The forest closed in around them, a labyrinth of towering oaks and twisted pines that swallowed the sky and muffled the world beyond. Every step forward seemed to draw them deeper into some ancient, breathing thing. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth, moss, and something older—something forgotten. Sharp birdcalls echoed through the canopy, fleeting and distant, as if even the wildlife hesitated to linger too long.
Golden shafts of morning light filtered through the leaves, painting the forest floor in dappled warmth, but it did little to ease the dull ache in Lyria's muscles or the unease that gnawed at her chest. Their last confrontation at the tavern with the Fallen felt like a lifetime ago, though the bruises still throbbed. The path ahead was little more than a suggestion, a fading memory that twisted and vanished beneath the underbrush.
"How much farther, Kael?" Lyria's voice cracked through the stillness, tight with fatigue and edged in frustration. Her breath came in faint puffs, visible in the morning chill.
Kael trudged ahead, broad shoulders tense beneath his pack as he parted the thick brush with a grunt. "Not far now," he said, though the words carried no certainty.
"Not far?" Lyria stopped, hands braced on her hips, her emerald eyes sharp and unyielding. "That's what you said an hour ago. You sure we're not just wandering in circles?"
Kael paused but didn't look back. "We're not lost," he said, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. He adjusted his pack and pressed forward, eyes fixed on the invisible path.
"Oh, brilliant," Lyria muttered, more to herself than to him. "Absolutely brilliant. I swear, Kael, if I collapse out here and become one with the moss—"
"Then at least you'll be cozy," he shot back, a faint grin curling his lips.
Despite herself, Lyria snorted, the tension easing a little. Their banter was a well-worn trail, more reliable than the one they walked. In the silence that followed, the sound of their footsteps—leaves crunching, twigs snapping—became a rhythm, guiding them forward.
At last, the trees thinned, and a gleam of light revealed a stream cutting across the path like a silver ribbon. The water sparkled in the sunlight, the gentle gurgle a welcome reprieve from the silence of the woods.
Kael's expression brightened, relief breaking through his stoic mask. "There," he said, gesturing toward the far bank. "The village is just across."
Lyria let out a ragged breath and sagged slightly, brushing damp strands of chestnut hair from her forehead. "Finally," she sighed, her voice softening with gratitude and disbelief. "I was beginning to think the forest had eaten it."
Kael chuckled, his eyes briefly distant. "My dad and I passed through here once. Took on a job not far from the village."
That sparked her interest. "What kind of job?"
"Duskhollow trouble," he said, stepping closer to the stream, scanning for a bridge or shallow crossing. "Nasty piece of work. Ever heard of one?"
"Only rumors," Lyria replied, falling in beside him. "Never seen one myself."
"They're worse than the stories," Kael said, his tone shifting, slowing. "Fast. Slippery. They don't walk—just float, all twitching tendrils and drifting like smoke. No legs. No real face either. Just… a cloak and those eyes. Blood-yellow. Always watching, even in the dark. They don't blink. Just stare like they already know how you'll die."
Lyria shivered. "Lovely image. Sounds like a bedtime tale meant to keep kids up all night."
He laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Took us three days to bring it down. Afterward, we stayed a bit, helped the villagers get back on their feet. Dad always liked to linger when people were singing his praises."
"Garrik?" she asked, the smile returning to her lips. "He never could resist a warm fire and someone willing to pour him another drink."
Kael smiled, a wistful glint in his eyes. "That was him, alright. Come on. There's a bridge this way."
The wooden bridge creaked beneath their weight, its boards weathered and slick with moss. Beyond, the village emerged—small, quiet, nestled at the forest's edge like it had grown from the very earth. Thatched roofs slouched against age-old stone walls, smoke absent from every chimney.
And it was silent.
No voices. No bustle. No signs of life.
Lyria's hand hovered near her sickles. Her gaze swept over the empty street. "Kael... this doesn't feel right. Are you sure this is it?"
