It’s been seven days now, and my caretaker has earned the title Lady Mosscloak. A name I’ve given her, partly out of the haze of my boredom, and partly because her dark hair shines like moss under candlelight, giving her a quiet, mysterious air. With little to do here but think, I find myself holding onto these names as tiny threads of sanity—strings I need to grasp onto to keep from tumbling headfirst into despair.
I am already sitting upright in bed, my father’s sword lying across my lap, and slowly running a cloth over the blade, one steady stroke after another as the familiar, tentative knock at the door tells me it’s time for “breakfast.” As Lady Mosscloak walks in with her tray, I continue to polish. It’s something to hold onto, a piece of what was, and it helps ground me. I move the cloth from hilt to tip, a habit my father passed down in better times.
Moving as silently as the gray morning itself she carries a tray, my breakfast: a bowl of tasteless porridge, a single hard-boiled egg, a wedge of stale bread, and, predictably, water. She places the tray down, the smell of damp earth and burnt sage clinging faintly to the room as if she’s trying to drive out some lingering sickness from the air.
Oh, that’s right, it’s me. I am the lingering sickness. I thought to myself half-jokingly.
“Any ale today?” I ask in a rough voice, more out of habit than hope. She says nothing, only stands a step away from the tray, her green eyes intent as they study me, assessing.
I pause, glancing down at my sword. “What?” My voice sounds rougher than I intended.
“You haven’t eaten,” she says evenly. “Three days now—water’s the only thing you’ve touched.”
I can’t deny it. Three days ago, a day after reading Edward’s letter, food feels like a stranger to me, the hunger dulled beneath something else. It’s an inevitability I’ve accepted, this march toward death. Two days ago, I even wrote my will, a few scrawled lines on a worn scrap of paper, tucked neatly on the table with my untouched clothes. I asked to be burned with my belongings—sword, coin, and me. No other demands, nothing. The food barely registers anymore, and the quilts piled on top of me only remind me how cold I feel beneath them.
I can feel Lady Mosscloak watching, her eyes on the sword on my lap as I resume polishing it. It’s grounding, something tangible in the ache and fog that fills me. I focus on the slight catch of the cloth as it moves over the blade’s edge, the weight of the metal against my legs, the only solid sensation keeping me here. Outside, thin light barely filters through the curtains, casting the room in tones of gray, muted and soft. Even breathing feels like an effort, each breath tightening the ache in my chest, heavy as stone.
Finally, I glance up, meeting her eyes across the shadows. “Lady Mosscloak,” I murmur, half in jest, “would it be so much to ask for a drink with flavor?”
She doesn’t react, her gaze unreadable. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is steady, but soft. “No ale. Just water.”
The words hang in the air between us and for a moment she just watches me until she turns toward the door—but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she pauses, her voice softening just slightly. “My name is Marie.” Then, with a quiet finality, she slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
*****
I push myself up from the bed and make my way toward the window, each step across the icy floor prickling like frostbite on bare skin. I reach the open window and grab the two panels from either side, the chill from the glass seeps into my fingers. As I am ready to close the window, I pause, every sense on edge. Outside, something shifts—a faint swish of movement cutting through the stillness. I squint into the darkness, my eyes straining to make sense of the shadows.
From the shadows two eyes open, glinting in the black, their yellowish-red glow sharp and animalistic. They lock onto me, steady and unblinking, a gaze that feels as if it’s piercing right through me. My stomach twists, a primal fear clawing up my spine. The low growl rises from the darkness, growing deeper, vibrating through the cold night air until it seems to wrap around me, slipping beneath my skin like ice. And then, cutting through the quiet, comes a voice—low, guttural, as if scraped from something archaic and hollow: Hun…gry.
My fingers shake, and I slam the window shut, gripping the wood until splinters bite into my palms. I turn around to run for the door only to find the familiar walls of my room are gone, replaced by looming stone arches that curve into shadow, illuminated only by the faint, eerie glow of a full moon. The pale light filters through narrow, jagged windows, casting twisted shapes across the hall that shift and writhe like living things. The air is thick, suffused with the scent of ancient rot and damp stone, so heavy it presses down, cold and unyielding, from every side. Shadows pool in the corners, their darkness unnaturally deep, seething as if they harbor something just beyond sight.
I stand frozen, each muscle locked, a leaden weight in my limbs as fear roots me to the spot. And then I hear it—a slow, scraping drag, like claws sliding over wet stone. My heart stumbles in my chest as I turn, pulse throbbing in my ears. my eyes landing on something, its form shifting in tendrils of pitch-black mist laced with a simmering molten red, if lava was made form blood that is what it would look like, as if it is trying to figure out a form to take, something between man and beast. Its yellow-red eyes gleam from the darkness, unblinking, fixed on me with a hunger that feels bottomless, primal.
