Night fell swiftly — like a giant shadow swallowing the village whole.
It carried away the day's dull ache and exhaustion, replacing them with quiet laughter and rare, but sincere, conversations.
This was the hour of release.
Especially by the sea.
A house near the shoreline seemed to soak in that atmosphere — the joy, the peace, the sense of simple happiness. Here, people drank cool water as if it were fine wine and laughed carelessly, leaning against the walls.
On a rise overlooking the shore stood the house. Wooden, sturdy, with history sealed into every beam and nail.
Once, twelve children had lived here.
Now there were five.
Life showed no mercy in this place.
And yet, they were considered a family.
The fifth was away, working in the mines, so only four remained in the village.
Then the bell rang.
A deep, heavy sound spread through the village, soaking the streets in damp echoes, like a cracked shadow slipping into every gap, every hole in the walls.
Gloomer rose reluctantly. Prayer was routine — but unlike labor, it didn't sap his strength. Sometimes it even felt like, through the rhythm of the chants, one could briefly forget where they were.
Lark was already stretching lazily, heading to the church, humming to himself. Vale and Ars followed behind.
At night, the village looked different — the wooden houses, warm and welcoming by day, now resembled empty skulls. The light from the oil lamps trembled in the windows, weaker than usual, as if the air itself pressed down on it.
The church towered in the dark, its stone walls ageless. It could hold thousands, but tonight, the crowd was thin.
They entered and knelt.
The Mother-Goddess of Nature was one of the main deities among the poor. She was cruel, and even this ceaseless rain reminded them that mercy was not her nature.
Still, the poor believed that suffering purified the soul. That pain brought one closer to higher understanding. That a hard life was not punishment — but a trial they had to endure.
She demanded no strict prayer hours — some would bow their heads for a minute and whisper the words, others would stay for hours. Lark was one of the latter.
Gloomer muttered a few words and quietly slipped out.
Vale didn't stay long either.
"Hey, Vale," Gloomer called as the boy exited after him. "While I was gone... where did all the adults go? The elders — the ones who used to keep order, lead prayers?"
Vale froze, glancing at him in confusion.
"What are you talking about? We never had elders. Or adults."
Gloomer frowned.
"You joking?" He clapped Vale on the back.
But Vale didn't laugh — he just looked more puzzled.
"Gloomer... are you feeling alright? It's always been just kids and teens here. When did you ever see adults?"
Gloomer stopped cold.
What was he saying?
That was nonsense.
He remembered them — the grown-ups. They kept order, assigned work, managed the shipments from the kingdom… The church had always been full of elders scolding Lark for his endless prayers. The noise they brought had always been part of the village.
And now, in their absence, it was eerily quiet.
"Come on, Vale, you suck at jokes."
Seeing Gloomer's expression, Vale slowed down. "I… I think there was something like that… but I can't remember. Maybe it's the rain? You know it's been messing with my head for three nights now."
He shook his head sharply.
"All these paranoid thoughts of yours are just giving me a headache."
Gloomer walked him back home.
But the unease wouldn't fade.
He had asked Lark before — and Lark had said the same thing.
But that couldn't be.
That wasn't how things worked.
He suddenly turned and walked off in the opposite direction.
Gloomer walked through the darkness, carefully stepping over puddles left behind by the recent rain. The air was heavy, damp, saturated with the scent of wet earth and rotting wood. Somewhere in the distance, shutters creaked — torn loose by the wind — but the part of the village where the elders lived was disturbingly silent.
He was approaching the most remote corner of the village, tucked up against the edge of the forest.
That's where the village's main overseers lived — the elders responsible for order, assigning work, and dealing with royal messengers. There were large wooden houses there, slightly elevated, surrounded by massive fences. Lights had always glowed behind those fences. But tonight...
Gloomer stepped calmly into the dark zone.
For the first time in his life, he hoped the adults would shout at him, scold him, chase him away.
But this time, nothing happened.
He froze at the gate of one of the houses.
Darkness.
Not just night — a suffocating, all-consuming blackness where even his own fingers were lost to the eye. No lights in the windows. No flicker of an oil lamp. No muffled voices from within. Nothing.
True to himself, Gloomer couldn't resist muttering, I've only been gone three months, and the whole place's turned upside down.
He swallowed hard and pushed open the gate. It swung silently — too silently. He expected a familiar creak. Instead, only emptiness. His heart clenched with a bad feeling.
He moved forward. His steps thudded dully in the damp air as he crossed the yard. Everything felt... wrong. The grass was undisturbed — no footprints, no signs of life. He reached the door. It was already ajar.
Inside — pitch black.
He stretched out a hand, found the lamp by the entrance, and lit it. The flame wavered, casting flickering light over an empty hall. The furniture was in place, untouched. But it looked... lifeless. On the table, a half-eaten meal had been left behind — but it wasn't spoiled, as if someone had left it just yesterday.
Something was off.
Gloomer stepped deeper inside, the weight in his chest tightening with every step. No signs of a struggle. No overturned chairs. No hint that anyone had lived here. Just a perfect, eerie order that felt anything but normal.
He stopped by the staircase. Upstairs was silent. Too silent.
Not wanting to waste time, he turned toward the kitchen and pulled on the basement door. The creak split the quiet like a scream, and Gloomer froze, listening.
Nothing.
Slowly, he descended.
Down there, it was the same — shelves with food, barrels of water, sacks of grain. He ran a hand across one of the sacks — no dust. They hadn't been gone long.
No one here.
But he didn't get to enjoy that relief for long.
From upstairs... came a sound.
A faint, barely audible creak.
Like someone carefully moving a chair.
Gloomer froze, a chill crawling up his spine.
He quickly blew out the lamp and pressed against the wall, staring into the dark. Footsteps.
Soft. Slow.
As if someone was silently wandering the house.
He waited, holding his breath.
But when he finally stepped out to investigate — it was just a squirrel.
Gloomer almost sighed in relief. Almost. Then he remembered — he hadn't seen a single animal in days. That was strange. He tried to get a better look at the squirrel, but it darted out of view.
Still, in that last instant, he saw its eyes. Red. Glowing like hot coals.
Shit… he thought. Maybe that wasn't a squirrel at all… Maybe it was a monster. Just not a dangerous one.
He didn't stick around to find out. Grabbing a bit of food, he crept out of the cellar and moved on.
He searched every second house.
They were all empty.
Except one.
The house of the old woman who always sat outside in her rocking chair.
Gloomer stopped at the threshold.
There were sounds inside.
But not voices. Not footsteps.
A scraping noise.
Something moving across the floor... too rhythmically.
He picked up a lamp, slowly turned the doorknob, and stepped in.
The air was stale. In the corner, where the woman had always sat, something stirred.
Gloomer raised the lamp.
In the dancing light, he saw her.
The woman was in the rocking chair.
But she was dead.
Her eyes had fallen from their sockets, yet her body still moved.
The chair swayed forward. Then back.
As if she were still alive.
As if something was making her move.
Gloomer felt ice crawl over his limbs.
He stared, paralyzed, for several long, torturous seconds, watching the chair rock back and forth.
And then... it stopped.
Silence.
Dead silence.