Malric had retreated into the shadows, away from the flickering warmth of the village’s torches. The night wrapped around him like a cloak, hiding his skeletal form from the curious eyes of the living. His thoughts, however, were far from still.

The encounter with the drunkard had taught him much, though it had been no more than a test. The man had been a fool, unaware of the danger standing before him. To him, Malric had been just another traveler, no different from any other. It had been easier than Malric had anticipated. The drunken mind was a haze of fog and confusion, incapable of seeing through the facade of the undead. A flicker of a thought passed through Malric’s mind: could he use this? Could the ignorance of the living be his greatest ally?

Yet, in contrast, there was Aric Blackthorn. A man who knew what Malric was, who had willingly spoken to him without hesitation, without fear. Aric had treated him like any other, with no disgust, no sense of revulsion. To Malric, this was a far more complicated puzzle. Aric knew the truth, yet his willingness to converse, to trust, was both unsettling and... useful. What motivated such behavior? Was it mere curiosity? Or was there something deeper, something more dangerous?

Malric’s mind whirled as he paced in the shadows. The variance in human reactions both fascinated and frustrated him. The drunkard’s ignorance could be exploited, but Aric’s calmness was something to study, to understand. How could he manipulate both? Could he slip into the world of the living unnoticed, like a shadow in the night, or would he always be a predator waiting to strike?

The village had quieted even more as the night stretched on. Malric moved along the outskirts of the village, keeping to the darker pathways, where the moonlight was dim and the sounds of village life were muffled. It was here, by the edge of the woods, that he saw a new target. A figure, solitary, bent over his work. A man gathering firewood.

The man was sober, his movements steady and purposeful. Unlike the drunkard, there was no haze clouding his senses, no slurred words to offer Malric a false sense of safety. This was a different challenge. The man moved with a familiarity that suggested a life of routine, but also a sharpness—a quiet vigilance. His hands, worn from labor, pulled logs from a stacked pile with efficiency, his gaze occasionally darting toward the forest as if listening for something in the wind.

Malric studied the man, considering his next move. This time, he would not be able to rely on ignorance alone. The man might sense something off about him, even in the dim light of the village’s outskirts. His mind raced with possibilities. How should he approach this one?

He could try pretending to be a traveler in need of assistance, but this man seemed too grounded to simply take a wandering stranger at face value. The sober ones were always more cautious. Malric doubted he could feign complete normalcy in this situation. He would need to play it carefully. His bones ached at the thought of risking exposure. But he could not let the opportunity pass.

The man was alone, which was an advantage, but Malric had no doubt that should he fail, the village would become suspicious. Could he talk his way through this, or would he have to silence the man as he had nearly done with the drunkard? He clenched his bony fists, reluctant to go down that path. It would be a last resort.

Malric took a step back, disappearing deeper into the shadows. He needed a moment to think, to calculate. The problem with humans was their unpredictability. Some were so lost in their world of routine and ignorance that they could be easily manipulated. Others, like Aric, seemed to have a clear understanding of the darkness lurking in the world and yet embraced it without fear.

But this man, the one gathering firewood—he was not like the drunkard, nor was he like Aric. He was sober, alert, and possibly more aware than Malric was comfortable with. So, how to approach him?

Malric briefly considered pretending to be lost. He could approach the man, ask for directions, feign confusion. But the sober ones always looked too closely, and he feared the man would see through the cracks in his disguise.

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Another idea surfaced: a trade. Malric could offer something, a piece of metal or an item of some value, hoping the man would be distracted enough by the potential benefit to overlook his unnatural presence. But how could Malric guarantee that the man wouldn’t examine him too closely? What if his demeanor, his voice, gave him away?

Finally, Malric considered the option of drawing the man toward him. A distraction—something simple that would shift the man’s attention away from the possibility of Malric’s true nature. Perhaps a noise, a sudden movement from the shadows, something that would make him curious enough to approach, but not immediately suspicious.

Malric leaned against the stone of a nearby wall, watching the villager from a distance. His thoughts churned like a slow, deliberate river. If he were to fail here, it would be disastrous. But failure could not be allowed. He needed to test his ability to blend in, to gather information without revealing himself.

