The morning arrived gray and oppressive, like the village itself was smothered under a heavy shroud of uncertainty. The sun barely pierced the clouds, casting the village in a sullen light. The villagers were already stirring with an edge of fear, their murmurs carried by the cool, still air. The deaths of the guards—two more bodies found, cold and lifeless—had deepened the sense of unease. The village, which had always been small and quiet, now felt unnaturally claustrophobic, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

Mayor Eamon’s brow furrowed as he stood in his modest office, staring out the narrow window that overlooked the village square. His heart beat a little faster than it should, an anxiety that seemed to have taken root in his chest and wouldn’t let go. The death of the first guard had sent ripples of panic through the villagers, but now, with two more men dead—each found in the same strange manner—those ripples had turned into waves. Fear was quickly becoming the dominant force in Brightford, and Eamon could feel it gnawing at his nerves.

He paced back and forth in his office, the creaking floorboards echoing the tension building within him. There was no logical explanation for what had happened. The guards, hardened men who had seen their fair share of danger, had been found lifeless in the early morning hours, without a single mark upon their bodies. No sign of struggle, no weapon. It was as though their very souls had been stolen from them.

"Eamon," a voice called from the doorway, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. He turned to see his assistant, Thomas, standing in the doorway, a worried expression etched across his face.

"The villagers are demanding answers," Thomas said, his voice low. "They're scared, Mayor. They want to know what’s happening."

Eamon rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of their fear pressing down on him. He had been elected to lead, to protect them, but in this moment, he felt utterly powerless.

"I know, Thomas. I know," Eamon muttered, his voice heavy with the strain of responsibility. "But I don’t have answers. Not yet."

The young man nodded, but his eyes were filled with doubt. "The search parties are ready, sir. They’ve been waiting for your orders."

Eamon’s gaze flicked to the small map on the wall. The surrounding woods were dense, treacherous, and uncharted in many places. He had always known there were dangers lurking in the wilderness beyond the village, but this... this was something else. The thought of sending more men into the forest only to lose them in the same manner made his stomach churn.

"I’ll send them," Eamon said finally, his voice colder than he had intended. "But they need to be careful. This isn’t a simple thief or marauder. This is something more."

Thomas hesitated but nodded and left the room to relay the orders. Eamon was alone now, and he let his shoulders slump, finally giving in to the exhaustion that had been creeping up on him since the first death. His mind spun, desperately grasping for something to make sense of it all. But the more he thought about it, the clearer it became that something unnatural was at work.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of footsteps below, the rising murmur of voices filtering up to him through the floorboards. The villagers were stirring—again, fear giving them no rest. He turned back to the window and watched them move about like ants, trying to continue their daily lives despite the unease that permeated the air. Some were already arming themselves with pitchforks and whatever weapons they could find. The tension was palpable, and he knew it wouldn’t take much for that fear to turn into hysteria.

"We can’t let them panic," he muttered under his breath. "We can’t afford it."

Minutes passed in a blur, and before long, the sun had fully risen, but its weak light seemed to do little to lift the heaviness that hung over the village. Eamon knew the next step—he needed to confront the villagers. They needed to see that he was still in control, that he had a plan, that he wasn’t going to let whatever dark force was behind these deaths destroy their home.

He strode down to the village square, his boots clicking sharply against the cobblestone. As he passed the few shops and homes, the villagers eyed him warily, their gazes filled with equal parts hope and fear. They needed reassurance, but he had none to give.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

When he reached the center, a small crowd had gathered. Some of the familiar faces from the village looked up at him, their eyes wide with anxiety.

"Eamon," one of the elders, Gretchen, spoke up from the crowd, her voice trembling. "What’s happening? Why are people dying? What’s killing our guards?"

The others echoed her question in murmurs, voices rising in fear.

"We don’t know yet," Eamon said, raising his hand to calm them. "But we are investigating. We’ll find out who or what is responsible for these deaths."

"Are we supposed to wait until it happens to someone else?" another voice shouted. "What about our children? What if it comes for them next?"

Eamon felt his stomach twist as panic began to spread among the villagers like wildfire. They were scared, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He needed control, needed them to believe in his leadership. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he could stop it either.

"We have to stay calm," he said, his voice firm. "Stay inside at night. Keep your doors locked. We’ll do everything we can to ensure your safety."

A few of the villagers nodded, but many still whispered amongst themselves, their fear unmistakable.

As the crowd began to disperse, murmuring with uncertainty, Eamon watched them go, his heart sinking deeper into his chest. The village was cracking, and he couldn’t stop it.

