ease his discomfort.
"Did you see anyone else?" she asked softly. "Anyone who might have escaped this... condition?"
The man shook his head weakly, his withered fingers curling against the rough wool blanket beneath him.
"No one," he whispered. "No one left..."
He paused, his brow furrowing as if struggling to recall something important. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused.
"But lying here, I keep... I could almost imagine a strange noise." His voice dropped even lower. "If it wasn't for the silence, one wouldn't be able to hear it."
Landre leaned closer, her heart quickening. "What noise? Where was it coming from?"
The man's eyes shifted toward the north end of the village. "It came from the mine."
Imelda stepped forward, her quill pausing above her parchment. "The crystal mine? The one that depleted half a decade ago?"
He nodded feebly. "But I wasn't sure if I imagined it because of this illness or if I actually heard it."
"What did it sound like?" Landre pressed gently, maintaining the healing light around her palm.
The man's expression grew uncertain. "Not... not sure. But there's a rhythm..." He paused to gather breath. "Like... breathing."
Landre found her gaze meeting Sarvin's across the room. The crusader had become more alert, his posture stiffening at the mention of the mine. Possibilities flashed through her mind—none of them comforting.
Whatever happened to this village, it wasn't going to stop here. Her thoughts raced back to Oakhaven, her own village that had faced destruction. The similarities were too striking to ignore—remote settlements falling victim to forces beyond their understanding. But Oakhaven's fate, terrible as it was, had at least left survivors. Here, an entire village had simply vanished, leaving only this one withered man behind.
"We need to check the mine," Landre said, her voice steadier than she felt. "If there's any chance of finding the villagers..."
"No, it's too dangerous," Sarvin cut in sharply, moving away from the window. "We don't know what's in there. It could be anything."
Landre felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. As a Saint of Shizka, she was bound to investigate darkness, to bring light where shadows loomed. But Sarvin wasn't wrong—they were woefully unprepared for whatever might await them in an abandoned mine.
Landre felt torn between her duty as a Saint and the practical reality of their situation. The weight of responsibility pressed down on her shoulders like a physical burden. She looked at the withered man on the bench, his aged face reflecting pain despite her healing light. If there were others like him, suffering somewhere in that mine...
"This was supposedly a visit, not an extermination," Sarvin said, his voice firm but respectful. "We came to investigate reports, not confront an unknown threat."
The crusader's practical assessment stung, but Landre knew there was wisdom in his caution. Still, the thought of abandoning potential survivors didn't sit well with her conscience.
Imelda spoke up, her quill finally stilling. "We should return to the nearby town, away from this village and plan our next move. Report what we've found and request reinforcements."
Landre's fingers tightened slightly on the withered man's arm. "But what about the villagers? What if they can still be saved? What if whatever did this brought everyone to the mine?"
Her voice remained steady, but Landre felt the Saint's mask slipping just slightly. These people—their faces unknown to her—had become her responsibility the moment the Church assigned her this mission. To leave now felt like abandonment.
Sarvin stepped closer, his expression softening just enough to show he understood her conflict. "Saint Landre, it is my duty to protect you against dangers. That includes stopping you from putting yourself in danger."
He knelt beside her, his voice lowering so only she could hear. "If you fall here, how many more villages will suffer without your light?"
Landre's heart ached at the thought of leaving without answers. Abandoning people who might still need her help felt like a betrayal of everything she stood for as a Saint.
"But we need to understand what happened," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "If retreating means losing the chance of saving these people..."
She let the thought hang in the air, meeting Sarvin's gaze with unwavering resolve. Her fingers unconsciously tightened around the simple amulet at her throat.
"At least we should take a quick look," she continued. "There may be more signs near the mine."
Sarvin's expression remained stern, but something in his eyes softened. He recognized the determination in her voice—the same determination that had led her through the trials to become a Saint.
After a moment of silent consideration, he nodded once.
"Alright, a brief look only, Saint Landre," he conceded, his tone making it clear this was as far as he would bend. "At the first sign of danger, we retreat."
Relief washed through Landre, though she kept her expression measured. She turned her attention back to the withered man on the bench, who watched their exchange with fearful eyes.
"We can't leave him here," she said, already considering how they might transport him.
Without a word, Sarvin moved forward and carefully gathered the man in his arms. The withered figure seemed to weigh almost nothing, his once-robust frame now frail and diminished. He made no protest as Sarvin lifted him, only a soft whimper of pain that made Landre's heart clench.
They adjusted their course, the withered man secured on Sarvin's back as they made their way toward the northern edge of the village. Imelda followed close behind, her parchment and quill tucked safely away, her expression tight with apprehension.
Landre felt the air grow heavier, colder as they got closer. Each step seemed to require more effort than the last, as if the very atmosphere resisted their approach.
