Shadow Crag — a small island, considered one of the colonies of the Green Reef.
It was home to countless villages, where people worked for almost nothing.
Today, the whole island lay silent beneath the never-ending rain.
Nothing unusual — the season was generous with mud and despair.
The sky, like a torn bucket, soaked the land through, turning streets into a filthy swamp.
With the rain came a biting wind, hurling droplets through the air like tiny needles piercing your face.
Every step in this muck was torture. A harsh trial for those already carrying the weight of poverty.
And yet, life on the island went on.
The village of Blackwater.
Here you could find kids, teens, adults — all sorts of strange creatures you'd never see in proper society.
And they all shared one thing in common:
They worked. All of them.
Among the silent fever of motion, two figures trudged forward.
Too young to be taken for slaves. Too worn down to be called children.
They were dressed in torn, filthy rags. Their shirts hung in tatters, pants held up by string, and their shoes looked like crushed boots that had long given up on durability.
Their clothes were so thin, the wind seemed to pass through them before realizing they were people.
— Damn it, I hate this goddamn season! My whole body's soaked through... — Gloomer cursed.
His face was just like anyone else's here — oval, with a mess of black hair so dirty not even the rain could wash it. He looked just as miserable as the rest.
Beside him walked another boy — just as skinny, with sunken cheeks and dull, lifeless eyes.
Even the stick they used to carry water didn't make the burden on their shoulders feel any lighter.
— You know, I never missed your whining, — said the second boy, glancing at Gloomer. — Still not used to your favorite puddles?
His voice barely made it through the downpour. But Gloomer had sharp hearing.
He paused before answering.
— And seriously, why the hell are you even complaining? It's just rain! Okay, a lot of rain… but come on. Did you forget last year when it rained sideways? We almost became part of someone's damn fence.
Suddenly, a gust of wind ripped a branch loose and flung it past them — it whistled just over their heads, but neither flinched. Like it happened every day.
Lark didn't even break stride:
— You know why this is happening? Because our island respects Mother Nature. And she blesses us in return. Now we have a great water supply! And most importantly, you might finally wash that nasty hair of yours. This downpour might even carry away that god-awful stench you call a body.
His name was Lark — the one who'd been through all this crap with Gloomer since childhood.
Lark could justify anything. And unlike most, he was obsessed with the so-called Mother Nature goddess. Maybe no one worshipped her as much as Lark did.
The village was home to all sorts. Regular folk who worked from sunrise to night. A few more important types who could afford to rest. But for the most part, everyone — except the elders — lived in poverty.
Gloomer and Lark stumbled forward, struggling to stay balanced. Near the wooden houses, carrying a stick like that required max precision.
Gloomer, recently returned to his home village after months of work elsewhere, fixed his eyes on the familiar road that led through the woods to the main gate.
There, guards were always posted — warriors in full armor who watched travelers with amused smirks. They were part of the village, its shield, without which monsters would have long since razed it.
But now the gates were empty.
— Hey, Lark. Where'd the gate guards go? — Gloomer asked, not breaking stride.
Lark gave him a strange look.
— What guards? The only one here who's gonna protect you — is you.
Something about his voice was off. Unsettling. But Gloomer didn't notice right away. His mind was stuck on something else — the fact that they'd nearly dropped the damn stick.
— Hey, hey, careful! Everything's about to fall because of you!
— Me? Please. It's just the wind over there — blew a bit harder than usual! And don't forget who found this dumb, crooked stick in the first place.
They kept bickering all the way until they reached the wooden house they were aiming for.
A boy stood on the porch.
One look, and it was obvious — he was from a different breed.
Taller than them, maybe 170 centimeters. Slim, with neatly cut, freshly washed hair. He wasn't smiling. Didn't even look pleased.
Compared to Gloomer, he looked already halfway to being an adult.
— What the hell took you morons so long?! While I was waiting, even Ars managed to take a dump — he shouted.
His name was Vale, and he looked like a zombie.
