The village had no name Corren could see, but it smelled of wet wood, old hay, and smoke. A pair of guards stood at the gate—lean men in patched cloaks, not soldiers so much as men who'd stood still long enough to be handed a spear.
One of them straightened as Corren approached, eyes flicking from his feet to the thin slash across his side.
"You look like you met trouble," the guard said.
"I passed it," Corren replied. He didn't slow.
"Hold there. What's your business here?"
Corren stopped a few paces out. "Bandages. A roof. Gone by morning."
The guard looked at his companion, who shrugged. "Long as you've got coin."
Corren nodded once and stepped through the gate. The village was small, cobbled together around a central well and a crooked chapel. Chickens darted across muddy paths. Smoke curled from chimneys. People watched from behind shutters.
The market was closing down—two stalls of wilted vegetables and a butcher swatting flies from a hanging slab of meat. Corren nept his head low, feeling the first murmurs in the back of his mind. Faint, flickering melodies.
Not loud. Not certain.
But there.
He pressed the thought down and walked on.
The inn was at the far end, a squat building of stone and blackwood. The sign hung crooked: The Boar's Tooth. A man in a stained apron stood sweeping the front step.
"Looking for a room or a drink?" the man asked as Corren approached.
"A room. And a clean bandage."
The innkeeper's eyes landed on the blood-soaked tear in Corren's cloak. "You'll want my wife then. Mira knows a thing or two."
Corren followed him inside. The taproom was empty save for a boy chasing a carved wooden fox across the floor.
The song was fainter here. Barely a murmur.
But it brushed his ears all the same.
Mira appeared from a back door, a basket of linens on her hip. Her smile was tired but kind. "Let me see the wound."
Corren hesitated. Her song was faint—a gentle hum, uncertain but persistent. So was her husband's. Not immediate, not like the others on the road. But close.
He peeled the cloak aside. She cleaned the cut without fuss.
"You're lucky it just grazed you," she said. "Any deeper and I'd have to send for the priest."
"I don't like priests," Corren said.
Mira chuckled. "You and most of the village."
"How long have people been sick here?"
Her hands paused. "No one's sick."
Corren didn't press. The songs weren't loud enough to argue.
The innkeeper brought a bowl of stew and a key. "Room's upstairs. Second on the right. We're full up tonight, but I've no doubt you'll keep to yourself."
"I will."
Corren sat with the bowl at the far end of the taproom. The boy wandered over.
"You're not from here," the child said matter-of-factly.
Corren glanced at him. "Neither are you, not really."
The boy blinked. "Mama says we were born here."
"That's not what I meant."
The boy grinned, unfazed. "What's your name?"
"Corren."
"I'm Dren. That's my fox. Want to see it jump?"
Corren nodded once. The toy leapt from the boy's hand with a practiced flick.
For a moment, Corren heard nothing but laughter.
The stew was hot and heavy with root vegetables, bland but filling. Corren ate slowly, eyes flicking now and then to the windows, the door, the corners of the room. Nothing stirred.
After, Mira handed him a tin basin of water and pointed to a curtained nook behind the stairs. The bath was barely lukewarm, but it soothed the sting at his side. He cleaned the dirt from his hands, his arms, his feet. The blood ran in thin streams and vanished into the cracks between the boards.
Upstairs, the room was small and smelled of smoke and lavender. Corren locked the door behind him, wedged a chair beneath the handle, and laid his knife beside the pillow. He kept the window slightly ajar.
Sleep didn't come easy. It never did.
He lay there in the dark, eyes open, listening.
And though the village was quiet, the song whispered faintly at the edge of hearing—more than one, scattered and thin. Probabilities. Possibilities. Fate considering its next move.
The night broke like glass.
Screams tore through the still air, followed by the low, snarling growl of something not meant for men. Corren was already moving, blade in hand, by the time the door to his room shook in its frame.
He flung it open. Smoke curled through the hallway. Fire licked the stairs.
Down below, the taproom was chaos. Mira lay crumpled near the hearth, blood pooling under her head. Her song had stopped.
The innkeeper fought with a fire poker, swinging wildly at a shadow that moved too fast, too low. Corren saw gleaming teeth, too many limbs, and a hide that shimmered like oil.
He leapt.
The creature turned too late. It was a chupacabra—no taller than four feet, hunched and twitching. Its body was wiry and slick with mottled skin, eyes glowing faintly green beneath a skull too narrow for its jaws. Fangs jutted at odd angles, twitching in anticipation.
Corren didn't hesitate. He slid low, drawing its attention. When it lunged, he pivoted to the side and slashed the back of its knee. The beast stumbled, hissing, and Corren followed through, driving his blade upward between its ribs and twisting hard. The thing shrieked—a warbling, unnatural sound—and clawed at him blindly before collapsing in a shuddering heap.
"Dren!" the innkeeper shouted.
The boy was in the corner, clutching the wooden fox.
Corren grabbed him and hauled both to their feet.
"Go! Now!"
The door splintered. More were coming.
He shoved them through the kitchen as something massive slammed into the doorway behind them.
They ran.
The song was rising again.
Too many voices.
Too many to stop.
He didn't look back.
Not yet.