The sky darkened over the mountain as the cold winds of evening swept through the village. The boys, tired from the day's lessons, had spent the last few hours helping with chores around the orphanage, along with the girls who had finished their tasks inside. It was a peaceful rhythm that everyone knew well. Xarven, James, and the other children worked silently, sweeping, fetching wood for the fire, and tidying up after the day’s activities.

By the time they all sat down for dinner, the warmth from the hearth filled the room, and the rich scent of stew made from mountain herbs and root vegetables wafted through the air. The table was long, wooden, and sturdy—crafted years ago by the village's finest carpenter from the same bluish winter wood that defined their homes. The younger children, both boys and girls, chattered excitedly among themselves, their energy still boundless even after a long day. Loren, seated at the far end of the table, was laughing softly as she engaged with the little ones, teasing them gently and telling funny stories of when she was their age.

Xarven and James sat further down the table, quietly observing. Xarven’s mind drifted to the day’s events, but his thoughts often returned to the strange carvings, wondering if anyone else had noticed the growing detail in his work. He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

Hord, seated at the head of the table, cleared his throat, bringing a hush over the group. His deep voice rumbled through the room as he spoke. "I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the hard work of one of our own." His eyes turned to Frida, who sat near Xarven and James. "Frida has been putting in long hours helping the blacksmith and the village wherever needed. It’s no small feat, and I’m proud of her."

Frida’s face flushed slightly, but she smiled humbly. "It’s nothing really. Just doing what needs to be done."

Hord smiled warmly, nodding approvingly. "You’ve always had a good heart, Frida. And soon, your efforts will be rewarded." He paused for a moment, his gaze growing a little more serious. "In a few weeks, you’ll turn sixteen, and according to the village's rules, you’ll no longer be in our care. It’ll be time for you to find your place and contribute as an adult."

Xarven felt a pang of sadness at the thought. He knew the rules well—when children came of age, they were expected to contribute to the village, either by joining a trade or finding work to sustain themselves. He glanced at Frida, wondering what life outside the orphanage would be like for her. Would she stay in the village or leave? Would she still visit them?

Hord continued, his tone softening. "If there’s anything I can do to help make that transition easier for you, Frida, don’t hesitate to ask. You’ve earned it."

Frida shook her head gently. "Thank you, Hord, but I’ll be fine. I’ve been preparing for this for a while now."

The room was quiet for a moment as the conversation settled, but one of the younger girls at the far end of the table suddenly said to a nearby boy a bit too loudly. "I heard the [1]Jarl’s son saying something about Frida in the village today."

The comment hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, and a flash of anger crossed Hord’s face. His usually calm demeanor shifted, his voice taking on an edge of steel. "What did you hear?" he asked but not truly interested. His eyes locked on Frida. "Has that bratty good for nothing bothering you?"

Frida stiffened, but her expression remained calm, almost practiced. "No, Hord. He hasn’t said anything to me."

Hord’s jaw clenched, and his fists tightened on the edge of the table. "I’ve warned the Jarl enough times about that boy. If he’s done anything to make you uncomfortable—"

"He hasn’t," Frida interrupted, her voice steady but firm. "I promise, Hord. I would tell you if there was anything."

The tension at the table was palpable. Xarven felt it creeping into his chest as he listened. He knew of the Chieftain’s son—everyone did. His reputation in the village was far from admirable. His behavior toward the young women, his arrogance, his careless words... it had earned him no friends, only whispered warnings. Xarven remembered clearly the time the blacksmith had nearly beaten him senseless for trying to charm his freshly 16-year-old daughter at the time. The memory only deepened Xarven’s dislike of the man, though he kept his thoughts to himself.

James, however, was not so restrained. "That guy’s a pig," he muttered, just loud enough for Xarven to hear. "Thinks he can do whatever he wants because of his dad is the Jarl. Does he think the Thing[2] doesn't exist"

Xarven didn’t respond, but he shared the sentiment. That piece of shit forgets that the Thing chooses the next Chief, he doesn't get it by default.

Hord’s glare softened slightly as he exhaled. "If anything changes, Frida, you let me know. I’ll deal with him myself if I have to."

Frida nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Hord. I’ll keep that in mind."

Although everyone knew Hord was one of the top men in the Thing, they were sure that what he meant by 'deal with him' was something else.

The tension slowly dissipated as the conversation moved on, and soon the children were chatting amongst themselves again, the mood lightening once more. Xarven glanced at Frida, admiring how she handled the situation. She always seemed so composed, even under pressure.

