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The lake was alive.

Waves lapped against the logs of the raft, making it creak—a mournful sound that echoed in the vast, oppressive stillness. Nox gripped the storm lantern tightly, its faint glow casting trembling reflections on the water’s inky surface. Rain had stopped, but lightning still flared across the sky, each flash revealing far more than the lantern could. Everything was soaked—his hands, his feet, his face, his hair, his clothes. Even the base of the raft was slick and sodden. But Nox didn’t care. All that mattered was finding Turo.

He knew how much Turo meant to his uncle, Marnoell. After years of painful longing for a child, Turo had been a miracle. A child born of prayer and desperation. Losing him wasn’t an option.

And then there was Samora. She was pregnant. The bloody footprints near the lake’s edge suggested that she was injured, possibly dying. And there was the cursed baby in her womb.

Nox didn’t know what to think about the baby. Could an innocent soul truly be evil? He wanted to believe otherwise, but he didn’t dare question the oracle’s premonition or disobey his uncle’s orders.

Let me take both Samora and her child back to the village, he thought. Uncle will decide what’s best.

The men on the raft paddled sluggishly, their movements stiff with cold and fear. Their eyes darted across the water, not seeking signs of Turo but scanning for something far worse—something they feared would leap out at them at any moment.

Bhola’s trembling hands gripped his paddle, his teeth chattering as he hummed a shaky tune under his breath. It was barely audible over the soft splash of water, but the fear in his voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Shut up and paddle,” Khotal muttered, nudging Bhola sharply in the ribs.

Bhola’s face twisted in annoyance, but his voice wavered. “What if… they catch us?” he mumbled, his words lilting into a broken melody. “What if they take us? What if they drown us? What if they—”

“Enough!” Nox snapped. “Aren’t you men already? You don’t sound like it.”

As the youngest of the group, Nox was all too aware of his position among them. The others had each completed their first hunt, adorning themselves with trophies from their kills. By comparison, he was just a boy. But fear? Wasnt that for children? For women, he thought. Not for men.

“Isn’t fear something you outgrow after your first hunt?” he taunted.

Khotal turned to him with a scowl. “Who told you that nonsense?” he shot back. “Fear’s not something you outgrow—it’s human. We just learn to hide it better.”

As if to prove his point, Khotal’s eyes darted toward the sound of splashing water. His face twisted in panic, and he sprang to his feet, the raft rocking beneath him. “What’s that?!” he shouted, brandishing his paddle like a weapon. “Is it a monster? Is it evil? I’ll kill you! Come here, I’ll kill you!”

His wild movements sent the raft swaying dangerously, the logs groaning under the sudden shift in weight. Nox crouched low, clutching the slippery wood to steady himself as Khotal swung his paddle, narrowly missing the heads of the other men.

“Sit down, you fool!” one of them shouted in panic.

Khotal teetered precariously, his paddle raised like a warrior ready for battle. For a moment, it seemed like he might plunge himself into the dark, waiting waters.

"Sit down, you fool!"

"Someone put him down!"

"You're gonna drown us!"

The men’s shouts overlapped as the raft wobbled dangerously beneath them.

“That’s not a monster. It was your mate paddling the raft,” Nox said calmly. He shifted his weight carefully to counterbalance the tilt Khotal had caused. The raft groaned under the strain.

Khotal froze, his paddle still raised mid-swing. Slowly, the tension drained from his body, replaced by the creeping heat of shame. The back of his neck and ears burned as he exchanged a sheepish glance with Bhola. “It was you,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re not a monster.”

Bhola shook his head, his expression deadpan. “No, I’m not.”

The other men sighed, rolling their eyes as they turned their attention back to paddling. Khotal lowered himself, reluctantly resuming his position and dipping his paddle into the water. His movements were stiff, his pride bruised.

“That doesn’t exactly sound like being better at hiding fear,” Nox remarked dryly. His eyes never left the water as he slowly stood, testing the raft’s stability. When it held firm, he stretched the storm lantern as far as he could, its light casting weak, trembling reflections on the vast, dark surface.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

But it was no use. The lake was too large, the night too dark.

They could have drifted south. Or east. Or southeast. Or anywhere in between. The only certainty was that Turo and Samora had been moving away from Tuscanvalle. And in a water body this monstrous, that single piece of knowledge felt laughably insufficient.

“No, these two really are too much,” one of the men replied to Nox's comment.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Khotal snapped. “You’ve known every happiness in life. But not us!” His voice cracked, and he jabbed a finger at himself and Bhola. “We aren’t even married! We haven’t even had a woman touch us in our very small lives. Right, Bhola?”

Bhola nodded eagerly. “Yeah. I’m not ready to die yet.”

“I just hope we’re not cursed already,” Khotal added, his voice softening, fear creeping back in as he dipped his paddle into the water again.

The men laughed, easing some of the fear that clung to them. Nox stayed quiet. He knew he was in the same boat as them—figuratively and literally—but he didn’t want their laughter directed at him. For a brief moment, Creda’s face flashed in his mind. He quickly pushed the thought away. She was Turo’s now, and thinking otherwise was pointless, painful.

