The darkness inside the wardrobe was a suffocating, living thing.
It was thick with the scent of mothballs and old, forgotten fabrics, a smell Rickon now associated with absolute terror.
He held his breath, straining his ears, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
He could feel Yara's heart pounding against his back, fast and frantic like a frightened rabbit.
Her small body trembling so violently he feared the vibrations alone might give them away.
He tightened his arm around her, a silent, desperate promise to protect her.
Outside their cramped sanctuary, the house was no longer their own.
The monstrous intruders advanced with a horrifying mix of wild, brute force and cold, calculated purpose.
A heavy thud vibrated through the floor as the living room couch was overturned.
The tinkling crash of shattering glass followed—the family photos on the mantelpiece. Each sound was a fresh spike of fear in Rickon's chest. The creatures communicated in a series of guttural clicks and low, wet snarls, a language that seemed to scrape against the inside of his skull.
The heavy, non-human footsteps grew closer, stomping down the central hallway. One set of steps, heavier than the others, paused right outside his bedroom door. Rickon's blood turned to ice. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into the musty fabric of an old coat. Don't come in here. Please, just go away.
The bedroom door splintered open with a deafening crack. The creature entered, its claws making a dry, scraping sound on the wooden floorboards. It sniffed the air, a series of loud, wet inhalations that made Rickon's stomach churn. He could feel Yara trying to shrink herself into an impossibly small ball behind him. He didn't dare breathe. The silence stretched for an eternity, thick and heavy with unspoken dread.
Then came a dull thud as one of the creatures bumped against the wardrobe. The old wood groaned in protest. The scraping stopped. The sniffing grew louder, closer. A coarse, jagged claw scrabbled at the thin slit of the door, prying it open.
With a final, violent wrench, the doors were torn from their hinges.
The hellish, blood-red light of the alien moon flooded their hiding spot, blinding them. Rickon blinked, his eyes watering as they struggled to adjust. Framed in the doorway stood a nightmare. It was vaguely man-shaped but horribly wrong, its skin the colour of a day-old bruise, stretched taut over a skeletal frame. Its limbs were too long, ending in razor-sharp, blackened claws. Two short, thick horns curled from its brow, and its eyes glowed with a malevolent, internal fire. A foul, coppery stench, like a slaughterhouse left to rot in the sun, washed over them.
Before Rickon could even process the horror, a clawed hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him from the wardrobe. He landed hard on the floor, the air knocked from his lungs. He had done his job; his body had completely shielded Yara from their initial view. She remained hidden in the dark recess, buried under the old comforter.
"Hey, ugly! Over here!" Rickon gasped out, scrambling backward on his elbows, trying to draw all the attention onto himself. A second, more insect-like creature skittered into the room, its multiple legs clicking rapidly on the floor.
The first monster let out a guttural roar and kicked him squarely in the ribs. A white-hot, searing pain exploded in his side, and he heard a sickening crack. He cried out, curling into a ball as another kick landed on his back. They were on him now, a whirlwind of merciless blows. A fist that felt like a bag of rocks slammed into his jaw, and the world swam in a haze of red. He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. Through the pain, a single, absurd thought flickered in his mind, 'Well, at least I don't have to do the dishes now.' The thought was so insane it was almost funny, a tiny spark of hysteria in the face of agonizing oblivion.
He was nothing to them. A nuisance. A piece of furniture to be broken. One of the horned beasts pinned him to the floor with a heavy, clawed foot on his chest, pressing down until he could barely draw a breath. It raised its other hand, and Rickon saw the glint of a crude, jagged blade, like a shard of sharpened rock. It aimed the point directly at his heart. This was it. He was going to die. I'm sorry, Yara.
As the monster's arm tensed for the final, killing blow, a sound cut through the air.
It wasn't a scream or a cry. It was the smallest, most pitiful noise imaginable—a tiny, involuntary squeak of pure terror that escaped from behind the pile of clothes in the wardrobe.
Every monster in the room froze.
The creature with its foot on Rickon's chest slowly turned its head, its glowing eyes narrowing as it stared at the wardrobe. The one holding the dagger lowered its arm, its attention completely diverted.
A new figure appeared in the bedroom doorway, forcing the others to part. This one was different. Taller, broader, and radiating an aura of chilling authority. While the others were brutish thugs, this one carried itself with a terrifying intelligence. Its horns were longer, sweeping back from its head like a crown, and its bruised-purple skin was marked with faint, intricate patterns. It surveyed the scene—the battered boy on the floor, the lesser monsters standing at attention, and the dark wardrobe.
Its gaze was sharp, calculating. It took a slow step into the room, its eyes locked on the source of the sound. Then, it spoke. The words were a cascade of harsh, guttural syllables, a command that vibrated with absolute power.
"Kra'shel tikta vren'sa nol'tar."
One of the horned grunts immediately turned, strode to the wardrobe, and began tearing away the clothes Rickon had so carefully arranged. A moment later, it dragged Yara out into the ghastly red light.
She was trembling, her face streaked with tears and pale with fright, but in the crimson glow, her long dark hair and wide, innocent eyes made her seem like a fragile porcelain doll. The leader's glowing eyes widened slightly, a flicker of what looked like genuine fascination crossing its monstrous features. It was intrigued. This small, beautiful, terrified creature was far more interesting than the broken male on the floor. It tilted its head, then made a gesture to its underlings—a sharp, decisive flick of its clawed fingers. It would take her. A prize. A pet.
As another monster grabbed Yara's arm, a shimmering distortion began to form in the middle of the room. The air twisted and warped, coalescing into a swirling, vertical vortex of energy—a portal.
Seeing Yara being dragged toward that unnatural doorway shattered something deep inside Rickon. The pain in his ribs, the blood in his mouth, the crushing weight of his failure—it all ignited into a singular, explosive surge of pure adrenaline. His world narrowed to a single purpose: save her.
With a primal roar that tore from his throat, he surged upward. The monster's foot was still on his chest, but he didn't care. He shoved against its leg with every ounce of strength he possessed. The creature, caught off guard by the sudden resistance from its nearly dead victim, stumbled back a single step.
It was all the opening Rickon needed. He scrambled to his feet, his body screaming in protest. Ignoring the fire in his ribs, he launched himself forward. He wasn't a fighter, he was a lazy, scared kid, but right now he was a desperate brother. He leaped into the air, twisting his body into a clumsy, furious kick aimed at the monster holding Yara. His heel connected with the creature's arm with a solid thud. The monster grunted in annoyance more than pain, but its grip on Yara loosened for a split second.
"RUN, YARA!" he screamed.
But there was nowhere to run.
His brief, futile act of defiance was over. The leader watched with cold amusement before giving a slight nod. One of its guards spun around and swung a heavy, metallic object—the butt of some alien weapon—in a vicious arc. Rickon didn't even have time to raise his hands.
The impact against the back of his head was a sickening, crushing blow. A flash of pure white light exploded behind his eyes, followed by an all-consuming darkness. The strength fled his limbs, and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His vision tunnelled into a tiny, fading pinhole. The last thing he saw, the last image burned into his consciousness before the blackness swallowed him whole, was his little sister's terrified face, her mouth open in a silent scream as she was dragged through the shimmering, otherworldly portal. Then, there was only silence and pain.