The Great Hall was steeped in silence, the air thick with a tension that seemed to cling to every breath. The flickering torchlight, dim and wavering, cast stretched shadows over the faces of the people. They sat frozen in their seats, fingers gripping the edges of benches, the slightest creak or murmur met with a quick glance, as if the room itself might shatter under the weight of the unease.
At the centre, Roric sat unnaturally still, his gaze distant, his shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible burden. The authority that usually coloured his voice was gone, replaced by a mechanical flatness that sent ripples of discomfort through the hall.
“Council members,” he intoned slowly, letting his gaze drift across the room. It lingered briefly on each face, slipping past Daithi, Thorn, and finally settling on Finnian, who leaned in the shadows at the edge of the council seats, his posture relaxed yet watchful.
“What is the next matter we must address?” Roric asked, his voice distant.
The question hovered in the air, unanswered, a heavy silence stretching between them. Daithi shifted, casting a quick, uncertain glance toward Finnian, whose fingers tapped idly on the arm of his seat, a faint smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.
For a moment, no one moved. The council members exchanged uneasy glances, each one reluctant to speak first. Even the townsfolk seemed to shrink back, unwilling to shatter the silence that hung, oppressive and thick. Finally, Daithi leaned forward, clearing his throat, though the tremor in his voice betrayed a deep reluctance.
“I have… troubling news to bring forward,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The usual confidence in his stance seemed drained, his broad shoulders tense and hunched. The hall leaned in, every person straining to catch his words. Even Ada and Marin, hidden at the edge, clutched each other’s hands tighter, their eyes wide with apprehension.
“It’s about the lake,” Daithi continued, each word seemingly dragged from him. “There are signs. Strange… dark signs. The nets are coming back empty—more often each day.” He hesitated, his gaze dropping, as if reluctant to say more.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Low, frantic whispers buzzed through the crowd, and a few of the older attendees exchanged grave, knowing glances, muttering broken prayers under their breath.
Orla shook her head, her face ghostly pale. “The lake has kept us alive for generations. It’s… sacred.” Her voice wavered, almost breaking, “It’s always been our lifeline.”
But Daithi’s expression grew darker, the weight of his words bearing down on everyone. He swallowed, visibly bracing himself. “The fishermen… they’re afraid. Some have already refused to go back out. They say the water isn’t the same.” He looked around the hall, his voice dropping even lower. “There are patterns—ones that shift when there’s no breeze, shadows that move in still waters. A few of the men have begun speaking of… figures. Shapes below, circling the boats at night.”
The room stilled, breaths held as his words sunk in. Daithi’s gaze drifted, settling on Roric’s vacant stare for a moment before he continued, voice hushed and heavy. “One man was found. He… took his life.” He paused. “Said he would rather face death than sail on that lake again.”
A chorus of gasps, and frantic whispers erupted, the room breaking into a rising storm of voices. Disbelief rippled through the crowd as people clung to scraps of hope.
“Our lake?” someone muttered, incredulous. “The lake that has sustained us?”
“No,” another whispered fiercely, shaking their head. “It can’t be true. It’s impossible.”
But then Finnian’s voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and commanding, slicing through the noise like a knife.
“Superstition,” he said, his voice calm, controlled—a stark contrast to the panic. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze sweeping slowly across them. “Superstition,” he repeated, louder, his tone hardening as his gaze turned cold. “Old men’s tales.”
The crowd began to still, the frantic energy draining, a few heads beginning to nod as Finnian’s voice grew more insistent.
“Superstition, that’s all it is,” he said firmly, a dismissive smile tugging at his mouth. “The lake’s never been tame—this is just another rough season.” He gestured airily, as if brushing away their fears, his voice thick with practiced reassurance. “Nothing more than the usual challenge we face every year.” His gaze passed over the frightened faces, and in the flickering torchlight, a few people hesitated, nodding slowly, searching for something—anything—that felt like normality.
“That’s right,” a man choked out in disbelief.
“It can’t be true,” another agreed, though their voice wavered.
Thorn didn’t miss the flicker in the man’s gaze. An instinct rose within him, every sense screaming a warning. No. This wasn’t a rough season. Something was terribly, dangerously wrong.
Daithi’s face hardened, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looked as though he wanted to shout, to shake Finnian’s smug certainty. But instead, he turned abruptly, motioning to the back of the hall. There was a hush as an old man stepped forward, thin and gaunt, his eyes hollow, his face haggard. His hands trembled slightly as he came to stand before the council, every eye in the hall fixed on him.
“This is Sorley,” Daithi said quietly. “One of our oldest fishermen. He has something to tell you.”
Sorley swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he scanned the crowd, his haunted eyes darting from face to face. Then, in a halting, breathless voice, he began to speak.