Nox turned his back to the men, lifting the storm lantern and shining it on the other side of the raft. The creaking of the logs under his feet felt more noticeable this time. The raft seemed to shift slightly, but he brushed the thought aside. He had checked the ropes and logs and lifeline himself before they set out—they had been secure.

The men paddled quietly for a while, their paddles splashing softly in the water. But Nox’s thoughts kept drifting back to Creda.

He remembered their childhood—days of laughter and play, of petty arguments that quickly gave way to fierce loyalty. They’d defended each other against others and spent long afternoons by the lake, their feet stirring the water as they giggled about things only they understood.

Then, one day, everything changed. Creda had reached womanhood, and with that transformation came a chasm Nox couldn’t cross. She no longer lingered to talk or laugh with him. Instead, she shied away, retreating whenever he approached. He didn’t understand why, but her absence only made him more aware of her beauty. He longed to tell her how he felt, to express what he didn’t fully comprehend himself. But she darted away like a frightened rabbit, leaving him rooted to the spot with a foolish smile on his face.

That life—the one they’d shared before—was gone. Yet it left behind something new, bittersweet but beautiful. Nox found contentment in stolen glimpses of her, replaying those moments in his mind at night. The memory of her smile sent unfamiliar shivers through his body, an innocent but electrifying pleasure.

But that, too, came to an end.

Nox vividly recalled the day Marnoell had approached Bouma to propose a match between Turo and Creda. It was a tumultuous time. Bouma’s elder daughter, Samora, had been cast out by her husband, Malok, because he had accused her of infidelity and had left her destitute. Bouma blamed Nox’s family for Samora’s suffering and didn’t want Creda to end up in the same situation.

By tradition, Creda should have been promised to Nox as her eldest cousin. It was customary that if multiple cousins were eligible, the eldest had the first right unless they willingly relinquished it. But Bouma’s bitterness toward Nox’s family overrode tradition. When Marnoell made his request, Bouma accepted, desperate to keep Creda away from the family that had wronged Samora.

Nox had been hunting in the northern woods when the decision was made. That day, he’d bagged a fine catch, returning home triumphant and eager to share his success. Instead, he was met with news that shattered his world: Creda was betrothed to Turo, they said. The villagers sympathized with him, for him. But it was done.

He could have challenged the elders. By rights, he could have claimed Creda for himself unless he formally stepped aside. But Nox, loyal to a fault, would never defy his uncle Marnoell. So he swallowed his heartbreak and resigned himself to the reality that Creda would never be his. Not now. Not ever.

A sudden jolt rattled the raft, snapping Nox out of his thoughts. Something heavy had struck the front of the raft, and the structure groaned in protest. Nox’s grip tightened on the lantern as he shifted its light to identify the source of the impact. The faint glow illuminated a tree trunk, floating and half-submerged. He sighed in relief—it wasn’t an attack, just a palm trunk drifting in the lake’s current.

But his relief didn’t last. His heart skipped a beat when he realized there was no one clinging to it. Turo should have been holding on to something like this to stay afloat.

Nox stepped closer, angling the light to better inspect the trunk. His eyes darted across its length. “Where’s Turo?” he murmured under his breath. The thought made his chest tighten.

Then he saw it. A scrap of cloth snagged on one of the jagged edges of the trunk.

“Is that him?” one of the men behind him asked, his voice trembling. “Is that Turo?”

“I don’t see him on the trunk,” Nox replied.

The men shuffled nervously, their movements making the raft sway again. The sound of wood creaking was louder now, ominous in the stillness of the lake.

“Maybe the lake monster got him,” Bhola muttered.

Khotal shot to his feet, panic erupting in his voice. “Monster? Where? Oh my gods, we’re doomed!”

His sudden motion threw the raft into chaos. It tipped violently, sending everyone stumbling. Nox lost his balance, the storm lantern slipping from his grasp. He plunged into the cold water as the lantern hissed and extinguished, leaving them in pitch darkness.

Underwater, Nox flailed, kicking hard to reach the surface. The weight of the water pressed against him, but he finally broke through, gasping for air. Something brushed against his leg.

His chest tightened. Was it a crocodile? He froze, then felt it again—a heavy, unresisting shape. The texture was smooth. His pulse thundered as his hands found fabric wrapping around his leg. Instinctively, he dived back under, gripping blindly. His fingers tangled in something soft and thick—hair.

His heart lurched. Turo.

He pulled with all his strength, the weight moving toward him without resistance. Breaking through the surface again, he shouted, “He’s here! Help me! Pull him up!”

The men scrambled toward the edge of the raft, their hands searching blindly for the weight Nox was struggling with. They grabbed and pulled, their combined strength hauling the limp form out of the water inch by inch.

But Turo’s weight was too much. The raft groaned and tilted dangerously under the strain. Wood splintered, the logs beneath them shifting out of place. Before they could lift Turo fully onboard, the entire structure gave way with a deafening crack.

The raft collapsed, throwing them all into the lake.

Chaos erupted—water splashing, limbs flailing as the men fought to stay afloat. Their gasps and cries filled the air. Logs bobbed and spun in the water, scattered and useless.

“Where’s Turo?” Nox yelled in frustration and fear as he slapped at the water’s surface. “Where is he?”