"Confidence," Malric muttered to himself, "that’s the key. A false confidence can lead to deception."

He would step forward, straightening himself, making sure his movements were deliberate. No hesitation. No second thoughts. If he was careful enough, the man would not sense the truth.

Malric’s mind made up, he carefully positioned himself in the shadows, observing the villager. He waited for the perfect moment, watching the man gather his last few pieces of firewood. As the man straightened, Malric slipped into the open, stepping onto the dirt path with deliberate calm.

For a moment, he blended into the background, his form slightly hunched, his face hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He moved like a traveler, perhaps a bit too rigid, but he held his ground. The man did not notice him immediately, focused instead on the last of the logs in his arms. But Malric remained patient, ensuring that every step he took was calculated, each movement fluid and unhurried.

It wasn’t until the man finally looked up and saw him that Malric stepped forward, his voice low but clear. “Evening. I’m passing through. The road’s long, and I seek a place to rest. Could you offer a bit of guidance?”

The villager’s eyes flickered up from the logs, registering the figure before him. His brow furrowed slightly, but there was no immediate suspicion, no recognition of anything strange.

“Ah,” the man said, a little weary but cordial. “You’ve come at an odd hour. Not many travel through this way after dark. What kind of place are you looking for?”

Malric took a step closer, careful to appear at ease, to show no sign of unease. “Just somewhere to rest for the night. A place with a warm fire, perhaps.”

The man studied him for a moment, as though weighing the request. Malric's heart—if such a thing could be said to exist—beat slow and steady. He had made it this far. Now, the next step would be crucial. Would the villager simply guide him, or would his eyes linger too long? Would he spot the deadness in Malric’s voice, the rigidness in his posture?

The conversation continued, Malric’s mind still spinning its webs of possibilities. And with every word spoken, the tension in his bones grew, but so did his resolve. This would be the test—he would either blend in or expose himself.

The villager’s gaze lingered on Malric for a moment longer than comfortable, as if trying to read him. For a brief instant, Malric felt the sharp sting of his undead nature clawing at the edges of his control. He remained motionless, forcing himself to mask the eerie stillness of his bones, the hollow emptiness of his eyes, beneath the facade of a weary traveler. The villager’s hand tightened around the wood in his arms, but he did not flee. There was no sign of alarm.

“Ah,” the man said again, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, carrying the weight of a man who spent his days working, “You’ll find the nearest place for shelter further along the road. Old Mill Lane, just past the turn with the creek. Good spot. Not too far from here.” He gave a weary shrug, though his eyes never fully left Malric.

Malric nodded, maintaining his measured, calm posture. His every movement was calculated to appear natural, even though his mind screamed at him to stay still, to wait for the man to turn away, to make sure that this fragile moment wouldn’t crumble into suspicion. He breathed in slowly, reminding himself that every human was an opportunity to test his disguise, to probe his ability to slip past unnoticed. The man’s suspicion was there, but it was buried deep beneath the surface of exhaustion. This was a minor victory.

“A place for rest,” Malric repeated softly, his voice deliberately gravelly, but not too much so. The subtle texture of fatigue. “It’s been a long journey, you see.”

The man, still hesitant, shifted the logs in his arms and glanced to the side. "Aye, I understand. You’ll find it just down the road. Keep your eyes open for the turn, it’s easy to miss at night.”

Malric nodded again, his hand tightening around the worn handle of his satchel. The movement felt strange in his skeletal form, but it had to look like a gesture of reassurance. A small flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—began to creep into his mind. He had not yet encountered a villager who had looked at him for this long, studying him so intently. Could this man see through him? Was the mask too thin, too easily pierced?

But the villager, after another pause, did not question further. Instead, his eyes shifted back to the logs, and he gave Malric a short nod before turning to go back to his task. The moment stretched on, still and tense.

“Thank you,” Malric finally said, the words hanging in the air as the man turned away. He made no effort to hide the relief in his voice—this conversation could have gone far worse.

As the villager moved back toward the woodpile, Malric took one last moment to scan the surroundings. The night seemed to press in around him, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional soft crackle of the firewood the man had gathered. The village was quiet, unperturbed, unaware of the unnatural presence just moments away. His heart, if it had been alive, would have been beating with the thrill of the moment.