Dinner continued peacefully, with Loren playfully engaging the younger children in conversation about their favorite games and teasing them about their messy eating. The warmth of the hearth and the closeness of the group made the long, cold night outside seem distant.

When the meal was over, the children helped clear the table before heading to their shared rooms for the night—boys on one side, girls on the other. Xarven and James found their usual spots in the boys' quarters, the firelight from the main hall casting long shadows on the wooden walls.

As Xarven lay down, pulling his blanket close for warmth, his thoughts once again drifted to the future. Frida’s departure weighed heavily on his mind, and though he knew she was capable, the idea of her leaving the orphanage felt like the first stone in a slow crumbling of the only life they’d known.

Xarven lay in bed, pulling the thick blanket closer around him as the chill of the mountain night seeped into the room. The soft snores of the other boys filled the small, warm space, but Xarven’s mind churned restlessly. His thoughts drifted from the dinner conversation to Frida, to the strange carvings on the tree, and finally to the unsettling sense of unease that had been creeping up on him for weeks. Eventually, his eyes grew heavy, and sleep claimed him.

But peace did not come.

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Xarven found himself trapped in a small, rusted cage, the iron bars cold and biting against his skin. He was much smaller than he remembered—his arms and legs barely reached the cage’s edges, his body weak and frail like a child’s, though the memory of his older self was distant, hazy as if it never existed. He tried to stand, but the cage was too small. Panic surged in his chest. Where am I? His thoughts were frantic. The air was thick and suffocating, and the smell of rot filled his nostrils, almost choking him.

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He was inside a house—if it could even be called that. The walls were crooked, made of decayed wood that groaned with every subtle shift. Foul stains marred the floors, and deep shadows flickered in the corners like they were alive. The dim light of a single flickering torch revealed dark symbols scrawled across the walls, lines and shapes that made no sense, but somehow filled him with dread. The air was damp, and the floorboards creaked with the weight of unseen things moving above and below.

But it was the sounds that terrified him the most. All around him were the faint, muffled wails of children—sobbing, crying, their voices weak and hopeless. Occasionally, a sharp scream would pierce the air, cutting through his heart like a knife. It was the sound of someone in utter terror, someone who knew that no help was coming.

Xarven gripped the iron bars of the cage, his small hands trembling. His heart pounded in his chest, and he wanted to scream, but his throat felt tight, as though it had closed off entirely from fear. What is this place? What’s happening?

Suddenly, shapes began to move in the darkness. Strange, indistinct figures with blurry faces approached, their movements slow and deliberate. They were tall, their outlines shifting and unnatural, like shadows that didn’t belong to the light. Their faces were hidden, obscured by some invisible force, as if the air around them distorted their features. The only thing visible was the gleam of their eyes—cold, empty, and uncaring.

"Please," Xarven whimpered, his voice small and desperate. "Please let me out."

But instead of answering him, the figures began to laugh. It was a low, mocking sound that echoed through the room, growing louder and more distorted with every second. Their laughter seemed to come from everywhere, filling the space until Xarven felt like it would drive him mad. They whispered to each other in a language he didn’t understand, their voices hissing and sharp.

"Why are you doing this?" Xarven cried, his voice shaking. He was terrified—more than he had ever been in his life. He shook the bars of the cage, tears welling up in his eyes as he begged for freedom. "Please... I don’t belong here!"

One of the figures stepped closer, looming over the cage. Its face was still a blur, its features lost to the shadows, but its voice was clear and cold. "You should be grateful, child," it whispered, its voice slithering like poison into Xarven’s ears. "You will fulfill your purpose. You will be one of many to contribute to the world's cleansing."

"Cleansing... the world..." Xarven repeated in disbelief, his mind struggling to grasp the meaning of those words. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. He sobbed, his small hands gripping the bars tighter. "I don’t want to—please, let me go!"

But the figures only laughed louder, their voices rising into a chorus of madness. "You should rejoice," one of them proclaimed, raising its hands into the air. "You are chosen for a higher purpose than most deserve. The world will be devoured, and you, child, will be an appetizer!"

Xarven’s breath came in panicked gasps as he was suddenly lifted—cage and all—off the ground. The sensation of being carried was dizzying, his world tilting and swaying as the figures hauled him deeper into the house. The wails of children grew louder, their cries of terror blending with his own as he was dragged through a narrow, winding hallway. The walls seemed to close in around him, the symbols on them glowing faintly as they passed by.

