Fourteen-year-old Grem leads his flock of sheep onto the pastures at night, where the plant known as Nightglow thrives. By day, it appears unremarkable, but once darkness falls, the sap gathers within its stems, transforming it into a rich, nourishing feed for the sheep. The animals yield more milk and meat when they graze on it. According to local belief, Nightglow feeds where the sun has failed.
But his mother, Tilda, stops him.
"Grem, eat something before you go out," she says, her voice sharp with maternal authority.
Grem has no choice. "Yes, Mama." He sits down and quickly finishes a small meal before setting out with his flock.
His father, Rulf, calls after him: "I'll follow soon. I need to finish forging something first, boy. It won't take long."
His sister Mira, her face somewhat pale, wishes him a good time on the pasture and tucks a small yellow flower into the breast pocket of his jacket as a keepsake.
Mother Tilda calls out again, her tone stern:
"Put on a jacket, Grem! It's much windier at night—and therefore much colder."
Mira quickly fetches a jacket for her brother and helps him put it on. "Take care of yourself, little brother. More predators hunt at night," she says with a sweet yet slightly worried smile.
Grem nods gently and returns his little sister's tender smile with one of his own.
"I'll be careful, Mira. Don't worry. Besides, Bron and Karr are coming with me. And I have my pitchfork too," Grem says, smiling.
Mira smiles lovingly back at him.
Grem hurries off, running out to the pasture with his flock and his pitchfork.
"Come!" he calls to his two large Melandic hounds. Bron and Karr obey immediately and run with their master to the pastures.
Once there, Grem climbs a small hill and keeps watch for predators. It is indeed much windier and colder than during the day at this time of year. He pulls his jacket tighter, keeping his hands in his pockets to stay warm.
"Good thing Mama told me to bring the jacket," he says with a slight, satisfied smile.
He takes a deep breath, savoring the fresh mountain air.
"How beautiful the mountains smell," young Grem says, smiling.
And indeed, the mountains of Melandor carry a faintly sweet, metallic scent from the iron ore in the rock. Everywhere, countless Nightglow plants grow, burning with an orange-red luminescence in the darkness, adding another layer of sweetness to the already sugary mountain air. The sheep graze hungrily across the meadows.
The Dark King circles. He searches. Hunger drives him, but this time something else guides him: the longing for his dead wife. His hunger for flesh and blood yields to something greater: his ultimate goal of reclaiming his true love! Though his craving for meat and blood rages unabated, it surrenders to his longing for his beloved.
And so he discovers the village of Glutheim in the southern mountains of Melandor. His hunger for flesh and blood intensifies. He circles above his chosen victim: young Grem!
The sheep sense the approaching deadly danger and panic. Grem notices his flock's strange behavior, though at this moment he cannot fathom the cause. The dogs bark loudly. The sheep run frantically from one spot to another, back and forth, as if they know not where to flee.
Grem looks from north to south, from west to east and back again, yet he sees no predator approaching the flock. But then he notices Bron and Karr barking at the sky. He looks up and sees the shadow of a massive, monstrous, flying creature of darkness circling him and his flock with considerable speed.
A wingbeat. Then another. The beats grow clearer and clearer. And the clearer they become, the more Grem feels the massive shockwaves emanating from them. The vibrating pressure waves resonate through the boy's very bones.
Not gradually. Suddenly. As if someone has silenced the forest. The sheep freeze, more rigid than stone. Even the dogs—Bron and Karr, his loyal companions since childhood—cower with tails tucked between the rocks.
The shadow falls over him before he sees the sky. No bird. No dragon. Something that devours the stars as it descends. The shockwave throws him to the ground. He lands on the wet grass, pain shooting through his shoulders, but he cannot move.
Not from the force.
From the gaze.
The creature stands before him. Taller than a man, but not human. Not animal. Something in between that has forgotten both. Its form trembles, as if fighting beneath its skin—flesh that cannot decide whether to be solid or mist.
Grem falls to the ground in panic, yet he cannot move a single inch; his body has fallen into a state of shock paralysis. He trembles all over. His face is chalk-white, his heart pounds like mad, his pores are wide open and his entire body is drenched in sweat. Though his heart races, it feels as if it has stopped beating. Pure terror is written across his face.
"P-please don't kill me," young Grem says, his voice trembling.
The creature tilts its head. The movement is wrong, too fast, too smooth. As if it has no bones, only will.
"Kill?" The voice seems to come from multiple mouths at once, opening and closing like gills. "No. You shall live, little human. Longer than all those you love."
Grem trembles. He thinks of his mother, who cooked him the warm meal. Of his sister, who slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pinned the yellow flower to his heart. Of his father, who said: I'll come right after you.
"My sister," he stammers. "She's sick. I have to—"
"Sister." The creature smiles. Too many teeth. Too straight. "Family. Yes. I understand that all too well."
It bends down. Its claws—thirty-centimeter-long sickle-shaped talons, sharpened like smith's knives—touch his chest. Not piercing. Probing. As if checking whether the flesh is ripe.
"You will serve me," it whispers. "Not as a slave. As a garment. As skin. You will serve me as a meat-suit, boy. Your memories will become mine. Your voice. Your love for that sister."
"No—"
The claws pierce him.
Not quickly. Slowly. With the precision of a surgeon who savors his work. Grem screams, but the scream lodges in his throat, choked by the icy cold flooding his veins. He feels something growing inside him. Not from without. From within. A seed of darkness taking root in his heart.
"Fels," he gasps. "Halt mi fest."
The words of his fathers. The mourning blessing of Melanor. He speaks them as his blood soaks the ground, as the Nightglow plants around him glow even brighter, as if feasting on his death.
"Glut'n stahl, gebt mir kraft'n harr."
The creature crawls into him.
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. It crawls. Its body—ash, mist, something that refuses to be solid—contracts, grows smaller, forces itself through the gaping wound in his chest. He feels every inch. Feels it pressing against his ribs, wrapping around his heart muscle, expanding his lungs to make room.
The pain is...
Impossible.
It does not exist. And yet it is everything.
Grem sees his own hands trembling as they press against the ground. Sees his fingers curl, the knuckles turning white. But he no longer feels them. They no longer belong to him.
"Your will shall fade," says his own voice. But he has not spoken. "Your body will belong to me."
He wants to scream. Wants to weep. Wants to cling to the yellow flower in his pocket that his sister gave him.
Mama, Papa, Mira...
Even if I never said it, I love you more than anything.
Instead, he closes his eyes.
And smiles.
Grem smiles—or something that looks like Grem. The wound on his chest closes, leaving only a scar. Dark. Pulsing. Almost beautiful in its perfection.
"Very good," says the Dark King with the boy's voice. He traces the scar, feeling the throb of the alien heart beneath his new skin. "You will make a fine meat-suit, my boy."
He stands. Brushes the grass from his trousers. The sheep watch him with dead eyes as he descends the hills, back toward the village, back to the family waiting for him.
Back to the father who said he would come right after.
The Dark King smiles again. This time with the right teeth.
Rulf has noticed the dogs' barking and hurries as fast as he can, pitchfork in hand, to reach his boy.