The sun barely peeked over the horizon when Mayor Darrick Calloway stirred from his bed, as he had done countless times before. The sheets clung to his damp skin, the weight of an unsettled night pressing on him. He had been unable to sleep, turning over the events of the past few days, trying to make sense of the odd sense of unease that had slowly built up in the village. The usual morning chorus of birds was eerily absent, the day shrouded in a heavy silence that only deepened his discomfort.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face with a sigh. Another day of unease, another day to manage the tensions that had begun to rise in Brightford since the strange happenings started. First, the rumors of sightings at the edge of the woods, then the mysterious illness that had struck a few families. Now, a guard had been found dead, and not just dead—his body was untouched, like he'd simply dropped where he stood.

The soft knock on his door broke his thoughts, and the messenger entered in haste, his face pale and drawn. "Mayor Calloway," the young man stammered, his voice trembling. "Edrin... he's dead."

Darrick’s heart sank. The guard had been on patrol, and no one had heard a sound, seen a struggle. It was unnatural, and Darrick felt it deep in his bones. He tried to remain calm, though his insides churned. "Tell me everything."

"His body... there’s no sign of injury, no marks. He’s just... gone. But there’s something wrong, Mayor. His neck—there are bruises, deep, dark ones. But we couldn't tell what made them."

Darrick’s breath hitched as he stood, his mind racing. No signs of a struggle? No marks except for those bruises? How could this happen? "Where is he?"

"By the south fields," the messenger replied. "A few of the other guards are already there, but it’s... strange, sir."

The mayor gave a curt nod, pulling on his coat. "I’ll be there in a moment."

By the time Darrick arrived, the small crowd had already gathered around Edrin’s body. The guard lay sprawled in the dirt, his arms outstretched, face turned to the sky in a frozen expression of disbelief. His body seemed untouched, but the area around his neck was dark with bruising, the flesh unnaturally swollen. There was no blood, no wound, no obvious cause of death. Just a man who had seemingly collapsed without warning.

The guards whispered nervously among themselves, casting fearful glances at the body. They spoke in low, hesitant tones, afraid that speaking too loudly might draw some unseen predator’s attention.

Darrick knelt beside the body, trying to ignore the unease building in his chest. His fingers brushed lightly against Edrin’s neck, feeling the coldness of death already setting in. There were no other signs of struggle—nothing to explain how the man had met his end. He had simply stopped living.

“How could this happen?” one of the guards muttered under his breath.

Darrick clenched his fists, struggling to maintain his composure. “I don’t know. But I will find out.” His voice was firm, though uncertainty clouded his thoughts. He motioned for the body to be taken to the infirmary for a more thorough examination.

As Darrick returned to the village, his thoughts swirled with questions. The village had never faced anything like this. The occasional illness, the threat of wild animals, even the rare dispute, sure. But this was something entirely different. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was lurking just outside their peaceful borders, waiting.

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He ordered an immediate investigation, gathering the village's remaining guards and anyone else who might have witnessed something out of the ordinary. They would comb the area, search for any signs, any trace of whoever or whatever could have done this.

The day passed in uneasy silence, the villagers murmuring in fear behind closed doors. Darrick met with his council in the evening, each member expressing concern. The priest suggested it was a divine punishment, a warning from the gods. The blacksmith suggested bandits, but Darrick dismissed the idea—the body showed no sign of robbery. One of the younger guards even wondered aloud if it was the work of some supernatural force, a ghost or demon. The thought was laughable, but there was an edge to his voice, a tremor of genuine fear.

Darrick rubbed his temple as the council members argued among themselves. He had always prided himself on his ability to keep Brightford calm, to shield the villagers from the outside world’s dangers. But this... this was different. He couldn’t protect them from what he didn’t understand.

“We need to find the truth,” Darrick said finally, raising his voice over the chatter. “I want the patrols doubled. We’ll keep a close watch on the outskirts of the village, but I’m not going to let panic take root.”

They all nodded, but the fear in their eyes was unmistakable. Darrick knew they had already begun to lose faith.

Later that night, as the villagers huddled in their homes, Darrick found himself alone in his office, staring out the window at the village. The streets were eerily quiet, and the stars seemed distant, cold.

How had things gotten this bad so quickly? One death—unnatural, inexplicable—had shattered the calm. It was as though the village had always been on the edge of something darker, something more dangerous.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, and a guard entered, his face drawn in worry. “Sir, we’ve doubled the patrols as you ordered. But... there’s something wrong. People are afraid. The children are refusing to leave their homes, and the adults are whispering about curses.”

Darrick closed his eyes briefly, the weight of responsibility heavy on his chest. The villagers were scared, and rightfully so. Edrin’s death was a signal—something had changed, and the air felt thick with uncertainty. He needed to act. But how?

“We’ll continue to investigate,” Darrick said, his voice steady. “We’ll keep this under control.”

The day closed with no answers, only more questions, and the unsettling thought that they might be too late to stop whatever was coming. Darrick stood in his office, staring at the darkened village below. The peaceful life he had known seemed like a distant memory now. Something—someone—was out there, watching, waiting. And Brightford was helpless to stop it.

The mayor sighed heavily, his gaze fixed on the empty streets below. The world was changing, and he wasn’t sure if Brightford could survive it. The village’s safety, his own safety, seemed more fragile than ever. Something darker was already among them.

And he was powerless to stop it.

====

The moon hung low, casting an eerie glow over the dense forest that stretched beyond the village. In the heart of the woods, hidden among the shadows, a figure stood, cloaked in tattered robes, his pale fingers twitching with anticipation. The forest, as silent as it was vast, felt alive with the necrotic energy he had summoned—pulsing beneath the earth, rising like dark smoke from the very soil itself.

Aric Blackthorn had long since stopped caring about subtlety. His work, his craft, was a symphony of decay, and the world was his orchestra. The villagers’ whispers, the unease in the air, it all served a purpose. For far too long, he had remained hidden, lurking in the fringes of civilization, but now, he was ready to move. The land was ripe for his taking.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he extended his hand towards the trees. A ripple passed through the air, followed by the quiet crackling of energy as dark tendrils of necrotic power reached out like hungry fingers, sinking into the roots and the very bones of the earth. The energy seeped into the forest, twisting its very essence. Beneath his touch, the trees groaned, and the animals of the woods scattered in frantic fear. He relished in the sensation—the primal thrill of warping life into something unnatural, something he could control.

His army grew stronger with each passing day, though the villagers had no idea what was creeping ever closer. From the depths of forgotten crypts and long-abandoned battlegrounds, he had begun to raise his forces. Corpses that had been long decayed and forgotten now stirred beneath the soil, restless, bound to his will. The bones of the fallen were his to command, their essence twisted into a reflection of their former selves, ready to march on anything that stood in his path.

But he knew the risks. The more energy he expended, the greater the chance someone—perhaps even the village’s inquisitive mayor—would sense him. His presence would be felt like a ripple in the fabric of the world, a disturbance in the delicate balance between life and death. It was only a matter of time before the living began to notice that something unnatural had taken root in the woods. If they found him… well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to disappear.

He smirked at the thought. The village would come to him, as they always did. Fear had a way of drawing the ignorant closer, making them vulnerable. When they came, they would find an army of the dead waiting, marching in the moonlight. And with them, he would raise the banner of his conquest.

A low, rumbling laugh echoed through the woods. His work was nearing completion, and soon, all of Brightford would be his to claim.