The wind carried something strange that morning.
Lyris stood at the edge of the southern fields, barefoot, watching the mist curl like tired ghosts over the yellowing wheat. His shirt, stitched from rough flax, clung to his shoulders with the damp of the dawn. He didn't mind. Cold sharpened the mind. Helped thoughts cut deeper.
Behind him, the village stirred. Chickens clucked irritably. Wood creaked under old footsteps. A door slammed twice, blown by the wind, caught and slammed again. Normal sounds. But nothing felt normal.
Not after last night.
The scream still lingered in his ears. It hadn't come from a human. It hadn't come from anything he'd ever read about either. Not a howl, not a cry. More like a warning. One that tore through the night like a splinter through skin.
He crouched low and touched the soil. Moist. Recently disturbed. The marks weren't left by a plow or a boot. The indentations curved in too sharp, and too deep. Spread too far apart.
Something had moved through the field.
"System," he said, barely above a breath. "List fauna within a two-mile radius."
[Wolves. Deer. Wraith-hares. Cave serpents—hibernating. Local birds: sparrows, crows.]
"Anything that screams?"
[Wraith-hares emit high-frequency distress calls. Non-predatory.]
"That wasn't a hare."
[Affirmative. Unknown origin.]
He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "You're supposed to have answers."
> [You're supposed to ask the right questions.]
A flicker of dry amusement passed through him. The system wasn't helpful. Not in the hand-holding way. It didn't offer quests, titles, rewards. It functioned more like a silent observer—one that responded when he scratched at the edges of truth.
He walked back toward the house.
Inside, Aela was slicing root vegetables with a worn iron knife. The air smelled of broth and something faintly herbal.
"You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares again?"
"Not quite."
She gave him a side glance, but didn't push. She wasn't the kind to ask questions. Not about things that didn't have easy answers.
"There's clearer water from the east well," she said. "Go fetch a pail. And don't take too long—the sun's moving faster today."
The east.
He nodded, took the wooden pail, and stepped outside.
The path to the east well wound past the edge of the village, where fences stopped pretending to be protective. The trees grew closer there. Dense. Shadowed. The dirt was soft beneath his feet, but the silence made it feel brittle.
As he neared the well, he noticed the absence of birds.
No caws. No rustle. Not even the rhythmic hum of insects.
Something had passed through.
He lowered the bucket into the well and waited. The rope creaked.
Then—
A breath. Close.
Not his.
Slow. Wet. Inhaling like a man savoring his last moment.
He didn't turn.
Didn't move.
He kept his gaze fixed on the well, watching the ripple of water below.
Predators were like readers—they followed movement. Anticipated reaction.
The breath stopped.
He slowly pulled the bucket up. The water sloshed, heavy.
He turned.
Nothing.
Just trees.
But in the soil beside the well, a mark had been left. One print. Three toes. Clawed. Deep. Not a boot. Not an animal.
He crouched beside it.
Measured the depth with a stick.
Too heavy to be a wolf. Too light to be a bear. And too quiet to be either.
He returned to the house with the water. Aela was setting the table.
"All quiet?" she asked.
"For now."
She looked at him a moment longer than usual. As if sensing the pieces behind his voice.
But she said nothing.
That night, Lyris didn't sleep. He lay awake, tracing the shape of the print over and over in his thoughts.
At some point, the system spoke.
[New Pattern Logged. Unknown Entity. No match. Continue observation.]
He whispered, "Do others have systems like you?"
[Unknown.]
"Will you help me survive?"
[That depends on your decisions.]
Honest. Brutal. Like truth. Like the kind of editor he used to hate.
In the morning, a search party was called. A boy had gone missing.
Tennen. Six years old. Last seen chasing something near the fields.
The villagers fanned out. Aela left with the others. She kissed Lyris's forehead like he was still a child.
He watched her disappear into the trees.
Then he went the opposite way.
Because in every story, the answers never lay where people looked. They lay where people feared to go.
He returned to the east. Past the well. Through the treeline. Into the cold breath of the forest.
There, shrouded in overgrowth, was a chapel.
Old stone. Cracked windows. An altar long since abandoned.
He stepped inside.
The air shifted. Colder. Weighted.
Tennen sat curled at the base of the altar, silent.
Lyris moved carefully.
Then he saw it.
In the corner.
Too tall. Too thin. Bones beneath stretched skin. Eyes like forgotten prayers.
The creature tilted its head.
Did not move. Did not breathe.
[Observation Logged. Entity: Specter Class – Uncatalogued.]
Lyris did not run.
He stared back.
The creature hissed—not with anger. With recognition.
Then it vanished.
Not fled.
Vanished.
Tennen stirred, blinking.
Lyris took his hand.
They left the chapel in silence.
Back at the village, no one asked questions.
Tennen didn't speak. Not that day. Not the next.
But every night, Lyris felt the pull of the woods.
Not fear.
Invitation.
That night, as he lay beneath his blanket, the system spoke once more.
[Mental Resistance +1. New Entry Added: Specter Class - Observation Tier.]
He stared at the wooden ceiling.
This world didn't reward power.
It rewarded understanding.
And he—Lyris—was finally starting to understand.