Chapter 9

The sun hovered low over the horizon as Malric crouched in the shadows of a dense thicket near Brightford Village. He remained motionless, his skeletal frame blending into the gnarled roots and tangled brush. The day had been spent in patient observation, his hollow sockets fixed on the bustling activity of the village, and only now, with the sun sinking into the earth and shadows stretching long, did he finally stir.

During the day, Brightford had been alive with movement. Farmers tended to crops in the surrounding fields, their laughter and shouts carrying faintly to Malric’s position. Children dashed through the streets, their games a chaotic flurry of energy that grated against his silent stillness. Merchants peddled their wares in the central square, their voices rising in eager haggling. Malric studied their every motion with meticulous care, noting the patterns of their routines and the weaknesses in their fortifications. He found the lack of vigilance almost insulting; villagers strolled through open gates, their guards chatted idly or nodded off at their posts, and the gaps in the palisade invited intrusion.

Now, as darkness enveloped the village, Malric crept forward. The South Gate, barely more than a crude wooden arch with a sagging fence, stood unattended. Slipping through it required no effort, and he found himself within Brightford's confines, the soft glow of lanterns casting jagged shadows on the dirt paths.

The Residential District was his first target. Malric wove between the houses, each one a simple wooden structure with thatched roofs and faintly glowing windows. He noticed the carelessness of the villagers—doors left ajar, goods stacked haphazardly on porches. His resentment grew with every step. These creatures thrived on complacency, trusting their flimsy barriers to protect them. He peered into one window, watching a family gather around a table. Their laughter filled the room, and for a fleeting moment, Malric felt something unfamiliar stir within him. He crushed it with a silent snarl, dismissing the scene as further proof of their naivety.

The Tavern was next. Malric paused in the alley beside it, listening to the drunken revelry within. Boisterous voices and clinking tankards painted a picture of carelessness. The building itself was sturdier than most, its thick timber frame reinforced by iron bands. Yet even here, Malric saw weakness: a low rear window, unlatched and partially obscured by stacked barrels. He filed the detail away and moved on.

Crossing the market square, Malric paused in the shadows of a nearby awning. The square was nearly deserted, save for a few merchants packing up their stalls. The cobbled space had been alive with activity earlier, but now its emptiness felt almost reverent. Malric noted its layout—the central fountain, the wide-open expanse, the narrow alleyways leading to different parts of the village. This was the heart of Brightford, its hub of trade and community. A sudden movement caught his eye: a young boy helping an older man load a cart. Their laughter echoed faintly in the night, and for a moment, Malric’s hollow gaze lingered.

Such fragility, he thought. So easily shattered. Yet a part of him wondered why he lingered. Why did their simple lives ignite such a storm within him? He turned away before the thought could fester, retreating into the safety of his anger.

The northern watchtower rose before him, its rickety structure casting a long shadow. Malric approached cautiously, his movements silent. The guard atop the tower leaned heavily against the railing, his head nodding as sleep claimed him. The patrols were even less impressive—one man trudging aimlessly along the wall, his torchlight flickering weakly. Malric circled back into the village, his mind cataloging every failure in their defenses.

He returned to the farmlands at the edge of Brightford, slipping past the grazing livestock and toward the fields. The distant bleating of sheep and rustling of crops masked his retreat as he stopped to observe the village one final time. The torchlight of the watchtowers glimmered like dying stars, a feeble attempt to push back the encroaching darkness.

From the safety of the fields, Malric sat motionless, his bony fingers tracing idle patterns in the dirt. His thoughts churned like a black tide. These humans—weak, oblivious, fragile—fascinated him in ways he couldn’t articulate. Their vitality, their sense of purpose, their ceaseless motion—all of it was alien to him. Yet he could not deny the allure of their destruction.

Why do I take life so easily? The question gnawed at the edges of his mind. Was it mere instinct? A compulsion buried deep in his bones? Or was it something more? He recalled the way the adventurers had fallen before him, the silence of their deaths. The memory filled him with satisfaction, yet the source of that satisfaction eluded him.

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Brightford lay ahead, its secrets exposed to his careful gaze. Malric had no clear plan beyond observing and waiting for an opportunity. Yet deep within, he felt the pull of something greater, something unspoken. He did not seek to understand these humans—he sought to unravel them, to pick apart their lives until only silence remained.

With that thought, he rose, his skeletal frame blending into the night as he made his way closer to Brightford. The hunt was far from over.

