Vignette 1

For a week, the wind in town smelled wrong. It was a foul mix that stuck in your throat: the sharp smoke from too many watchfires, the stale air from houses locked up tight, and under it all, the faint, metallic smell of blood from the farms on the edge of town. It was the smell of fear.

The boy sat on the porch steps, a carving knife in his hand, but his fingers were still. Beside him was a half-finished block of pine, a stag just starting to take shape. It was a gift for his sister Astrid’s name day, but he wasn’t carving tonight. He was watching his father, the village priest, cross their small yard with a grim look on his face. His father’s hands, usually gentle, were wrapped around the handle of a woodsman’s axe. He was organizing the watch, his voice a low rumble cutting through the town’s rising panic. He was a priest of Erastil, and his flock was in danger.

“Stay inside tonight,” his father ordered, stopping at the steps. His normally warm eyes were hard with focus. “Bolt the door. Don’t open it for anyone. I’ll be patrolling our lane first.”

“I can help,” the boy said, getting to his feet. “I can take a watch.”

“No.” The word was final. “Your mother and Astrid need you here. You’re the shield for this house.” He put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Protect them.”

The words were meant to be a comfort, a responsibility. They felt like a stone in the boy’s stomach.

Hours later, the moon was just a sliver behind thick clouds. The house was quiet and tense. The only sounds were a sputtering candle and the soft snick of his mother’s mending needle. His little sister, Astrid, slept in her chair, whimpering softly. The boy watched the candle flame, his breathing shallow, his nerves on fire. The usual night sounds—an owl hooting, the wind in the pines—were gone. The unnatural silence was the real warning. The air itself felt heavy, like it was holding its breath.

The silence didn’t just break; it shattered. A loud crack came from the back of the house, like a huge bone snapping. For a second, no one moved. His mother’s needle froze. Then came the sound of tearing wood and metal as the reinforced back door was ripped right off its hinges.

A nightmare filled the doorway. It was too big, its limbs too long. It stepped inside, its claws clicking on the floorboards, filling the room with its musky, predatory smell. Its eyes, shining with a cold, hungry intelligence, swept the room and locked on the boy for a terrifying moment.

A horn blew frantically outside. The creature’s head snapped toward the sound, its gaze leaving the boy. A second later, the front door splintered open, and his father charged in. “GET AWAY FROM THEM!” he roared. The monster turned, raising a bony forearm just in time to block the desperate swing of his father’s axe. The sound of steel hitting something inhumanly hard echoed through the house, followed by a shriek that was part animal, part scraping stone.

“To the cellar!” his mother screamed, snapping out of her shock. She pulled open the heavy trapdoor in the floor, revealing a square of pure black. She shoved a terrified, crying Astrid toward it first. “Go! Now!”

Astrid tumbled down the steps. The boy scrambled after her just as his father’s battle cry turned into a wet, choked sound. He glanced back for a second and saw his mother charge the creature, a tiny, furious shield of love, before it threw her aside like a doll.

Then his father, bleeding from a dozen wounds but still standing, slammed the heavy cellar door shut. The impact shook the steps and went right through the boy’s bones, plunging them into total, suffocating darkness.

“DAD!” the boy’s voice broke in terror as he clawed his way back up the steps.

“The stag protects the herd, my son!” his father’s voice yelled from the other side, muffled by the thick oak but desperate and clear. “Keep her safe! No matter what you hear, you keep her safe!”

In the pitch-black, all he could hear were Astrid’s terrified sobs. The boy found her and held her tight. Together, they listened. They heard furniture scraping, a furious yell from his father, and the creature’s chittering reply. Then a wet, tearing sound, a choked gurgle, and a final, heavy thud. The creature shrieked in victory, a sound that vibrated through the floor. The boy clamped his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t block it out.

The sounds from upstairs stopped. The silence that followed was worse than any noise. Then came a new sound. A soft thump on the cellar door. Then another. Then scratching. Long, slow scrapes, like a massive claw testing the wood. Scrape. Screee. Scrape. Astrid’s whimpers became silent, shaking convulsions in his arms.

The scratching turned to splintering. The door groaned and cracked. With a final, explosive crash, the cellar door was torn away. A huge, shadowy shape blocked the opening, its hungry eyes locked on them in the dark. The boy shoved Astrid behind him, a useless, trembling shield.

The creature was on them in a flash. It didn’t go for a killing blow. It moved with a chilling purpose. A single claw, sharp as glass, slashed across the boy’s chest. The pain was searing, but it was more than a cut. It felt like ice and fire, a venomous energy that shot from the wound through his whole body. He was thrown against the stone wall, his head cracking against it. His body convulsed, not just from the hit, but from the alien thing now inside him.

Through a haze of pain, he watched the monster reach past him, its long fingers closing around his sister. Her scream was high and sharp, then cut off with a sickening crunch. As the creature stood up, it turned its head. Its glowing eyes met the boy’s, a look of cold, ancient knowledge. Then the world went black.

He woke up to pain. A burning, agonizing itch in his chest. It felt like his flesh was crawling, knitting itself back together with unnatural speed. He looked down and saw, in the faint moonlight from the doorway above, the edges of the deep gash sizzling and pulling closed. He was whole. He was alive.

And in the horrifying quiet of his newly healed body, he heard the first voice.

“Brother,” it whispered, small and soft, right by his ear. It was Astrid.

He gasped, his head snapping up, his eyes wild in the dark. Nothing.

“You didn’t protect me,” the small voice said again, full of trembling accusation. “You were right here.”

Then his mother’s voice, hushed and broken. “You were supposed to be the shield, my son. You hid.”

His father’s voice, a low growl of deep disappointment, filled his head. “The stag protects the herd, my son. You let the wolf have them all.”

He scrambled backward, pressing himself against the damp stone wall. After what felt like an eternity, a numb feeling took over. He climbed the cellar steps, past the splintered door, and into the ruin of his home. He didn’t look at the bodies. He couldn’t. He stepped out into the gray dawn and saw the same destruction at every house. Doors smashed, roofs caved in. The sharp smell of smoke he’d noticed for a week now came from the smoldering ruins of his entire world. There were no screams, no cries for help. The unnatural silence from the night before was now permanent. He was the only one left.

He walked through the dead village, a ghost in his own graveyard. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to leave. He reached the edge of the woods, the path leading away from town, and took the first step.

They weren’t memories. They were the price of his survival, a permanent echo of the creature’s gift. He was the only survivor, forever haunted by the voices of the dead inside him. They did not stop. They never would.

**