“It’s… it’s not just the empty nets,” he whispered, the words barely escaping him. “It’s what we’re pulling up.” He paused, his lips parting as if the words refused to form. “The fish… they’re wrong. Their scales… their eyes… they’re twisted. Rotten from the inside out, like something’s… wrong with the water.”
But Sorley wasn’t done. With a shuddering breath, he reached into the sack slung over his shoulder. Slowly, as if he feared what he was about to reveal, he pulled out a grotesque, bloated fish—its scales dark and mottled, slick with a foul, slimy residue that glistened under the flickering torchlight. The odour intensified, a pungent mix of rot and something far more sinister, a smell that clung to the back of the throat like a warning.
Its eyes bulged, milky and clouded, devoid of life, staring vacantly into the void. The mouth gaped open in a twisted grimace, lined with ragged teeth that seemed to mock the very nature of the fish's existence. It was a grotesque caricature of life, a harbinger of something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface of the lake.
A wave of nausea swept over the crowd. Faces blanched, townspeople shrinking back, horrified, yet unable to tear their eyes away from the horror. The air grew thick with an acrid stench, a foul blend of decay and brine that clawed at their throats. It was a smell that turned stomachs and twisted faces.
A collective gasp filled the air, accompanied by the sounds of gagging and retching as the townsfolk fought against the urge to flee from the horrific sight. The room became a cauldron of fear, the putrid fish serving as a grotesque symbol of the darkness creeping into their lives.
Gasps filled the air, horrified and sharp. Someone gagged audibly. Another woman screamed, clapping her hands over her mouth as she recoiled.
“What… what is that?” Leora whispered.
Orla, seated beside the council members, scowled, her eyes narrow and sceptical. “Daithi,” she said, her voice slicing through the horror. “You bring us a rotting fish and expect us to accept these wild tales? How do we know this isn't just…” she waved a hand, dismissive, though her fingers trembled, “bad water or some natural rot?” Her tone was challenging, but the slight tremor betrayed her unease. “These claims are… extravagant.”
Daithi’s gaze didn’t falter, his jaw set. “It’s not only the fish, Orla,” he replied, his voice steady but filled with a barely contained frustration. “There’s more. Let Sorley finish.”
Orla’s mouth tightened, a flicker of fear flashing through her eyes as she looked away, unwilling to meet Daithi’s stare.
Sorley, hands shaking, took a deep, rattling breath. His eyes found Orla’s, haunted but steady. “I’d have wished it was rot, Orla. I’d pray it was.” He raised his voice, his gaze sweeping the hall. “But it’s not. We’ve tried everything—no nets, no lines, no bait will stop what’s happening. And… the deep nets.” He choked on the words, his voice dropping. “The ones we set far out…” His whole frame shuddered. “They’re coming back shredded, torn to pieces. Like… like something huge, something powerful, tore right through them.”
A wave of shock rolled through the hall, eyes staring, stunned, their horror written across each face. Thorn felt a chill seep into his bones. Something massive, powerful enough to tear through nets with ease, lurking beneath the surface.
Sorley looked up, his haunted gaze darting around the room, his voice dropping to a trembling whisper. “And the lake…” His voice broke, a tremor of raw fear overtaking him. “The lake is moving,” he whispered, his eyes wild. “Something’s… moving down there. I feel it, every time we cast out. We all do. It’s… it’s like the water’s alive.”
The silence that followed was absolute, the weight of his words pressing down on the room like a heavy fog, stifling, suffocating. The lake that had been their lifeblood, their protector, their heritage—was now something unrecognizable, unknowable, twisted beyond comprehension.
The council members exchanged fearful glances. Leora’s lips parted but voiceless, eyes wide and glistening with a fear she could no longer conceal. Orla's calculating gaze had faltered, her fingers gripping the edge of her dress tightly. Selis mumbled softly, his words a jumbled litany of frantic prayers to the gods, sweat beading on his brow. Daithi sat rigid, every muscle taut, his jaw clenched so fiercely it seemed his teeth might crack. His eyes were fixed on Sorley, reflecting a terrible, haunted dread.
Then, a voice rang out—clear, resonant, and edged with a steely determination.
“What lies at the bottom of the lake?”
The words sharp and unforgiving.
The question hung there, suspended in the thick, oppressive silence.
Thorn leaned forward, his presence commanding and unyielding, a coiled tension radiating from every line of his body. His expression was hard. His gaze was a razor’s edge, pinning Roric with a scrutiny so fierce it seemed to strip away flesh and bone, baring the truth beneath.
“What lies beneath those waters?” he repeated, each word landed with the weight of a hammer, deliberate, reverberating through the heavy air. The hall fell deathly still, the faintest rustle or breath swallowed in the suffocating quiet.