Honestly, if Gloomer hadn't known him personally, he would've thought the guy was a zombie.
Vale reminded you of the dead — not because he was lifeless, but because next to everyone else, he looked too alive, and that was annoying.
Ignoring his yelling, they carefully lowered the wooden pole with the water bucket onto the ground, and the very next second, collapsed from exhaustion.
— Damn it, one more round and I'm gonna die — Gloomer groaned.
— If anyone's to blame, it's Gloomer, — Lark muttered. — He's got a gift for making everything worse.
Gloomer ignored that.
— Ars, it's your turn now! — Vale called out.
Ars came out immediately, not even sparing a glance at the two of them.
— Man, why'd they come back so fast? I could've used another minute lying down.
Ars looked like the other two — just as worn out — but compared to them, he didn't talk as much. His brown eyes and swollen skin always gave away his fatigue.
Vale looked over at him and replied:
— Hey, if you three idiots keep going like this, we won't finish even by tomorrow. Fill it up and move!
Without waiting for a reply, he rushed off.
Ars lazily picked up the remaining buckets, filled them, and with a yawn, followed after him.
Lark opened one eye, watching them go.
— Ugh... I wish I had his energy. Why is it that I always get the most tired — physically and mentally?
Hmm. I think I know the reason.
That idiot Gloomer drains every drop of mental energy I've got. I honestly wonder if I have any left.
He can complain and argue nonstop, in any weather, under any circumstances.
No doubt about it — it's his fault I'm in this state.
Once the other two were gone, a wet silence settled around them.
Their clothes, soaked through, looked more like scraps of fabric than actual garments.
By evening, they had to dry them by the fire.
And those clothes couldn't hide the countless wounds on their bodies.
The worst things you could imagine on this earth were just normal here.
Gloomer and Lark didn't even know how old they were.
The only thing they knew — they were still just kids.
Kids who didn't even understand what they wanted from life.
Every day since childhood, it was the same film playing on repeat.
Work.
Thankfully, they had people to spend the little free time with.
Maybe that was the only thing keeping them from losing hope completely.
Today's task was simple — replenish the village's water supply.
Water here was a luxury, and there were never enough workers willing to haul it.
And then—
From right beside Gloomer came a voice.
🎵 "River sings, dream calls,
but Gloomer stinks — and still he hauls..." 🎵
— Lark sang, clearly improvising as he went.
Lark loved music.
He went to church not just to pray, but to sing in the choir.
Gloomer scowled and cursed under his breath —
but in the end, he joined in too.
Even if his voice was shaky with fatigue, and the song was absolutely awful.
It was just another day in Blackwater.
Same as the hundreds before it —
The same suffering, the same puddles, the same faces, all tinted with that faint sense of doom.
Ironic, that this place was called home.
Even the mud here felt oppressed.
Everything looked as it always did,
but Gloomer couldn't shake the feeling of unease.
The smell.
During the rainy season, the air usually reeked of damp and shit —
there were no toilets here, so people just did their business wherever.
Then you'd get the added bonus of Vale's eternally sweaty feet,
and sometimes rotting wood.
But now… there was something else.
Something faint — but wrong.
Using what little strength he had left, Gloomer stepped outside —
into the yard, where the rain only touched the ground in soft, hesitant strokes.
He stopped, lifted his head slightly —
like an animal, sniffing the air.
Blood?
Rot?
Or—
— No idea, — Gloomer muttered, crouching down and looking around. — I'm just being paranoid...
He simply kept watching.
Seconds crawled by, thick with tension.
Then it hit him.
That strange silence.
No animals.
No birds.
During the rainy season they'd usually hide, but they didn't vanish.
The local creatures had adapted to the wet.
But now, the village — always noisy with crows and stray dogs — felt... empty.
Not deserted — people still worked, cursed, hauled buckets.
But the background, the usual chaotic soundtrack, was gone.
No buzzing insects.
No howling dogs.
No wings flapping.
The only sound left, slicing through the thick silence —
Was the rain.
And nothing else.