"It's the right place," he said, but his voice wavered. He forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's someone here we can ask—Ms. Miller. She hosted us last time."
They moved quickly now, as if speed might outpace the creeping dread. At the village's edge stood a lone house, leaning slightly with age. Its walls bore the wear of years and storms, and yet it remained stubbornly upright. Apart from the others, it looked less like part of the village and more like a sentinel watching over it.
"What's an old woman doing way out here on her own?" Lyria asked, frowning.
"She says the forest speaks to her out here. I never figured out if she was joking," Kael said with a small smile. He stepped up and knocked. "Ms. Miller? It's Kael!"
A rustle, a pause—then the door creaked open, revealing a small, wiry woman with silver hair piled atop her head. Her eyes, though faded, were sharp as ever.
"Kael?" she breathed, blinking at him.
He grinned wide. "Still breathing."
Ms. Miller let out a delighted laugh and pulled him into a hug. "Didn't think I'd see you again, boy."
"Been meaning to stop by," he murmured, hugging her with surprising gentleness. "Ms. Miller, meet Lyria."
"A pleasure," Lyria said politely, eyes still scanning the silent streets.
Ms. Miller tilted her head, a sly twinkle in her eye. "Well, well. Is this your lovely wife?"
Kael's face turned a spectacular shade of red. "No! Gods, no. She's just—uh—we're not—"
Lyria burst into laughter, her fatigue forgotten. "Friend," she said, flashing Ms. Miller a grin. "Just a friend."
"Pity," Ms. Miller replied, ushering them inside. "Tea? Or something stronger?"
"Tea's perfect," Lyria said.
"Ale, if you've got it," Kael added, already loosening his pack.
The interior of the house felt worlds away from the silence outside—cozy and alive. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling like old blessings, and the hearth crackled softly, bathing the room in amber light. The scent of rosemary and woodsmoke wove through the air.
"Lovely place," Lyria said genuinely, running her fingers along a braided vine on the wall.
Ms. Miller handed them their drinks, then sat with a soft sigh. Kael took a slow sip, then leaned forward.
"How's Garrik?" he asked, voice low.
Ms. Miller's smile faded. "Gone. Said it was a big one. Left alone. Stubborn man."
Kael looked down. "Yeah. That sounds like him."
A pause.
Lyria broke the silence. "The village… it's too quiet."
Ms. Miller's eyes drifted to the window, haunted. "So you noticed."
Kael straightened, worry returning to his face. "What happened?"
Her voice dropped. "It came a month ago. Tall, twisted. Looked human at first—but the way it moved… wrong. It spoke to us, Kael. In our tongue. And then it took the children. Only the young ones."
Lyria's heart clenched. Her hand found her sickles again.
"Those who stayed behind…" Ms. Miller's voice faltered. "They couldn't bear the loss. Many fled. Others gave up. Some never woke up the next day."
Kael sat back, pale and silent, rage simmering beneath the surface.
"You couldn't have stopped it," he said finally.
Ms. Miller looked at him, eyes shimmering. "And yet I stayed. While they vanished."
"You endured," Lyria whispered, kneeling beside her. "That matters."
They sat in silence, broken only by the crackle of fire and the weight of grief.
Eventually, Kael cleared his throat. "We need supplies. Just for a short trip south."
Ms. Miller nodded. "Stay the night. I'll gather what I can."
"We don't want to impose," Kael started.
"Nonsense," she said with a smirk. "Plenty of room for you… lovers."
Kael spluttered again, Lyria cackling beside him. "I like her," she said.
As Kael helped clean up, he staggered slightly, one hand pressed to his side, hiding the pulse of pain that flared beneath his cloak.
"Don't take too long, hero," Lyria called.
"Yeah," he muttered, forcing a smile.
But as he glanced out the window, a chill crept down his spine. The village held its breath, and for the briefest moment… he could've sworn the shadows were watching.