Chapter 19: The Screams from Willow Creek
The village of Willow Creek was a fragile speck of tranquility on the western border of Vaelmont. Its modest houses were built from wood and river stones, their thick thatched roofs now overgrown with dark green moss.
The village was named after the clear river that carved through it, its banks lined with willow trees whose long, slender branches trailed into the calm water, as if weeping for the fading fate of the kingdom. For the village militia, the nights were usually filled with the sound of flowing water, rustling leaves, and the occasional howl of a wolf from the distant woods.
But tonight, the forest was silent. Too silent.
Finn, a young militiaman wearing leather armor inherited from his father, stood atop a rickety wooden watchtower. He rubbed his arms, trying to ward off a chill that felt more biting than usual. It wasn't just the cold of the night air. It was a wrong kind of silence, heavy and oppressive, as if the entire forest were holding its breath, waiting for something.
"Nothing out there, Olen," he called down, his voice echoing too loudly in the stillness. "Even the crickets are quiet tonight."
Below, Commander Olen, an old veteran with a graying beard and a deeply wrinkled face, looked up. "That's exactly what worries me, kid," he replied, his voice raspy. "Nature always speaks. If it goes silent, it means something much larger is listening."
Finn was just about to reply with a joke to ease his own tension when he smelled it. A strange odor carried on the wind from the forest. It wasn't the scent of damp earth or pine needles. It was the smell of oxidized metal, like an old warehouse left to rot for centuries, mingled with the faint, sour stench of decaying flesh.
Before he could even process the strange smell, the first scream rang out from the western edge of the village.
It wasn't a scream of surprise or fear. It was a scream of pure, horrifying, agonized shock, cut off so abruptly it was as if its source had been violently ripped from this world.
Then, all hell broke loose.
From the darkness between the trees, they emerged. Not shouting bandits. Not Kaelos soldiers in neat formations. They were something else entirely. Something that shouldn't exist.
The creatures walked with a hunched, ape-like posture, their builds larger and more muscular than any human's. Their skin didn't resemble flesh; instead, it looked like a layer of heavily rusted metal, a dull reddish-brown and orange. In some places, the skin appeared to be peeling away, revealing dark-colored muscles underneath. Their eyes were two pinpricks of glowing red embers, burning with unnatural hatred—devoid of intelligence, driven only by pure hunger. The sounds they made weren't growls, but the soft clicking of their claws striking stone and an unsettling, internal grinding.
"Rusty Grawls," as Magister Calelius had named his masterpieces in his secret notes.
They carried no swords or axes. Their weapons were part of them—long claws protruding from their fingers, their edges jagged and covered in the same layer of rust.
One of the Grawls leaped onto the roof of a nearby thatched house with terrifying agility, landing soundlessly before pouncing on a panicked militiaman. Finn watched in horror from his tower as the creature's claws tore through its opponent's leather armor as easily as ripping parchment. But blood wasn't the most gruesome sight. Where the wound gaped open, the flesh and the metal of the armor's buckles instantly began to change color, turning blackened and brittle, as if thousands of years of decay had occurred in mere seconds.
"The Rust Disease."
The Grawls swarmed the village with organized brutality. They ignored the empty houses on the outskirts. Their primary targets were the militia's command post and the bridge. They were living engines of destruction, guided by a ruthless tactical intelligence.
"Hold the line!" shouted Commander Olen, his raspy voice now booming. "Protect the bridge! No matter what happens, do not let them cross!"
Finn scrambled down from the tower, his heart pounding. He and a dozen other militiamen formed a pitiful shield wall in front of the old stone bridge at the center of the village. They were fishermen, lumberjacks, and farmers holding spears, now facing a waking nightmare.
The first Grawl crashed into their line like a cannonball. Finn's wooden shield shattered into pieces. He stumbled backward, reflexively slashing his sword at the creature's arm. The blade bounced off with a dull *tink*, as if it had just struck a slab of scrap iron, sending a painful shudder up his arm.
The creature snarled, unharmed, and swung its claws in retaliation. Finn dodged desperately. The tips of the claws merely grazed his bracer. Yet, he could feel a strange, corrosive heat radiating from the scratch. He glanced at his arm. The metal there had begun to turn black, tiny flakes of rust crumbling to the ground.
The battle was a massacre. The village militia, though brave, stood no chance. Their spears snapped against the Grawls' hardened skin. Their swords dulled. Every wound they took, no matter how small, meant a slow and agonizing death.
Finn watched Commander Olen fall, his chest ripped open by three deep claw marks. The old veteran's face was pale with shock, his eyes staring in horror at his own chest, where armor and flesh seemed to fuse into a brittle, blackened mass. Amidst the chaos, Olen locked eyes with Finn, his fading gaze filled with one final, unspoken command.
"Run," he hissed, rusty blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Warn... Nightholm..."
Finn didn't want to. He wanted to die right here, alongside his friends, defending his home. But that order, and the flashing images of his mother and younger sister in Nightholm, forced him to turn around.
He ran. He stabbed an off-guard Grawl in the gap of its neck, then sprinted faster than he ever had in his entire life. He didn't look back, letting the sounds of screams and the crunching of breaking bones fuel his flight. He made it to the small stables at the edge of the village, severed the tether of the fastest horse, and vaulted onto its bare back.
As he spurred his horse out of the burning village, he threw one last glance over his shoulder. He saw one of the Grawls hoist a massive wooden barrel—an oil cask they had stored for the winter—and hurl it into the center of the village bonfire.
The ensuing explosion lit up the night, turning his village into an orange inferno, swallowing all the screams in one deafening roar of fire.
The journey to Nightholm was a blurred fever dream. The pain from the scratch on his arm spread—not like a normal ache, but like a corrosive chill creeping through his veins, a horrifying numbness. He could feel his bracer slowly crumbling into flakes of rust beneath his cloak.
His horse, pushed relentlessly, began to pant heavily, foam frothing at its mouth. But Finn didn't stop. Every time he felt his consciousness slipping, he would see Commander Olen's face again, hear the screams of his friends echoing in his mind. *Warn Nightholm.* Those words became his mantra.
Hours later, beneath the gray and unforgiving light of dawn, he finally saw it: the high towers of Vaelmont Castle looming in the distance like bony stone fingers.
He pushed his mount one last time. The loyal horse collapsed from sheer exhaustion just a few yards past the capital's main gates, sending Finn tumbling over the wet cobblestones.
The gate guards swarmed him, swords drawn. They were used to seeing weary travelers or drunken merchants. But what they saw now froze them in their tracks. It wasn't just the blood and grime. They saw the armor on the young man's arm, looking like ancient metal freshly hauled from the bottom of the sea, crumbling and rusted, with the flesh beneath it turned black.
"Commander..." Finn deliriously mumbled, trying to stand but failing, his healthy hand gripping the cloak of one of the guards. "I need... to see Commander Gregor..."
---
The door to Eldrin's study was forced open without a knock, startling him from his absentminded reverie.
Commander Gregor Vance stormed in, his face deathly pale, his breastplate stained with fresh blood and dirt from the survivor. He was not alone. Captain Philip Hanssen was right behind him, his usually optimistic face now set like stone.
"Your Grace, this is an emergency," Gregor said, panting heavily, breaking all palace protocols.
Eldrin stared at the bloodstain on his commander's armor, and his stomach twisted with a cold sense of foreboding.
"Willow Creek..." Gregor said, his voice hoarse from a mix of unbearable grief and anger.
"...has fallen."