The light around them dimmed despite the midday hour. Clouds had gathered overhead, thick and ominous, casting the landscape in gloomy shadow. Landre summoned a small orb of light that hovered above her palm, illuminating their path with its gentle glow.
The mine entrance appeared ahead—a dark wound in the mountainside, reinforced with aged timber supports. Most had begun to rot, the wood warped and splitting from years of exposure. A wooden sign hung crookedly above the entrance, its faded lettering barely legible.
Landre paused several paces from the entrance, her white robes almost luminous against the darkening surroundings. Something caught her eye—footprints in the thin layer of snow, leading into the mine entrance. They remained visible where the mine's overhanging roof had sheltered them from the weather. Fresh tracks, not yet erased by time or elements.
Her heart quickened. Someone had been here recently.
"Saint Landre, perhaps we should reconsider—" Imelda began, her voice tight with apprehension.
"Listen," Landre whispered, raising her hand for silence.
The group fell still. At first, there was nothing but the soft whistle of wind through the valley. Landre closed her eyes, focusing her senses beyond ordinary perception, reaching out with the heightened awareness that came with Shizka's blessing.
Then, carried on a breath of stale air from the mine's depths, came a sound—soft, rhythmic, perfectly timed. A collective breathing, as if dozens—no, hundreds—of lungs worked in perfect unison. The sound pulsed like a massive, shared heartbeat, rising and falling in perfect synchronicity.
Landre felt her skin prickle with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the mountain chill. Whatever waited in that darkness was no natural phenomenon.
"What is that?" Imelda breathed.
Before anyone could speak further, the withered man on Sarvin's back began convulsing. His frail body arched violently, limbs shaking with such force that Sarvin struggled to maintain his hold.
"Set him down!" she commanded, already moving forward as Sarvin carefully lowered the man to the ground.
The man's eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites. His jaw worked soundlessly, tendons standing out like cords on his neck. Landre knelt beside him, placing her hands on his chest. Light flowed from her palms—the gentle, healing radiance of Shizka's blessing—but something was wrong. Instead of sinking into his flesh, the light seemed to slide off him without taking hold.
Landre pushed harder, channeling more of her energy into the spell, but the magic refused to take hold. A cold realization settled in her stomach: whatever seized this man resisted Shizka's blessing. In all her training, she'd never encountered anything that could reject divine light so completely.
As suddenly as it began, the convulsions stopped. The man lay still on the ground, his limbs splayed at awkward angles. For a terrifying moment, Landre thought he had died—but then she noticed his chest rising and falling. The rhythm was slow, measured, unnaturally even. With a chill, she realized it matched perfectly with the breathing sound emanating from the mine.
"Sir? Can you hear me?" Landre asked, leaning closer despite Sarvin's warning hand on her shoulder.
The man's eyes snapped open. Landre recoiled instinctively. Something fundamental had changed in his gaze. The clarity, the recognition, the very humanity that had been there just minutes before was gone. His eyes were empty, unfocused, like clouded glass reflecting nothing.
With unnatural fluidity, the withered man sat up. His movements were eerily smooth for someone who had been so frail. His head turned toward Landre with the deliberate motion of a predator sighting prey. A low, guttural sound emerged from his throat—not words, not even a groan, but something primal and deeply wrong.
He tilted his head as if recognizing an old acquaintance, studying her with those empty eyes.
Without warning, he lunged at Landre, withered hands outstretched toward her throat.
Sarvin moved with practiced speed, pulling Landre back while drawing his sword in a single fluid motion. The blade came to rest at the man's throat, stopping him mid-lunge.
"Don't hurt him!" Landre cried out, her heart racing. "He's still a victim!"
Landre's heart clenched as Sarvin used the flat of his blade to block the withered man's attack, keeping him at bay without causing harm. The crusader's movements were precise—protective rather than aggressive.
The man's eyes remained fixed on Landre despite Sarvin's intervention. Those vacant eyes held no recognition, no humanity, yet they tracked her with unnerving focus. His withered arms flailed wildly, ignoring Sarvin completely as if the armored crusader were merely an obstacle between him and his target.
"Something's controlling him," Landre whispered, backing away slightly. "This isn't him anymore."
A sound cut through her thoughts—the unmistakable scrape of footsteps on stone echoing from the mine entrance. Not just one set of footsteps, but many. Landre turned slowly toward the darkness, dread pooling in her stomach like ice water.
Shapes began to emerge from the shadows—first one, then three, then dozens. The missing villagers appeared from the mine's depths, their features distorted by the same unnatural aging that had afflicted the man before them. Gray-haired elders who had once been middle-aged, children with unnaturally lined faces, all moving with the same eerie coordination.
"Shizka preserve us," Imelda whispered, backing away as she took in the horror.
