The first time the siren screamed, the forest fell silent.
It was a high, piercing wail that cut through the chill morning air like a blade, reverberating between the trunks of ancient pines. The kind of sound that twists your guts, making your skin crawl and your heart seize with dread.
Tanya stood atop a moss-covered rock at the edge of the village, watching the horizon with an unreadable expression. Beside her, Mayuri observed his creation—a grotesque, sinewy beast stitched from flesh and metal, its throat a gaping maw lined with mechanical pipes and organic cords. It was alive, and it sang a song of terror.
The creature's scream shattered the calm of dawn, and far beyond the trees, the warbands—those fierce, bloodthirsty clans who had long haunted the northern coasts—froze in place, their faces draining of color. The sound was unnatural, alien. It echoed through their bones, a warning and a curse.
From Tanya's lips came a quiet smile—sharp and cold as winter ice.
"They won't move," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of command. "They think the gods themselves howl."
Mayuri's mechanical eye flickered with approval. "Fear is a weapon," he said, voice smooth, almost clinical. "And my creation has just delivered its first victory."
---
The screams continued, cascading over the battlefield like a dark tide. Wherever the siren roamed, enemy warriors fled, clutching their ears, stumbling in desperation. Some collapsed, unable to withstand the shrieking assault that rattled their minds and frayed their sanity.
Yet amidst the terror, Tanya felt no triumph—only a cold, unyielding calculation. Every scream, every shattered nerve, every broken spirit was another piece in the war she wove. It was a symphony of suffering orchestrated to bring her dominion.
But deep beneath the veneer of strategy, a shadow of doubt flickered—brief, elusive. These were human lives. Broken, yes, but lives still. Was she becoming the thing she once fought against?
She pushed the thought away. Weakness was a luxury she could no longer afford.
---
In the warbands' camp, chaos reigned. Warriors who had once laughed at the idea of gods now whispered desperate prayers, clutching talismans and amulets, eyes wild with fear. The siren's cries haunted their dreams, invading every moment of wakefulness.
Among them, a young warrior named Eirik gritted his teeth, trying to steel his mind against the onslaught. He had lost comrades—friends—driven mad or driven to death by the sound.
Yet he refused to run.
"This is no magic of the gods," he muttered, voice low but fierce. "This is witchcraft. And we will burn it out."
His words kindled a fragile ember of defiance in the heart of the clan.
---
Back in the fortress, Tanya studied the reports that flooded in. The siren was more than a weapon—it was a herald of a new age. The old ways, the old gods, were crumbling beneath the weight of cold logic and ruthless innovation.
Mayuri approached, his expression unreadable behind the mask of metal and flesh he wore.
"You worry," he said softly, as if reading her thoughts. "About becoming what you despise."
Tanya met his gaze, eyes hard as steel.
"Survival demands sacrifice," she replied. "But I will not lose myself. Not yet."
Mayuri inclined his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "Then we must move faster. Before doubt takes root."
---
That night, as the village slept uneasily beneath a veil of stars, Tanya lingered on the battlements, the wind tugging at her cloak. The siren's scream had faded, but its echo remained—a reminder that war was no longer fought by sword and shield alone.
The sound of screams was the future.
And Tanya was its master.