The shepherd boy's father finds his son Grem lying lifeless on the jagged stone. The boy's torso bears a massive, bloody scar.
Rulf falls to his knees and embraces his son tightly, praying to the mountains.
"Please, sacred peaks, save my son!"
His son's body is ice-cold. He feels neither breath nor pulse. His hope fades with every passing second until he finally surrenders all hope that his son will ever open his eyes again.
He closes his son's eyes and then his own. Through his sobs, he whispers:
"Da Berg halt di." – a mourning blessing of the Melanor, meaning that the mountains shall receive one and offer shelter and refuge.
His grip on his son, which had grown ever tighter, goes slack and weak until he finally releases him. Tears stream down his face.
His jaw stretches, pulsing visibly, the bones cracking, and for a moment, one sees the creature beneath. Not human. Not animal. Something that is only hungry. Yet the weeping father notices nothing of this.
"Oh, if only I had gone with you to the pastures, my boy."
"I am so endlessly sorry!"
"Kel'thar ven dor'mar."
"Fels, halt mi fest."
"Glut'n stahl, gebt mir kraft'n harr."
"How am I ever going to tell Tilda?"
"How can I ever forgive myself!"
"I cannot even forgive myself – how could Tilda ever forgive me?!"
Suddenly, as if by a miracle, his son's eyes slowly open.
Still somewhat dazed, Grem says softly: "Papa, am I in the mountains?"
"How is this possible?!" the father wonders, overwhelmed with joy.
Rulf smiles, and once more tears rise to his eyes, but this time they are tears of bliss.
"No matter, it must be a blessing of the mountains!"
"You live, my Spark!"
He weeps and embraces his son tightly, thanking the mountains and praying to them that his son is still alive.
"Thanks be to the mountains, my son!" he says, smiling.
"I feel so tired," says Grem, and closes his eyes again.
Rulf lifts his son with both hands and carries him back to their village as fast as he can.
Mother and sister are beside themselves with worry.
"What happened, Rulf?" Mother Tilda asks.
Tilda sees the blood on Grem's jacket.
"Quick, fetch the Spark-healer!" Tilda says frantically to Mira.
But Rulf replies that what matters most is that Grem is still alive, thus countermanding Tilda's order: "Grem is fine, he just needs some rest. Do not call a healer."
Tilda is furious that Rulf dares contradict her command: "You dare to defy my order?!"
"Just trust me, Tilda. He is fine. A healer could not help our son now," Rulf says.
Sensing that something is wrong with his son, he lays him on the bed.
Still, Rulf suppresses this thought and continues hoping that everything is just a bad dream. He lies down in his own bed and closes his eyes to reality.
Tilda fetches a bowl of water and a cloth and cleans Grem together with Mira.
Carefully, they wash his face, which is completely covered in blood.
Suddenly, Grem opens his eyes to answer. His jaw cracks – too wide, as if dislocated. For a moment, a single heartbeat, Mira sees something behind his teeth. Not tongue. Not palate. Darkness that moves. Then he closes his lips and smiles. "Hungry," he says. "Mama, I am so hungry. The hunger burns inside me."
Mira thinks nothing of it; she is simply overjoyed that Grem is doing better.
Mother Tilda is visibly happy as well.
"Appetite is a wonderful thing, my darling. Mama will cook you something delicious now, my little Spark."
Tilda then leaves the room.
Mira does not leave Grem's side.
"I will never leave you alone again, my dearest little Spark!"
As she speaks these words, her fingers clasp Grem's hand so tightly, as if she could hold him in the here and now through her touch alone. His hand feels cold. Unnaturally cold.
Gently, almost whispering, she strokes her thumb across Grem's knuckles.
"What kind of predator did you encounter, Grem?" Mira asks her brother lovingly, yet slightly concerned. Her voice trembles, though she smiles.
No answer.
His breathing is shallow. Then he closes his eyes again, as if every second of wakefulness costs him more strength than he has left.
With trembling hands, she reaches for the cloth. When she opens his shirt, she freezes.
A massive scar.
But something about it is wrong.
The scar is too dark.
Too large.
And it moves.
The blood beneath looks thick, almost alive, almost as if it were breathing.
Her heart begins to race.
She wants to jump up. Wants to call for her mother.
But suddenly, Grem's hand closes around her wrist.
His grip is firm. And with every second, it grows only tighter.
"Shhh!" he whispers.
His lips twist into a devilish grin that does not belong to him.
"Don't tell Mama. This is our little secret."
A soft, wet sound fills the silent moment.
The scar opens.
Blood wells forth – and something else.
Something dark that peels itself from Grem's body, inch by inch.
Mira wants to scream.
But her body no longer obeys her.
Mira wants to run away as fast as she can.
But again, her body does not obey.
She just sits there with her mouth wide open. Her body does not move a millimeter.
Her lungs burn. Only then does she realize she is no longer breathing.
She gasps for air frantically, again and again, as if she might otherwise suffocate.
The Dark King crawls further forth, his devilish grin reflected in Grem's face.
Then he speaks.
With her brother's voice.
"Mira," he whispers softly, "don't be afraid. Soon you won't have to suffer anymore."
It sounds like her brother's voice. But something about it is wrong.
Too calm.
Too close.
As if someone else is carrying his words.
But not just the voice – the whole atmosphere feels surreal.
Her body begins to tremble, and she cannot stop it. Cold sweat breaks out, runs down her back and pools in her palms. Her chest feels as if it is being crushed. It burns. Her heart races as if it literally wants to burst from her chest.
She still wants to run, but her legs fail her. It feels as if her mind and body no longer have any connection to each other, as if the nerves have been severed. Every heartbeat feels like an eternity.
She does not scream.
She cannot.
Her throat constricts. No sound comes out.
Her body remains motionless, as if it has forgotten how movement works.
Mira runs fearfully into the kitchen to her mother, to call Mother Tilda.
"Mama, I think little brother is really not well."
"Please come quickly."
The mother rushes as fast as she can to her son's room.
Mira close behind.
Suddenly, the bedroom door closes behind Tilda. Tilda looks around, bewildered, and asks Mira: "Where is little brother?!"
With a devilish grin on her face, Mira points with her index finger upward toward the ceiling. The mother looks up, and the Noctusborn seizes her throat with one hand and covers her mouth with the other. Tilda stands no chance and is pulled toward the ceiling by the creature of darkness before she can draw a single breath.
For a moment, it is silent.
No scream.
No struggle.
Only the soft dripping of blood onto the floor.
The Noctusborn then goes into the father's bedroom to finally claim the father as well.