It lunges, dark red and black mist shoot toward me with a snarl, raw and guttural, shattering the silence. I stumble back, my bare feet slipping on the slick, icy stone. Cold shoots up through my skin, biting like frost, as I scramble away. The creature’s breath hits me, hot and fetid, thick with the stench of sulfur and decay. The walls loom closer on either side, squeezing me into a narrowing corridor, and I lurch forward, my breaths tearing from my throat in short, ragged bursts. I don’t dare look back. All around me, its growls echo, vibrating through the very walls, closing in with a relentless, all-consuming dread.
Just as I make a turn around a corner, a thick black mist coils around me, seeping into every pore, filling the air with a suffocating stench of sulfur and rot. I cough, choking on the foul fog as it burns my throat, but before I can recover, a crushing weight slams me to the ground. Cold, unyielding stone digs into my chest as something monstrous and heavy pins me down, an unyielding force pressing into my spine. I struggle to breathe, gasping as the guttural voice echoes in a mocking rhythm around me.
Hun...gry!
My heart hammers, each beat pulsing through my chest with a fury that rattles my ribs. My breaths turn shallow, desperate; tears blur my vision as the sound around me morphs into an eerie, high-pitched laughter, sharp and mocking, like a hyena in delight. I feel it—its claws dig deep into my shoulder, piercing flesh as if savoring the act. A sharp, searing pain shoots through me, and a scream of agony and terror escapes my lips. The creature’s laughter swells, a sinister joy in my suffering as it whispers in jagged syllables, like a child testing new words.
“I... need... FEED!!!”
The word tears through the air, twisted, malformed, as its grip on my shoulder tightens, digging deeper, its claws carving into me like I’m nothing but prey in its grasp. The laughter swirls around me, the game escalating. I thrash beneath its weight, but it only presses harder, savoring each moment.
“WAKE UP”
A voice, sharp and desperate, cuts through the darkness. I jolt upright, blinking into the glow of a flickering candle held close. Marie stands by my bedside, her face taut with a mix of fear and frustration, breathing heavily, her dark hair pulled back loosely, catching the candlelight like mossy shadows. My cheek burns, the sharp sting of a slap lingering on my skin, and I realize she’s hit me awake. Her hand trembles as she withdraws it, clenching to rid herself of the pain of the strike.
I’m drenched in sweat, my sheets twisted around me, sticky against my skin as I struggle to steady my breaths. A damp chill clings to the room, and I glance down to find my shirt torn—shredded by my own hands during the nightmare. My hands tremble as I wipe the sweat trickling into my eyes, stinging like salt on an open wound.
Marie huffs, tossing a rough cloth at me, which smacks against my face before I grab it, mumbling a raspy “Thank you” with what’s left of my voice. Her gaze flicks to the window, which hangs open once again, letting in the cold night air. The distant trees rustle in the wind, branches scraping the windowpane like mocking whispers. She just stares, her eyes a mixture of anger and worry, but says nothing, letting the silence settle around us, thick with unspoken questions and the faint, lingering scent of the nightmare.
She walks over to the window and closes it with a final thud. She latches the two panes shut and tun to face me. Marie’s eyes narrow, the candlelight flicker making her eyes glow green, piercing… almost otherworldly. I blink, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep, the lingering terror of the dream. She watches me, her eyes searching my face as if hunting for something hidden beneath my skin.
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For a moment, the world outside the window feels too still, as if the night itself is holding its breath. I take in Marie’s gaze—cool, intense, and unblinking, the flickering green unsettling against the dim orange of the candlelight.
Marie’s eyes narrow, the candlelight catching a flicker of something—green, piercing, almost otherworldly. I blink, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep, the lingering terror of the dream. She’s watching me, her eyes searching my face as if hunting for something hidden beneath my skin.
For a moment, the world outside the window feels too still, as if the night itself is holding its breath. I take in Marie’s gaze—cool, intense, and unblinking, the flickering green unsettling against the dim orange of the candlelight.
"You’re getting worse… your night terrors ," she finally says, her voice low and even, holding a strange gravity that chills the air around us. The warmth of her usual caretaking tone is gone, replaced by something clinical, almost predatory.
"Just a nightmare,” I mutter, barely believing the words myself, my fingers tightening on the cloth she tossed to me earlier. “Nothing more.” The last syllables fade into the night, but the image of that creature still sears behind my eyes.
Marie tilts her head, her gaze unyielding. "Nightmares do not tear your clothing apart, Alaric," she says slowly, each word measured, as if testing my reaction. Her voice sharpens slightly. "This is something... far worse."
