The search party faded into the woods, their hurried footsteps crunching through the underbrush. Malric lingered in his position, still and silent, weighing his next move. Pursuing the search party offered a tempting opportunity to cull their numbers further, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

A memory surfaced unbidden, a moment etched into his fractured awareness. He had once seen a blazing bonfire, flames leaping skyward in a dance of destruction. The fire spread without remorse, consuming everything within reach, its roar almost joyous. Malric had watched with something close to awe, drawn to the chaotic beauty of its hunger.

His jaw tightened, a faint grinding sound echoing in the quiet. That same beauty could be unleashed on Brightford. The village would burn, its defenses swallowed by an unstoppable inferno, and its people reduced to ash and screams. Yes, the fire would be his weapon, indiscriminate and absolute.

With this vision firmly in mind, Malric turned away from the search party and began his journey toward the village.

Brightford loomed ahead, the soft glow of torches outlining its ramshackle walls. The guards were more numerous than before, but their movements betrayed their fear. They clutched their weapons too tightly, glancing into the shadows as if expecting death to leap out at any moment.

Malric observed from a distance, noting the patterns in their patrols. The guards walked in pairs, but their coordination was sloppy. Some sections of the wall were left unwatched for long minutes, and the eastern gate—its hinges rusted and creaking—was an obvious weak spot.

He moved closer, his form melting into the darkness between trees. The humans’ torches cast only feeble circles of light, leaving large swathes of the perimeter shrouded. It was simplicity itself to slip past the eastern gate, using its sagging frame as cover.

Inside the village, the tension was palpable. Malric crouched in the shadow of an abandoned house, his hollow eyes scanning the narrow streets. Villagers darted between buildings, clutching parcels and children alike. Doors slammed shut, and curtains were drawn, leaving the village eerily quiet.

He waited, patient and still, as fragments of conversation drifted through the night air. A group of villagers huddled near a well, their voices low and anxious.

"It's not bandits," one man insisted. "Bandits leave signs—footprints, loot missing. This… this is something else."

A woman snapped back, her tone sharp with fear. "You don't know that! Maybe they're smarter than the usual lot."

"If it were bandits, why not take the bodies?" another muttered. "They just… left them there. Like a warning."

Malric’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden wall beside him, a rhythm to his thoughts. They speculated, argued, and feared, but their understanding was pitifully limited. Humans were so quick to assign familiar labels to the unknown—bandit, ghost, monster—but they could not fathom what he was.

He shifted his gaze to a cart stationed near the center of the village. Barrels of oil and stacks of firewood were being loaded onto it by two men, their movements hurried and clumsy. A plan began to form.

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Fire. It was so simple, so devastating. Malric thought back to the guards he had overheard during the day, their nervous chatter betraying more than they realized. They spoke of a bandit raid years prior, where flaming arrows had reduced an entire settlement to ash. The fire had spread quickly, too quickly for the defenders to contain.

Malric allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The irony of their assumptions amused him. They thought him a bandit or a mere predator skulking in the woods. They couldn’t comprehend that he was something far worse, far more deliberate.

He slipped deeper into the village, weaving through shadows and avoiding the torches of the patrolling guards. His skeletal frame cast no reflection in the faint pools of light, a phantom stalking the edges of their vision.

Inside an abandoned stable, he crouched and surveyed his surroundings. He listened to the faint hum of village life—panicked whispers, creaking doors, the occasional clatter of tools. It was chaos contained within brittle walls.

The villagers’ desperation was almost palpable. Some spoke of fleeing, others argued for fortifying their defenses, but all of them reeked of fear. Malric drank it in, savoring the tension. Fear was a weapon he could wield as effectively as any blade.

From his vantage point, Malric spotted the mayor leaving his house, a guard trailing closely behind. They moved with purpose, heading toward the central square.

Malric’s hollow eyes followed them, calculating his next move. The mayor was a key piece in this fragile game, a linchpin holding the village together. Shadowing him might reveal new weaknesses, new ways to fracture the humans’ feeble sense of order.

With a final glance at the cart laden with oil and firewood, Malric rose and began to move. The night was his ally, and Brightford would soon feel the weight of his patient malice.

The mayor was a difficult man to follow—not because of his cunning but because he surrounded himself with others. Guards patrolled diligently, and the mayor rarely stepped out alone. Even now, flanked by his most loyal guard, the man walked briskly through the uneven streets of Brightford, his cloak whipping against his heels.

Malric trailed from a safe distance, his skeletal frame hidden behind the warped wood of abandoned stalls and forgotten debris. His hollow gaze lingered on the mayor's figure, dissecting the man's every movement. This one carried the weight of the village on his back, his gait stiff with the burden of responsibility. The guard, nervously scanning their surroundings, clutched a spear tight enough for his knuckles to pale. Fear clung to both of them like a parasite, palpable even from afar.

As they entered the central square, Malric slipped silently into the shadows of an old mill, his steps as soundless as death itself.

Inside a small, weather-beaten building by the square, a gathering of voices rose. Malric edged closer, pressing himself against the cracked stone of the wall to listen.

“… can’t keep going like this, Calden! First one guard, now two more. People are terrified,” came a hoarse voice, trembling with frustration.

Another voice, smoother and more composed, responded. The mayor. “We must hold our ground. We can’t abandon Brightford. To flee is to surrender ourselves to the wilds, to whatever killed those men out there.”

“But what if we’re next?” someone else interjected, their voice sharp with panic.

“Enough.” The mayor’s tone was final, silencing the room. “We’ll bolster our defenses, increase patrols. This is a test of our strength, and we will not fail.”

Malric listened with cold fascination. Their words painted a vivid picture of the fear infecting the village like rot. They were scrambling, desperate for control, and their collective paranoia made them easier to manipulate.

A faint smile seemed to form in his mind, though his skeletal face remained fixed. They were preparing for something they didn’t understand. He was no bandit, no raider driven by greed or desperation. They were fighting shadows.

The meeting dispersed, and Malric withdrew into the night. He slipped through the darkness, heading toward the outskirts where his stolen cart waited. As he moved, his mind replayed a memory—a blazing bonfire. The flames had danced wildly, crackling and roaring as they consumed everything in their path. The image was seared into his being, a beautiful chaos he now sought to replicate.

Brightford would burn. Becoming its namesake!

Reaching the cart, Malric worked with silent efficiency. He retrieved the stolen oil, pouring it liberally over the wood and hay. The acrid smell rose into the cold night air, mingling with the faint whispers of the wind.

Stepping back, he held up the flint he’d scavenged earlier. A single strike. A spark.

The cart erupted into flames, a sudden roar of fire and light against the darkness. Shadows danced wildly across the village's edge as the inferno took hold.

Malric watched, motionless, as the fire spread, his hollow eyes reflecting the chaos. The flames licked the night sky, a harbinger of the destruction to come.

The screams of the first villagers reached his ears, distant and muffled, as the fire cast long, twisting shadows over Brightford.

And still, he did not move.