Later that day, the search parties were formed. Strong men, some with weapons, some with torches, set out into the forest, the only plan being to find something—anything—that would explain these inexplicable deaths. Eamon stood at the gates of the village, watching them leave, but as they disappeared into the trees, a sense of foreboding washed over him.

He didn’t know how much longer they had before something far worse than fear started to tear at the very fabric of Brightford.

=====

Malric stood in the shadows, hidden within the thick underbrush at the edge of the village, listening. The sounds of life continued to bustle around him, unaware of the predator that watched them so closely. His bones creaked as he shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his position in the cool night air. The village, with all its weaknesses, was his canvas, and he reveled in the patterns that began to form in his mind.

His gaze flicked toward the cluster of guards he had overheard earlier that day. They had no idea how close they were to him, but their conversation was like a treasure trove of useful knowledge. They spoke in hushed tones, clearly trying to avoid being overheard, but Malric was too skilled at listening. Too skilled at slipping into their minds, even when they didn’t know they were revealing their fears.

“Last time those damn bandits raided us, they were clever,” one of the guards had said, his voice low and tense. “Flaming arrows—shoot them from the woods, and our defenses are useless. No walls can stop fire.”

Another guard had grunted, clearly nervous. “The fire could spread too quickly. They’d burn the whole damn village before we could even react.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” The first guard’s voice was cold, calculating. “If we get the fire started, we can move in and kill anyone who tries to escape the flames.”

Malric’s lips twisted into something akin to a grin beneath his tattered cloak. Bandits. They had assumed it was bandits who were behind the strange deaths. It was always bandits, wasn’t it? Foolish, arrogant living beings. They could never fathom the true nature of the threat that lurked just beyond their understanding.

The stupidity of it amused him. They believed that fire was the weapon that would break him, that would cleanse the village of whatever threat had crept in from the woods. They didn’t understand the simple truth: fire could do nothing to him. His bones were already dead, impervious to their flames.

But what fascinated him even more was their inability to see the truth of what was happening. They were desperate, their minds grasping at anything to make sense of the terror they were feeling. But they didn’t know what hunted them. They didn’t know the true nature of their enemy. And that was the most delicious irony of all.

Malric’s mind wandered back to the village, to the endless maze of streets and homes where they tried so hard to maintain the illusion of safety. They had guards, weapons, walls, and even fire—but none of it mattered. All their efforts would only delay the inevitable. Their guards were weak, their homes fragile, and their fears were nothing more than fleeting echoes that Malric would soon extinguish, one by one. The longer he stayed here, the more he could see it—the threads unraveling, the villagers slowly realizing how little control they had over their own fate.

As night deepened, Malric’s sharp eyes caught sight of a new development in the village. The search party was assembling. The mayor had finally sent them out. Malric couldn’t help but smile, his bony fingers tightening around the hilt of his weapon. The fools had no idea what awaited them.

There were at least five men in the search party, each armed, their movements hesitant but purposeful. They were grouped together, scanning the woods, clearly unaware of how close they were to the one they sought. Their search was inefficient, a desperate attempt to recover control over the situation, but they had already lost the game.

Malric’s breath was a soft rasp in the darkness. He could feel his power swelling within him. The opportunity had arrived. The search party would lead him deeper into their domain, and he would follow them with the quiet patience he was known for. He would pick them off, one by one, like the others before them. They would never know what hit them.

His thoughts circled, focused. Fire. The word came back to him like a whisper from the wind. He had heard them speak of it, but it would not help them. They could burn everything, but they could not burn him. The flames would only add to the chaos and panic, and Malric thrived in such an environment.

His body felt cold, lifeless, but the excitement, the hunger for chaos, pulsed within him. The search party would move further into the woods, thinking they could track down the enemy, unaware that they were already marked for death.

As the search party began their slow march toward the woods, Malric decided it was time. He let his cloak fall into the shadows, blending into the darkness. The hunt had begun. He would stay just out of sight, close enough to hear their every word, feel their every step, until they finally stumbled into his waiting hands. Then, when they realized too late, they would feel the same terror as the others had. It would be their last mistake.

And so, with a quiet resolve, Malric began to move toward them. His steps were light, like whispers in the wind, and his mind burned with the promise of more death to come.

"The village is unprotected like this, what if it attacks everyone while we're gone?"

"Don't worry, a few guards were left behind. They'll be fine."

Malric paused. And turned.