He was brought into a vast chamber at the heart of the house, a place that felt ancient and evil, as though it had existed for centuries, feeding on the misery of those trapped within it. Strange markings covered the floor in a chaotic spiral of symbols, and at the center of the room stood a stone altar, slick with something dark and wet. Xarven’s heart nearly stopped when he saw it.

Around the altar, other cages were scattered, filled with boys and girls—children even younger than Xarven appeared to be, no older than three or six. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes wide with fear, and their tiny hands clutched the bars of their cages as they whimpered softly. They were all in terrible condition—dirty, weak, and terrified.

Xarven felt bile rise in his throat. His mind raced, the overwhelming sense of horror choking him. Why are they here? Why am I here? What is going to happen to us?

The figures chanted something now, their voices echoing off the cold stone walls, but Xarven couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t think past the fear that was consuming him. He tried to reach out, to speak to the other children, but his voice failed him. He was frozen, trapped in the cage, as the figures approached the altar, their laughter turning into a haunting, droning chant.

The children sobbed, their voices melding with the chants, and Xarven could do nothing but cry in terror, his small body shaking uncontrollably as he awaited whatever cruel fate lay ahead.

The chanting grew louder, a dissonant hum of strange words that Xarven couldn’t understand. The room became darker, the air thicker, pressing down on him. The children in the other cages whimpered and cried, their small voices rising in terror as the blurry figures chanted with greater intensity. Xarven’s heart raced, the fear so overwhelming that he could barely breathe. The strange symbols on the floor began to glow faintly, and an ominous energy pulsed through the room, making the walls seem alive.

Xarven clutched the bars of his cage, his small hands trembling. He tried to shrink back, but there was no escape. He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, his entire body frozen in fear. The other children cried out, some beginning to rock back and forth in their cages, convulsing as the malevolent energy surged through them. No one cared. No one was coming to help.

As the chant reached its crescendo, the altar at the center of the room began to release thick, black smoke. The smoke swirled and twisted in the air, gathering above the stone surface in a way that seemed deliberate, forming a shape. Xarven watched in horror as the smoke coalesced into a floating mouth—a massive, grotesque thing with sharp, jagged teeth that seemed to stretch into a grin too wide for its form. The very sight of it made Xarven's blood freeze in his veins. He couldn't move. He couldn't even scream.

The mouth hovered above the altar, dripping black ichor. Then, as if summoned from the depths of some eldritch nightmare, it began to speak in strange tongues. The words it spoke made no sense to Xarven, but they chilled him to his core. He could feel the malevolence in its voice, a hunger that could never be sated. Blood began to trickle from his eyes and ears, his vision blurring with pain as the presence of the creature bore down on him.

The other children started to convulse violently in their cages, screaming in agony as their bodies twisted unnaturally. Xarven’s stomach turned, but no one came to their aid. The cultists knelt before the mouth, their voices rising in praise. "He who will never be satisfied!" they chanted, their voices filled with twisted reverence. "The eater of courage, devourer of worlds! @#$%#$"

The eldritch mouth spoke again, its voice a guttural growl that shook the very foundation of the room. Xarven couldn’t understand what it said, but the cultists did. They immediately moved, understanding its command without question. One of them approached a small, scrawny girl in a nearby cage. She couldn’t have been older than five. She cried and thrashed as they dragged her out of the cage, her small fists pounding weakly against the cultists' robes, but it was no use. They beat her until she could no longer resist, her sobs reduced to pitiful whimpers.

Xarven watched in paralyzed horror as they brought her to the altar. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like a hammer against his ribs. The cultists held her over the altar, one raising a wicked, curved blade. The knife plunged into her abdomen, gutting her and spilling her organs as her scream pierced the room—a sound so full of terror and pain that Xarven felt his very soul shatter.

The mouth devoured her piece by piece, its grotesque teeth grinding her bones with sickening cracks. Her blood splattered across the altar, staining the floor beneath her as her screams faded into nothing. The cultists laughed, a chorus of manic joy as they praised their horrifying god. "More!" they cried. "More for the devourer!"

Xarven's heart raced as they dragged more children toward the mouth, their screams blending into the madness of the room. His mind fractured further with each child sacrificed, his sense of reality unraveling. By the time they reached his cage, he had lost all sense of reason. His body moved on its own as the cultists opened the cage, thrashing and biting wildly at them.

One cultist screamed as Xarven bit down on their arm, and at that moment, their face became clear—no longer obscured by the eerie blur. Xarven froze in shock. The face staring back at him was familiar, too familiar. His breath caught in his throat.

It was his mother.