Night did not fall gently.
It came down heavy, pressed against the forest like a lid slammed shut. Snow had stopped hours ago, but the cold remained, clinging to bark and stone and cloth alike. The hut stood silent among the trees, its shape half-swallowed by shadow, its windows dark and lifeless. No wind reached it. No sound followed it.
Inside, the air was stale but warm enough to breathe without pain.
Marna lay on her side atop an old mattress, one arm slung loosely over the blanket. Sleep had taken her quickly, exhaustion winning out over unease. Beside her, Lyra slept shallowly, breaths uneven, her face pale even in the dim glow of the dying hearth. Fever had crept into her sometime after sunset, quiet and stubborn, settling into her bones without protest.
The fire cracked once. Then again. Then went still.
Marna stirred.
At first, she thought it was the cold. A tightening around her chest, a pressure that made breathing difficult. Her brows knit together, irritation blooming before fear had time to follow. She shifted slightly, intending to pull the blanket closer.
The pressure worsened.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes snapped open.
Something was sitting on her.
Not heavy in weight, but absolute in presence. A shadow pressed against her body, close enough that she could feel warmth where there should have been none. It had the shape of a woman—arms, legs, a torso leaning forward—but its edges blurred as if reality itself refused to hold onto it. From its back, long tendrils unfurled slowly, like living strands of darkness, curling and coiling in the air before tightening.
One of them wrapped around her throat.
Marna's breath cut off completely.
Her instincts kicked in before panic could settle. Her hands moved, sharp and fast, fingers scraping against cloth as she reached for the short sword kept beneath the mattress. Her vision darkened at the edges, heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The blade came free.
She swung without hesitation.
Steel passed cleanly through the shadow's neck.
The thing recoiled, soundless, its body splitting apart like smoke torn by wind. The pressure vanished instantly. Marna gasped, dragging air into her lungs as she rolled off the bed and landed hard on her feet.
"Lyra!" she hissed.
Lyra jolted awake at once, confusion flashing across her face. "M–Marna? What—"
Marna didn't answer. Her eyes were already scanning the room. The shadow had retreated, thinning as it drifted back toward the far corner, tendrils withdrawing into its back like snakes slipping into holes.
Then it vanished.
Marna stepped closer to Lyra, placing herself between her and the empty space. Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword.
"Get up," Marna said quietly, but firmly. "Now."
Lyra swallowed and nodded, pushing herself upright despite the dizziness tugging at her head. "What was that?" she whispered.
"Something bad," Marna replied. "And it's not done."
As if summoned by her words, the air behind them rippled.
The shadow reappeared from Lyra's blind spot.
Marna turned just in time, blade flashing upward as tendrils lashed toward her face. Metal met darkness with a shrill scrape. She grabbed Lyra's wrist without looking and pulled.
"Run."
They burst out of the room together.
The hallway beyond was wrong.
It stretched farther than it should have, walls bending outward, ceiling rising as if the hut itself were breathing. Doors lined both sides, identical and endless, their wood warped and uneven. The floor creaked underfoot, the sound echoing far too long.
Lyra stumbled but didn't fall.
"Where's Klen?" she asked, panic sharpening her voice.
"Somewhere inside," Marna answered, already moving. "We find him."
They tried the nearest door.
Empty.
Another.
Another.
Each room was different—some bare, some filled with broken furniture, some narrow enough to make breathing feel difficult. The hall twisted behind them, changing when they weren't looking.
Behind them, the sound of something moving followed.
—
Klen slept.
Or thought he did.
The moment the shadow touched his forehead, the world folded inward.
The real Klen—the one lying on the futon, the one who had barely slept since entering the forest—felt his body go rigid. His breath slowed against his will. A pressure settled behind his eyes, dragging him downward.
He opened his eyes.
He stood inside the hut.
But not as it was now.
This hut was alive.
Light spilled through clean windows. The air smelled of bread and old wood. Laughter echoed faintly from another room.
The dream Klen was a child.
Barefoot. Thin. Wrapped in clothes that didn't quite fit. His hands were rough with work, knuckles scarred and red from cold water and splinters.
The real Klen watched from nowhere and everywhere at once.
The orphanage lady sat by the hearth, her hair streaked with gray, her voice gentle but tired. She smiled as the child handed her a bowl.
"Careful," she said softly. "You'll burn yourself one day."
"I won't," the boy replied. "I know how to do it."
The memory wavered.
Time slipped.
The woman lay in bed now, breath shallow. The boy knelt beside her, hands shaking as he held hers.
"You'll be fine," he said, voice cracking. "I'll do everything. I promise."
She smiled again, weaker this time. "I know."
Then she was gone.
The real Klen felt something twist inside his chest.
The dream did not pause to let him breathe.
The boy grew.
Days blurred into years. The hut filled with children—two, three, then more. Crying, laughter, hunger, warmth. The boy became a young man, shoulders broader, eyes older than they should have been.
He cooked. Cleaned. Protected.
When food ran low, he went without.
When winter came, he worked harder.
When one of the children cried at night, he was there.
"Please," a small voice said, clutching his shirt. "Don't go."
The dream Klen hugged the child tightly. "I'll come back," he said. "I always do."
The world cracked.
War.
The dream Klen marched with others, armor heavy, breath frosting the air. Blood stained snow. Pain ripped through his side as steel found flesh.
The real Klen watched, helpless, as the dream staggered forward, teeth clenched, refusing to fall.
Another break.
The hut again.
Smoke.
Fire.
The children screamed.
The dream Klen ran, ignoring pain, hands burning as he tried to reach them. Flames blocked every path. Heat roared, unforgiving.
"Help them!" the real Klen shouted, though no sound left his mouth.
The dream Klen fell to his knees.
He sobbed.
Behind him, the shadow appeared.
Her arms wrapped around him gently.
Wings unfurled.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
The real Klen stumbled backward, terror flooding his veins as the dream continued without mercy.
The transformed figure rose into the sky.
The city below burned.
Screams filled the air.
The dream Klen descended like judgment, tearing through stone and flesh alike. No mercy. No hesitation. Power lashed outward, leveling buildings, shattering lives.
The real Klen shook violently.
"No," he whispered. "Stop."
The shadow stood behind him now.
Closer.
Watching.
He ran.
—
Marna slammed another door shut behind them as tendrils snapped at her heels.
"They're multiplying," she said through clenched teeth.
Lyra's breathing was ragged, but her eyes were sharp. "They're slower when they reform."
"Good. Keep watching."
They turned a corner—and nearly collided with the shadow as it drifted through the wall ahead.
Marna stepped forward without thinking.
She charged.
Her movements were clean, trained. Every step deliberate. She ducked beneath a tendril strike, blade carving upward in a tight arc. The shadow twisted away, floating back as tendrils lashed out in retaliation.
Marna pressed in, refusing to give space.
"Lyra—stay back!"
"I won't," Lyra said.
A tendril snapped toward Marna's side. Lyra moved without thinking, stepping into view.
"Hey!" she shouted.
The shadow turned.
Lyra dodged, barely, the tendril slicing past her shoulder and biting into the wall instead. She threw the sword she'd grabbed earlier toward Marna.
Marna caught it mid-motion.
She surged forward, momentum carrying her blade straight through the shadow's center.
The figure split apart, dissolving into smoke.
Marna didn't stop running.
Blood trickled down her temple, but she didn't slow.
"Klen," she muttered. "Hold on."
The maze shifted again.
Somewhere deep within the hut, Klen screamed silently.
And the night pressed on.