The night was drowned in impenetrable darkness. Each gust of wind rattled the branches of the ancient trees, creating a sound that seemed less like a rustle and more like a scream torn from the shadows. From the valleys of Saya Forest rose strange, unsettling noises—sometimes the cry of a distant beast, sometimes the whisper of leaves that carried a restlessness sharp enough to unsettle the soul. This night felt far longer and more dreadful than any other, as though time itself had frozen in terror.
Amid this darkness, a weary man trudged home after a long day of labor. His steps, heavy with exhaustion, should have brought comfort beneath the trees, yet instead, they stirred an unexplainable unease within him. He felt as though something was following—yet every time he turned, there was nothing but the endless black and the whispering woods.
Suddenly, a mist rose before him—dense, chilling, and suffocating—blurring his sight until even the path vanished. From within that fog came a faint scraping sound, and then he appeared. A figure, cloaked in black. His hat tilted low, his long dark coat brushing silently against the wind, creating a faint rasp with each movement. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hat, yet for a fleeting instant, his eyes glowed red in the mist—only to vanish again.
The figure moved forward, slowly, deliberately, each step unnervingly measured, as if the earth itself yielded silently beneath his feet. He raised his hand—thin, dark, and carrying an unnatural chill—and extended it toward the trembling man. At that very moment, the wind howled violently, making the trees groan like voices crying out in pain. Then, from beneath the figure's lowered hat, words emerged. Strange, guttural, incomprehensible sounds, as though the earth itself had found a voice and was speaking in the language of the grave.
The weary man's body convulsed. His legs gave way, and he collapsed onto his knees. His heart pounded so violently it seemed it would tear through his chest. Tears streamed from his eyes, though he could not understand why. He tried to scream, but his throat had turned to dust, his voice locked within him.
The black-coated figure let out a laugh—low, demonic, echoing through the forest like a curse. It was not merely a sound; it was a vibration that shook the very leaves, making them quiver as though the trees themselves recoiled. It was the kind of laughter that chilled blood and froze the marrow within the bones.
And then, just as slowly as he had come, the figure turned away. The mist seemed to devour his steps, swallowing him whole. For a moment, under the pale light of the moon, only the shadow of his hat lingered—and then even that dissolved into the darkness.
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"Come, come! I've been waiting for you," King Ajal said, a sharp smile curling on his lips as he addressed the man in the black hat and coat.
"It is my fortune that the great King was waiting for me," the man replied, bowing low with exaggerated reverence, his voice dripping with mock respect.
"Infidel!" Ajal's smile vanished, his tone hardening like steel. "You know why I summoned you here."
"Yes, King. You want me to bring Haman to you," the man—Kaafir—answered, his head still lowered but a sly curl tugging at his lips.
Ajal clenched his jaw, his fists tightening on the arms of his throne. "Bringing Haman to me is not within your power—nor within anyone's. Haman slips through every hand that tries to seize him. Your sorcery may work on the rest of the world, but not on him. He never accepts defeat." Against his own will, Ajal's voice carried a note of reluctant admiration.
"Forgive me, King," Kaafir straightened, his shadowed eyes burning with a strange gleam. "But when did I ever say that I would seize Haman and drag him before you?"
"What do you mean?" Ajal asked, his brows furrowing, a rare uncertainty flashing across his face.
"King…" Kaafir stepped closer, lowering his voice into a serpent's whisper. "Leave this task to me. You need not ask how. I will not move against Haman directly—but indirectly. And when I am done, you shall see him before you. Watch, and you will understand." His shoulders shook with a low, sinister laugh, echoing through the chamber like a hiss in the dark.
"Very well," Ajal said coldly, leaning forward, his gaze piercing. "Just do not bring me despair."
"Despair…" Kaafir muttered under his breath, his lips twisting into a crooked grin, "…that is my true craft."
"What?" Ajal snapped, his eyes narrowing, uncertain if he had heard correctly.
"Nothing, King," Kaafir said smoothly, brushing it aside with a quick bow, though his wicked smile lingered.
______
Kaafir was no ordinary servant of shadows. He carried within him a power so cruel, so devastating, that even the bravest souls would tremble at the mere whisper of it. He could reach into a man's mind and twist it, turning the brightest of memories into a pit of despair. A joyous wedding day could, at his touch, become the haunting image of betrayal. A mother's embrace could transform into the memory of her dying screams. Victories once cherished would rot into recollections of bitter loss.
And once those poisoned memories sank into the heart, there was no escape. The victim's laughter curdled into sobs; hope drained from their eyes like a dying flame. Soon, despair took root—so heavy, so suffocating—that the only door left open was death itself. Many, broken beyond repair, ended their own lives, not knowing that the despair was never truly theirs, but a venom Kaafir had carefully dripped into their souls.
It was through this very gift—this curse—that Kaafir had become the silent executioner. He did not need blades or chains, nor did he stain his hands with blood. His victims delivered death to themselves, and he merely watched, smiling, as another life was snuffed out under the weight of hopelessness.
But the true horror was not merely in the deaths he left behind—it was in the way his shadow lingered long after he had gone. Even when Kaafir disappeared into the mist, people swore they could still hear his laughter echoing in their ears, a laughter so venomous that it seeped into dreams and turned sleep into torment.
Children wailed in the night, whispering of a man in a black coat watching from their windows. The bravest warriors, men who had faced armies without fear, woke trembling, drenched in sweat, convinced that Kaafir's eyes were still upon them.
He was not a man who came and left—he was a stain, a sickness of the soul. His presence clung to every corner of Saya Forest, turning silence into dread and shadows into omens. The mere mention of his name made tongues falter and hearts quake.
For Kaafir was not simply a servant of shadows.
He was despair itself, walking in human form.
And despair… never dies.
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