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The night air was thick with a chill, the kind that made the skin prickle and the bones ache. Edrin, one of Brightford's night watchmen, trudged down the narrow, dirt path that cut through the farmlands on the northern edge of the village. The moon hung high in the sky, barely shedding light on the land, casting long, eerie shadows across the ground. It was quiet. Too quiet. His boots crunched softly against the ground, and the rustling of the wind in the trees was the only sound that kept his senses alert.

He’d been patrolling these fields for weeks, but tonight something felt different. There was an unsettling stillness that weighed heavily on the air, as if the land itself was holding its breath. Edrin paused, his instincts flaring with unease. He scanned the horizon, but saw nothing. His eyes darted around nervously, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching him. He laughed uneasily at his own thoughts. It was probably just the silence of the night playing tricks on him. But still, his hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt, the cold metal a reassuring comfort against the unease gnawing at him.

The wind picked up, pushing through the tall grass like a whisper, carrying with it a faint rustling sound from the shadows on his left. His heart thudded in his chest as he glanced to the side. Nothing.

But there was something there. In the periphery of his vision. Something that felt... wrong.

Edrin’s breath caught in his throat. There, just beyond the edge of his lantern’s light, a dark figure stood—still, unmoving. For a long moment, the shape barely seemed real. It wasn’t the silhouette of a man, nor was it an animal—nothing he’d ever seen before. The figure was unnaturally tall, its limbs long and crooked, with a cloak that billowed against the wind, the edges torn and frayed like it had been abandoned for years.

His pulse quickened, heart racing as he took a step back, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Who goes there?" Edrin called out, his voice trembling, though he desperately tried to control it. There was no response. Only the sound of his own breath, heavy and labored in the stillness.

The figure didn’t move, and that was worse than anything. He could feel the weight of its stare, like invisible fingers pressing down on his chest. It was like nothing he’d ever encountered—a presence that seemed both alien and horribly familiar. The air seemed to grow colder as he stood frozen in place, his every instinct screaming at him to run. Yet his legs remained rooted, stiff as stone.

The figure’s hollow eyes glowed faintly under the pale moonlight. Edrin’s breath caught in his throat again. There was something deeply unsettling about those eyes. They were like black voids, lifeless and unfeeling. They stared at him with an intensity that made him feel as though he were being devoured, bit by bit.

His mouth went dry, and for the first time in years, fear gripped him fully. "W-Who are you?" he stammered, his grip on his sword shaking. He took a hesitant step back, then another, hoping to retreat, but his feet felt like they were mired in quicksand.

Still, the figure didn’t move.

His mind screamed at him to flee, but his body refused. It was like he was paralyzed, caught in the gaze of something... otherworldly. His hand trembled as he reached for the sword at his side. Something wasn’t right—this was no ordinary threat.

And then it moved.

The figure surged forward with a speed that seemed unnatural, too fast for a man, too fluid for anything human. Before Edrin could even draw his sword, something cold, a presence far too close, gripped his throat. It felt like ice was wrapping around him, tightening and constricting, pulling the air from his lungs. He gasped in shock, but there was no sound—just the crushing, suffocating silence. He tried to cry out, but his voice was lost in the dark.

The last thing he felt was a sharp, unforgiving pressure, and then... nothing.

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It was bloodless, eerily so, like his life was simply snuffed out, extinguished before it could even bleed. In his final moments, there was no pain, no struggle—only a horrible sense of cold emptiness. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, yet still holding onto the terror of what he had seen.

From the shadows, Malric observed the fallen guard, his hollow eyes gleaming with a sense of detached satisfaction. He had been swift, efficient—exactly as he had planned. There was no thrill in the kill, no joy to be found in the destruction. It was a means to an end, as everything was. This guard had been a threat, no matter how small, and so he had removed it from the equation.

Malric stood over the body, his skeletal form casting an eerie shadow in the moonlight. He had done what he had come for, and now, the village lay just a short distance away, ripe for further observation. He had studied its weaknesses in the light of day, but now—now he would move in closer, feel the pulse of the place under his feet.

He was no longer content to simply watch. The time for action was drawing near. Brightford would fall, one piece at a time.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sound, Malric moved away from the guard’s body, his form dissolving back into the darkness. The village was close now, and as he moved, his mind turned to the next steps—how to enter without drawing attention, how to strike from within without the villagers ever realizing what was happening until it was too late.

As he moved into the night, his thoughts were clear, his purpose undeterred. The humans here had their place in his plans, but their understanding of him, their fear of him, was utterly irrelevant. They were nothing more than obstacles, to be crushed, one after another.

And so, Malric moved onward, a silent presence in the night, leaving only the stillness of death in his wake.