They moved separately at first—Kael helping his father carry some empty platters to the food table, Aren excusing himself to visit the latrine behind the hall.
Natural, innocent movements that drew no attention.
The lantern light flickered against their faces as they gradually worked their way to the outer edges of the celebration.
Kael slipped behind the blacksmith's workshop and the sounds of the feast became muffled here, distant. A few moments later, Aren appeared from around the corner, moving like a shadow.
"Ready?" Kael whispered.
Aren nodded, though his hands were trembling slightly. "The shop is just three streets over. We can cut through the alley behind the baker's place."
They both moved in silence, their footsteps barely audible. The village at night was a different creature entirely—familiar buildings became haunting silhouettes, friendly doorways turned into gaping mouths of shadow.
As they walked, the distant sounds of the celebration faded until only the soft whisper of wind through the narrow streets remained.
"It's too quiet," Aren murmured, glancing around nervously.
Kael had noticed it too. No dogs barking. Even the usual night insects seemed to have fallen silent. The air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath.
They turned into the alley behind the baker's shop, and Kael immediately felt the temperature drop. Not gradually—suddenly, as if they had stepped into a separate dimension.
"Do you feel that?" he whispered.
Aren hugged his arms to his chest. "Cold. It wasn't this cold a minute ago."
They continued forward, their breath beginning to mist in the suddenly chilly air. The alley stretched longer than it should have, shadows twisting in ways that didn't match the position of the moon overhead.
At the end of the alley, they could see it.
Henrik's shop.
From this distance, it looked perfectly normal. The same weathered wood, the same cluttered exterior. But something was wrong.
"The energy," Aren breathed. "It's stronger now. Much stronger."
Kael could feel it too—a pressure against his chest, like invisible hands pushing him back. His instincts screamed at him to turn around, to run back to the warmth and safety of the celebration.
But they had come this far.
They stepped out of the alley and onto the main street. Here, the silence was suffocating. Even their own footsteps seemed muffled, absorbed by something unseen.
The shop sat before them, perhaps fifty steps away. In the moonlight, Kael could see that the front door stood slightly open. Just a crack, but enough to reveal an impenetrable darkness beyond.
"Was the door open before?" Kael asked quietly.
Aren shook his head. "Henrik always locks up at sunset. Always."
They moved closer, step by careful step. The cold grew more intense with each pace, until their breath came out in thick clouds. Kael's fingers began to feel numb.
Thirty steps.
Twenty.
At fifteen steps, they both stopped.
There, in the single cracked window of the shop, a pale face was pressed tight against the glass from the inside.
It was Henrik—or what had been Henrik. His eyes were completely white, no pupils visible. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his skin had taken on a sickly, dark quality.
But he wasn't moving. He was perfectly still, like a portrait painted on the glass.
"Is he..." Aren's voice caught in his throat.
Before Kael could answer, Henrik's head slowly turned toward them. The movement was wrong—too fluid, like his neck was made of water instead of bone.
His white eyes locked onto theirs.
And then, Henrik smiled.
Not a human smile. Too wide. Too many teeth.
The shop door creaked open another inch.
Their hearts plummeted into their stomachs. Aren's knees wobbled, his face draining of all color.
"Calm down, Aren," Kael whispered, though his own voice trembled and his hands shook uncontrollably. The words felt hollow even as he spoke them.
But then, to their surprise, Henrik's face slowly returned to its original position—pressed straight against the glass, mouth open, staring blankly ahead as if he hadn't seen them at all.
They both exhaled shakily, thinking perhaps it had been their imagination, a trick of the moonlight and shadow.
Then it happened again.