I catch my breath, a spark of unease flickering inside me. “It’s nothing… just a bad dream,” I insist, my voice strained, the words as hollow as I feel.
But she steps closer, her eyes glowing faintly, a green gleam that pierces the shadows between us. Her hand brushes the hilt of my father’s sword on the table, her fingers barely grazing the metal. She murmurs, almost to herself, “The danger isn’t what’s outside, Alaric.”
She is close to me now, hovering over me as I sit upright on the bed, she whispers, “the danger is inside, Alaric. Inside you. Killing you slowly. It is something that can give even the mightiest of kings night terrors.”
Marie said night terrors as if it were something else, something far worse. She then stepped away and toward the door, before leaving she says, “I will bring you a remedy to help with your dreams. Goodnight.”
And with that, she leaves the room, closing the door softly without much a sound. I breath in a heavy sigh, I did not realize I was holding my breath the whole while she was standing over me.
Did her eyes glow or was that a trick of the candlelight. I think to myself, the candlelight continuing to flicker on the table.
*****
The morning light is thin, barely strong enough to pierce through the cracked window, struggling to warm up the chilly air that seeps through every corner of this small, dim room. Everything smells of damp old wood and stone mingling with the lingering scent of burnt sage from the previous night. I sit up, rubbing my temples as I gather the fragments of last night—Marie’s cryptic words, her piercing green eyes flashing in the candlelight, almost glowing.
Marie’s presence fills the room before I even see her. She stands at the table, setting down a tray with careful precision, but her back is to me, her posture rigid. Her shoulders are tense beneath her dark cloak, her movements methodical and precise. She carries with her an earthy scent, like soil after rain, mixed with something faintly medicinal that lingers in the air, almost sharp on my tongue. I watch her, noticing the way her fingers brush against the rim of the teacup as if considering something unseen.
She finally turns, bringing the tray to my bedside and placing it on my lap. Today, her face is uncovered, exposing the fine features that were hidden behind a mask until now. Her dark hair is pinned back neatly, and in the soft morning light, it catches a sheen reminiscent of moss deep in a forest. Her face is unexpectedly youthful, but her gaze holds a depth far older, eyes like a shadowed forest veiled in mist. Her attention lingers on the bruise over my heart, and I realize I’m bare-chested, the purple-blue mark fresh and dark against my skin, something that should have faded by now. Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t comment.
“Did that happen last night?” she asks, her voice detached yet oddly watchful. Her gaze pierces me, steady and sharp, her expression one of restrained curiosity.
“No. I’ve had this since my first night in England.” I place a hand over the bruise, feeling the dull throb of pain beneath my fingers.
“It hasn’t healed,” I mutter. “Odd, but maybe a symptom of the sickness.”
Marie’s eyes do not leave mine, and there’s something almost unnatural in the stillness of her gaze. The gleam of green in her irises catches the thin light, sharp and unwavering, as though she’s searching for something beneath my skin. The silence stretches between us until I clear my throat. “Marie… about last night.”
She doesn’t respond, but her hands twist slightly at the hem of her dress, a gesture so slight that I almost miss it. She stands by my bedside, hovering like a shadow, and for a brief moment, I think I see a glimmer of weariness, a small crack in her steady exterior.
“You saw something last night, didn’t you?” Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent there, a note of something almost familiar. “In your dream… something haunting.”
A shiver prickles across my skin as I recall the nightmare, the creature’s weight on my back, the hiss of its voice like sandpaper against my nerves. I swallow, reaching for the tea on the tray to ease the dryness in my throat. The taste is strange, a blend of honey, rosemary, and something floral— roses, perhaps, but there’s an undertone, something bitter that I can’t quite place.
“Yes,” I say after a pause, placing the now empty cup back on the tray, “but it was only a nightmare. Probably the fever, the confinement…”
My words trail off, and the excuse feels as thin as morning mist. Outside, in the distance, a faint sound of thunder rumbles, and the soft tapping of the first rainfall begin to beat against the window, a soft but persistent rhythm.
“How did you get the bruise?” she asks showing faint interest in my chest.
“I don’t remember. I spent the night drinking and…” I murmur, my mind going back to the first night as I laid stark naked and wet in bed at the inn crying until slept took me. “I fell asleep, I had a nightmare, and I woke up with this bruise.”
The coin my father gave me hangs heavily around my neck, feeling more like a noose than a charm as a strange weightlessness takes hold of me, a dizzy sensation as though I’m floating just above my own body. I look up at Marie, my gaze drifting over her—her deep green eyes are watchful, unreadable, her lips set in a tense line. For a fleeting moment, I notice the soft curve of her figure, an observation that slips in unbidden, out of place. I blink, trying to focus, and then it hits me.