“What’s moving in the deep?”
Faces drained of colour, shoulders tensed, and the temperature dropped. The truth loomed, vast and terrifying, and yet... no one seemed willing—no one seemed able—to give it voice.
Roric’s face tightened. Sweat gathered at his temples, trickling down in slow, betraying rivulets. His gaze flickered—once, twice—darting to Finnian, as if seeking guidance, reassurance, permission. His lips parted, but no sound came. Nothing but the ragged draw of his breath.
“The lake has its mysteries,” he managed at last. “But none that concern us now.”
It was a pathetic attempt at deflection. Even the council members—usually so composed—shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances as the veil of control around Roric frayed at the edges. Finnian’s smile was still in place, smooth and placid, but his eyes... they gleamed with something dark and watchful.
“Are you sure about that?” Thorn’s voice was quiet, dangerous, and the room seemed to tremble beneath the force of it.
Roric flinched. His hands twitched, his fingers clenching into fists. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes reflecting a growing fear. Thorn’s challenge hung in the air, suspended, unrelenting, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
“We don’t chase shadows, outsider,” Finnian interjected smoothly, his voice slipping into the silence like a serpent’s hiss. The air around him seemed to thrum with tension as his gaze met Thorn’s unflinchingly, a faint smile curling his lips—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You speak of phantoms and illusions, nothing more,” he continued, his tone draped in a veneer of calm that only heightened the underlying menace. He leaned forward slightly, “This town has enough to fear without wild stories to fan the flames.”
Finnian’s voice dripped with disdain, “You think the people here are so easily swayed by the whims of a traveller’s tales? This isn’t a place for ghosts and ghouls, Thorn. We deal, in facts—not in fanciful notions that distract us from our true enemies.” He paused, letting the silence hang heavily, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded Thorn with a mix of curiosity and caution.
“Remember,” Finnian continued looking to the assembly, his voice smooth and compelling, “the lake has always been our lifeline. It has provided us with gifts, year after year, and it always will. It sustains us, nourishes us. To suggest otherwise is to invite chaos into our lives. We must not let fear poison what has always been a source of abundance and strength.”
“We have faced challenges before, and we have always triumphed. The lake has always supported us, as it always will.”
The crowd shifted uneasily at his words; the air thick with unspoken doubts. In that moment, Thorn recognized the truth: Finnian was not merely deflecting questions; he was guarding secrets, and those secrets could very well be the key to understanding the growing darkness that threatened to engulf them all.
Slowly, reluctantly, Thorn leaned back in his seat, though his gaze never wavered from Finnian.
Something was very, very wrong.
The Great Hall buzzed with a nervous energy, whispers creeping through the crowd like a swarm of insects. The audience exchanged wide-eyed glances, their faces twisted with fear and suspicion. But at the centre of it all, Roric sat rigid, his expression strained and distant, sweat trickling down his face in a steady stream. The usually commanding leader looked shrunken, diminished—like a man cornered, trapped, with nowhere to run.
“Silence,” Roric croaked, the word weak, almost pleading. His fingers dug into his staff, “We’ve... we’ve heard the concerns—”
Finnian moved. A subtle motion—a mere tilt of his head, a flicker of his gaze—directed toward the attendant by the wall. The man’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then he dipped his head in a small nod.
Thorn’s gaze snapped to the attendant as the man turned and strode purposefully toward the entrance. His heart pounded, a sense of foreboding tightening in his chest as he watched. The attendant’s hand reached out, sliding the heavy iron bolts into place with a dull, echoing thud that reverberated through the hall. Thorn’s breath caught as the sharp click of a key being turned in the lock rang out—a sound so final it sent a chill racing down his spine. And then, with a grim determination, the attendant raised the key to his lips and swallowed it whole, his throat bobbing as it disappeared.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of confusion and dread spreading like a wave. And Thorn saw it—Roric’s face blanching, his shoulders sagging as though crushed beneath an unseen weight. He looked around the room, his eyes wide and frantic, his gaze skittering over the faces of the townsfolk and council members alike, searching—desperately—for something. For support. For strength. For an escape.
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And that’s when Thorn knew.
The truth crashed into him, a fierce, bitter anger flaring in his chest as realization dawned. Finnian was controlling this meeting. This wasn’t a discussion.
Thorn’s lips tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. These people had no idea. They were pawns in a game they didn’t even realize they were playing, and Finnian—calm, composed Finnian—was at the centre of it all, pulling the strings.
The uneasy energy had barely settled when a voice called out from the crowd, high and insistent, cutting through the silence. “What about the outsiders missing?”
“All winter,” someone muttered, barely above a whisper. “People started disappearing since the snows came.”
