Two days later, they arrived at a village swallowed by silence.
The buildings stood still and hollow, their windows like empty eyes staring into nothing. Wooden doors creaked on broken hinges, swinging gently in the breeze. Tables inside the homes were still set with rotted meals, as if the villagers had simply stood up in the middle of dinner and vanished. The air was thick with the scent of mold and something faintly metallic—something like blood.
Arinn clutched the strap of his bag. "This place gives me a bad feeling."
Rey led the way, his steps cautious, sword already halfway drawn. "Stay close. Keep your eyes sharp."
Rhys's gaze swept over the rooftops and alleys, his mouth tight. "This isn't natural. This village wasn't attacked… it was abandoned."
A sudden whisper drifted through the still air, distant yet unmistakable—like a breath from the grave.
"Leave this place… before he comes…"
Rey froze, sword fully drawn now. "Who said that?! Show yourself!"
Silence.
Then—the ground shifted beneath them, subtly at first. A vibration, like a heartbeat in the earth. Cracks spiderwebbed across the cobblestones. From between them, black mist began to rise, curling around their boots like grasping fingers.
Arinn stumbled back. "Rey—what is this?!"
Rey's eyes narrowed. "Something unnatural."
Rhys drew his sword in one fluid motion. "Brace yourselves. We're not alone."
The mist thickened, swirling higher, forming vague shapes—faces distorted in agony, their mouths open in silent screams. Ghostly hands reached outward, grasping at the air. The village seemed to darken with every second, shadows bleeding out from the fog.
Then, a deep voice thundered through the silence—calm, cruel, and cold:
"You have come too far… turn back… or be lost in the nightmare."
And from the mist, it emerged.
The creature was massive—twisting between the form of a man and something far more monstrous. Its body pulsed like smoke held in shape by shadow. Long limbs, too long, moved like flowing ink. Its face—if it could be called that—was a blur, save for two piercing red eyes that burned like coals through fog.
Rey's breath hitched. This presence… it was familiar. Not the same as Seth, but something born of the same abyss.
Rhys stepped forward, blade gleaming. "Whatever it is, we take it down. Fast and hard."
The creature laughed—a sound that echoed in every direction, like it came from the village itself.
"Kill me? You are children playing with blades. I am only a fragment… a sliver of the nightmare. A shadow of the one who will consume your world."
Rey's voice was low. "Seth…"
The creature tilted its head slightly. "Ah… so you know him."
Arinn's hand gripped Rey's sleeve. "Rey… what do we do?"
Rey met the monster's gaze. "We fight."
And the shadow lunged.
It moved with unnatural speed, its limbs stretching and coiling as it struck. Rey dodged, rolling to the side and slashing upward. His blade cut through the creature's form—but it was like slicing through thick smoke. No blood. No wound.
Rhys dashed in, his strikes precise and furious. "It's not taking damage! We need a weak spot!"
Arinn stood frozen behind them—until something tugged at his mind. A pulse. A feeling. A voice without sound.
He turned toward the village square, where a crumbling stone well stood like a forgotten monument. Something called to him from below. Something ancient… familiar.
"Rey!" Arinn shouted. "The well—there's something inside!"
Rey parried another swipe of the shadow's claws, sweat trailing down his brow. He followed Arinn's gaze, and the pieces clicked.
"This thing's not trying to kill us," he said. "It's guarding something."
"Then go!" Rhys shouted, hurling a knife that sliced through the creature's head—useless, but enough of a distraction.
Rey grabbed Arinn's arm. "Run!"
The boy sprinted toward the well, his feet pounding against the stone. The mist didn't touch him now—it parted around him, like it recognized him.
He reached the edge, heart pounding, and looked down.
And froze.
Down in the darkness, just beyond the reach of light, a pair of glowing blue eyes stared back up at him.
Eyes that mirrored his own.
Then, a voice—soft, gentle, and impossibly close—rose from the well like a dream.
"Arinn… my son…"