The world seemed to narrow to the shuffling figures, their vacant eyes a void that threatened to swallow her whole. Her training screamed at her to act, but her limbs felt heavy as stone. But beneath that fear burned something stronger—the responsibility of her position, the oath she had taken when accepting Shizka's blessing. These people needed her light now more than ever.
With deliberate calm, Landre raised her hand and summoned a sphere of radiant light. The orb grew in her palm, pulsing with warm, golden energy before rising above her head, illuminating the entire area with its divine glow.
The transformed villagers flinched collectively, shrinking back from the brightness. Some raised hands to shield their eyes, while others retreated deeper into the mine's shadows.
"They're avoiding the light," Landre realized aloud, her mind racing with implications.
The withered man who had lunged at her moments before scrambled backward, shielding his eyes like a child fleeing from a monster. He turned and ran into the mine, rejoining the others in the shadows.
More figures appeared at the mine entrance, pressing forward until they filled the opening completely—the entire missing population, transformed into these shadow-seeking husks.
These were people—mothers, fathers, children—all reduced to hollow vessels for something unnatural. The light sphere above her palm pulsed with her heartbeat.
"Saint Landre," Sarvin said firmly, backing toward her while keeping his sword raised, "we must leave. Now."
Landre's heart ached as she watched the withered man crawl toward his transformed brethren. "We can't just abandon them. There must be something we can do."
The faces before her blurred with memories of Oakhaven—of neighbors and friends she couldn't save. Was this to be another failure? Another village lost while she retreated to safety?
"Whatever these people were, they're gone now," Sarvin replied, his voice gentle despite its urgency. "Look at their eyes. There's nothing human left there."
She forced herself to look—truly look—at the vacant stares, the mechanical movements. The light of her magic revealed what she hadn't wanted to see: emptiness where souls should be. These weren't people anymore, just shells occupied by something else.
"Saint Landre, please!" Imelda pleaded, already backing toward the village path. "You cannot hold this light forever."
The strain of maintaining the sphere was already burning through her reserves. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the mountain chill.
Landre closed her eyes briefly, a silent prayer passing through her mind. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened with resolve.
"Fall back," she commanded. "Toward the carriage."
They moved in careful formation, Sarvin keeping himself between Landre and the transformed villagers. As they retreated down the main village path, Landre noticed movement from the houses they'd thought were empty. Shadows shifted behind windows. Doors creaked open.
Her breath caught. "They were at the mine... How are they here already?"
More withered figures emerged from doorways and alleys, their movements synchronized like marionettes controlled by a single hand. They were being surrounded.
"Run!" Sarvin shouted, abandoning caution as the transformed villagers surged forward like a wave of shadow.
Landre cast her light sphere into their midst, buying precious seconds as the creatures recoiled from its brilliance. Then she gathered her robes and ran, following Sarvin and Imelda toward the waiting carriage.
Landre's heart pounded in her chest as they fled through the village. The withered figures emerged from every shadow, their movements unnaturally synchronized as they closed in around them.
"GET THE CARRIAGE READY!" Sarvin bellowed ahead to the driver, his voice cutting through the eerie silence of the village.
The driver's eyes widened at the sight of the horde behind them, his hands fumbling with the reins as he prepared for immediate departure. The horses stamped nervously, sensing the wrongness in the air.
Sarvin raised his sword skyward.
"Divine Blade!" he called out, his voice resonating with power.
Brilliant light cascaded down the length of his blade, transforming the steel into a beacon of radiance. Sarvin held the glowing weapon high, keeping the withered villagers at bay as Landre and Imelda reached the carriage.
"Quickly, Saint Landre!" Imelda held the carriage door open, her face pale with fear.
Landre hesitated, looking back at the village.
"We cannot help them now," Imelda insisted, reading her thoughts. "We must bring word to the Church."
With a heavy heart, Landre gathered her robes and climbed into the carriage. Imelda followed immediately after, pulling the door shut behind them with trembling hands.
Sarvin drove his sword deep into the ground. The blade flared brighter, creating a temporary barrier of light that held the creatures back, buying time for his retreat to the carriage. He climbed onto the driver's bench just as the barrier began to flicker.
"Go!" he commanded, and the driver snapped the reins.
The carriage lurched forward, wheels clattering against the stone path as they fled the village. Landre looked out the small window, watching as the distance between them and the transformed villagers grew.
Then it happened—a wave pulsed outward from the direction of the mine. Not physical, not visible, but Landre felt it crash through her like a tide of emotion. Pure, undiluted anger washed over her, so intense it stole her breath, and she staggered back against the carriage seat.
But beneath that rage was something else. A cold dread, a terrible familiarity that made her own hands feel like ice. It was the same chilling emptiness that had once coiled in her own heart.
The realization struck her with sickening clarity. The cliff. That day, when something dark had taken root inside her, whispering promises of release.
This feeling... I've felt it before.