The night air was heavy with death.
They were surrounded.
The grotesque figures—wolf-like beasts with glowing eyes and strange, blood-slicked men with shattered limbs and twisted grins—closed in around them, dragging silence in their wake. The children's backs pressed into one another as they formed a tight circle, fear thick in the air like smoke.
Siora stepped forward.
"Stay behind me," she commanded, voice low and sharp.
Then, she raised her hands and began to chant—not in the tongue the children knew, but in the ancient, sacred language passed only through blood and bond.
Light bloomed from her palms—thin at first, then growing until a dome of translucent energy shimmered around them, like a bubble of starlight born in shadow.
The monsters shrieked as they struck the barrier. Claws scraped. Fangs gnashed. And still they slammed against it, over and over, as if madness had consumed their minds.
But the barrier held… for now.
"We don't have much time," Siora whispered, sweat dotting her brow.
Thalen, heart pounding, recalled what their tutors had taught them—fragments of the old language, passed to the noble line for moments like this. He knelt and began to murmur his own chant, voice shaking but steady:
A sigil of golden light appeared in the air before him—a thin scroll made of woven energy. Thalen hurriedly wrote their situation upon it using his finger as a quill: "Under attack. Protective barrier weakening. Surrounded. Location unknown." He then blew gently on the scroll, and it vanished in a stream of light, flying off toward the sky like a bird of fire.
Just then, Aylea noticed a small opening in the earth behind them, hidden beneath roots and thick ferns. She crawled forward and peeked in—it was a tunnel, narrow but long, and it led down.
"Siora!" she whispered urgently, "There's a hole—it goes somewhere."
Siora nodded, quickly weaving a spell of concealment. A curtain of black smoke curled outward from her hands, cloaking the dome and the mouth of the tunnel.
"One by one. Thalen, you first. Aylea next. Lyra, stay close. I'll follow last," Siora ordered, voice tight but unwavering.
They crawled into the narrow passage, scraping elbows and knees, hearts hammering. The sounds of clawed hands and growls faded behind them, swallowed by the mist.
After what felt like hours, they emerged from the tunnel's mouth and found themselves beside a shallow river glowing faintly under the moonlight. They rushed to it, washing wounds, rinsing sweat and grime. Lyra knelt beside Thalen and wrapped a cloth around a cut on his hand.
They sat there, catching their breath. No one spoke until Siora did.
Her voice was soft, but heavy with truth.
"Listen carefully," she said, gazing at the moonlit water. "The world is older than you think. Older than kingdoms. Older than gods. And for centuries, light and dark have been at war. We—your family—have always stood with the light. We are its protectors."
A long silence fell.
Lyra looked at her hands. They trembled. Not from fear, but something deeper—a sense that she already knew this, had always known it, somewhere inside.
They continued walking along the river's edge until a flicker of torchlight appeared in the distance. A village.
"We're saved," Thalen murmured, voice cracking with relief.
But Lyra paused. Something in her stomach twisted. The torchlight was too still, too perfect, and the night too quiet. She opened her mouth to speak, but the others were already rushing forward.
The villagers welcomed them with warm smiles. Water was offered. Injuries tended. Siora spoke carefully, offering only the truth they could afford: "Our carriage was attacked. We barely escaped."
A woman touched her forehead. "You're safe here now."
They were offered a low hut made of dried reeds and clay to rest for the night. The children fell asleep quickly, worn down by exhaustion and fear.
But Lyra did not sleep.
Neither did Siora.
In the deepest part of the night, a sound came—soft, like footsteps wrapped in silk. Lyra blinked her eyes open and saw Siora crouched beside the door, peering through a tiny hole.
Thalen stirred, but Siora covered his mouth gently.
"Quiet," she mouthed.
Outside, voices drifted to them, almost playful in tone.
"They're asleep. All of them. Perfect."
"Get the bindings. Tonight, we please the Hollow One."
Aylea's hand found Lyra's and squeezed it. Lyra could feel her cousin's breath catch, shoulders shaking in silent terror.
Siora whispered, "When I count to three, we leave. Quiet as the wind. Follow me exactly."
She waited.
"One… two…"
She flung the door open.
"Now!"
They bolted through the back, slipping into a narrow alley shrouded in mist. For a moment, there was only silence—then a scream tore through the air.
"They're escaping!"
Torches flared to life.
But something was wrong.
The villagers did not run.
They glided.
Their feet skimmed the earth without sound, robes dragging in impossible silence. Their eyes burned like pits of ember, fixed unblinking on the fleeing children. And their mouths—those smiling mouths—didn't move. Their expressions remained carved in place, wide and ecstatic, like masks worn too long.
The torches didn't flicker. The flames were frozen, still as glass, though wind howled all around.
Lyra's heart pounded as they ran, the village falling behind and the forest looming ahead. She dared one glance back—
Dozens of figures floated after them, their movements too fluid, too clean. As if the night itself carried them forward.