“What… did you give me to drink?” I manage, my words slurring slightly as a leaden fog press over my thoughts. The realization dawns with a slow, creeping horror, spreading through me like ice.
Marie’s expression doesn’t change. “Do you understand what that nightmare means, Alaric?” Her voice is barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the stillness with chilling clarity.
“No…” My voice sounds strange, distant, as if it isn’t my own. “It’s only a dream.”
Her eyes harden, the green depths darkening, almost pitiful. “Denial won’t keep it at bay.”
A hollow laugh slips from my lips, weak and brittle, but it feels wrong, disjointed. “And what am I supposed to fear, Marie? A figment of my own mind?”
The thunder rumbles outside, closer now, and a flash of lightning casts her face, shadows dance along her features, making her seem almost otherworldly. She moves closer, hands firm as she cups my face, her grip cool against my feverish skin, her gaze fierce, unwavering.
“Alaric,” she says, her voice strained, “think. The creature is not a mere nightmare. It’s in you, waking. Whatever power lies in your blood, it’s stirring.” Her fingers press against my cheeks, forcing my bleary gaze to hold hers. “And if it comes fully into its own… it will be disastrous.”
Her words settle over me like stones, each one sinking deeper into the cold dread spreading in my chest. I want to dismiss it all as nonsense, to brush off the fear clawing up my spine, but there’s something in her gaze—a dark, unyielding finality that refuses to be ignored. And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in my mind, I hear a laugh—high-pitched and jagged, like the mocking cackle of a hyena.
“You don’t want to face what comes next, Alaric,” she murmurs, her tone softening, a flicker of regret brushing over her features. “It’s better if it ends here, while there’s still a chance.” Her silence stretches between us, laden with all the things she doesn’t say, but her intent is clear: this is final.
“You are insane. Delusional. A Cultist.” I say, voice breaking, a cold panic settling in my veins.
My limbs feel leaden, each movement a tremendous effort, as though I’m wading through thick, clinging mud. The world begins to tilt, colors and shadows swirling around me, and I try to rise, but my body betrays me. I reach out toward her, fingers trembling, but my legs give out, and I collapse to the floor. The tray clatters beside me, sending the empty cup rolling away, but all I can hear is the relentless drumming of rain against the window, the sound swelling in the room like a heartbeat.
Marie watches, unflinching, her gaze devoid of sympathy as she crouches down, her face eerily calm as she whispers, “I’m sorry, Alaric. But I can’t risk letting it out. This thing has wrought too much destruction already—it has to die within you.”
I’m gasping, a fiery pain searing through my skull, and memories crash through my mind in jagged fragments: the creature’s claws, the hissing word—Hungry. My limbs jerk uncontrollably, my body thrashing on the floor as my vision blurs, the edges of the world darkening. Lightning flashes again, illuminating Marie’s face, her eyes glowing with a faint green light that sends a fresh chill through me.
The darkness closes in, pressing against me, thick and suffocating. My vision slips away entirely, leaving me in a world without light or shape. I stop breathing; my chest lies still, heavy as stone. Yet, even as the cold silence claims me, I sense the faint sounds around me, drifting in from a distance—the endless downpour hammering on the roof, the deep rumble of thunder rolling through the night, and, somewhere above, low voices murmuring. Each sound feels muted, as though I’m buried beneath the weight of the world, yet my mind clings to them, straining to grasp any link to what lies beyond this all-consuming darkness.
“He’s dead,” Marie’s voice states with a cold finality.
“Good,” a rough voice reply. I feel strong hands grip my arms, lifting my unresponsive body. “We must act quickly. Burn the cottage.”
“What about his belongings?” Marie asks, her voice steady.
“Burn it all… except the sword. The Smiths of Flame may recognize its origin.” The same gruff voice replies with impatience, unaware that somewhere, in the fading corners of my mind, I’m still here, clinging to consciousness.
Another voice, younger, hesitant, murmurs, “Sir, he isn’t fully gone. His mind—it’s still there.”
“Then hurry!” the gruff voice barks, urgency slicing through his words. “Pass through the Veil before the storm wanes.”
The darkness deepens, swallowing the voices one by one until only a hollow silence remains. But in my last shred of awareness, a shrill, mocking laughter rises, louder and sharper, scraping against the quiet like nails on iron. It claws through me, piercing and wild, a laugh like a hyena’s shriek that echoes and multiplies, engulfing every thought, every sense. The sound presses closer, relentless, until it fills everything, and I feel myself slipping, pulled somewhere deeper—a place buried far within my own soul, lost in the shadowed depths.