The scattered whispers became a wave, each person seemingly recalling another face, another absence, that had gone unaddressed until now.
The colour drained from Roric’s face. He looked like a man staring into the abyss, his eyes wide and hollow, his mouth moving soundlessly.
“No,” he whispered, the word trembling on his lips, so faint it was barely audible. And then, louder, harsher, “Lies!” The word tore from him like a desperate scream, echoing through the hall and making everyone flinch back in shock. “You’re lying. There’s nothing out there.”
The murmur of voices rose instantly, a swell of confusion and fear sweeping through the crowd. What could cause Roric, the Shorewalker, the man who had always been a pillar of strength, to react like that? Even the council members looked bewildered, their gazes darting between Roric and Thorn, trying to piece together what they were missing.
But Thorn pressed on. He leaned forward, “People are missing. And it’s not just outsiders, is it?”
Roric seemed to collapse inward, his body folding in on itself as if under some crushing weight. His hands shook violently, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. For a heartbeat, it looked as if he might shatter entirely. And then—
“Wait… wait…” Leora’s voice broke through, high-pitched and tremulous. She staggered to her feet, eyes wide with a dawning horror. “Of course it’s not just outsiders,” she whispered, each word spilling out faster, more frantic than the last. “People here… people from the town… they’ve been… they’ve been disappearing too.”
Her gaze darted wildly around the room, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Why didn’t I see it? It’s… it’s been happening all this time, hasn’t it? Oh gods—” She choked on the words, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as if she could somehow shove the truth back inside. But it was too late. The realization hit her like a physical blow, and the horror in her eyes spread like a contagion through the crowd.
It was like a crack splintering through ice—the moment when fragile control shattered completely.
Voices crashed over one another in a chaotic, discordant roar—shouts of fear, cries of disbelief, gasps of horror. Townspeople surged to their feet, faces pale, eyes wide and wild. A woman near the front sobbed openly, clutching at her shawl as if it could somehow protect her from the truth unravelling around her. She collapsed to her knees, the sound of her sobs lost in the swelling panic.
“My brother!” a man whispered hoarsely. He staggered forward, his face a mask of anguish, his eyes darting wildly. “I haven’t seen him in days. Oh gods, what if… what if he’s—” He choked, his gaze darting desperately from face to face, searching for some hint of denial, for someone to tell him it wasn’t true.
But there were only pale faces, wide eyes, and the jagged, rising swell of fear.
“There’s been more than a few, hasn’t there?” another voice called, “Folk missing… people we haven’t seen in days.”
“And the Miller’s daughter?” a woman whimpered, “She hasn’t been home in a week. I thought… I thought she’d run off, but—” She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with tears. “But if it’s true, if she didn’t run away—oh gods, what’s happening to us?”
“Wasn’t Merl’s place empty last week?” another voice shouted, “And the Smith’s wife—she’s gone too, isn’t she? Isn’t she?”
“And my uncle!” someone else cried out, their voice cracking. “He went out to the woods last month and never came back. What if… what if—”
“We’re cursed!” a man near the back wailed, his voice rising to a fever pitch. He clutched at his hair, tearing at it as he stumbled forward. “It’s a curse, it has to be. We’re all doomed, all of us—doomed!”
The noise grew louder, more frantic, the sound rising in a frenzied crescendo that battered against the walls like a storm. Panic spread like fire through dry brush, swift and merciless, consuming reason and restraint in its wake.
“It’s the lake,” an elderly woman whimpered, her voice high and thin. “It’s the lake! I saw it… I saw it moving… like it was alive!” Her hands trembled as she clutched at her necklace, the beads rattling together in a rapid, desperate rhythm. “We’ve angered it… we’ve angered the gods…”
Another man surged forward, eyes wide and wild. “My son!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “My son never came back from the last hunt. What if… what if it wasn’t the weather? What if something took him?”
“That’s impossible!” a shrill voice rang out, cutting through the noise. A woman near the centre of the room looked around wildly, shaking her head. “No, no, it’s just—this isn’t real. It can’t be real. You’re all mad! You’re all—” Her words cut off in a strangled sob, her face crumpling as if her denial had shattered mid-sentence.
“It’s just… rumours,” Roric tried to say, his eyes wide and desperate, darting to Finnian like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. “Just—just rumours—”
But it was too late. The truth was out, and there was no holding it back.
“It’s real!” a woman shrieked, clutching at the man beside her. “My sister—she’s gone too! She’s gone and—oh gods, we’re all going to die, aren’t we? We’re all going to—”
“Shut up!” someone else roared, but the fear in his voice made the command hollow, brittle. “Just shut up, all of you—stop talking—stop—”
“What’s happening to us?” another cried, his voice high and trembling.
And then, like a horn calling out—
“Repent!” Selis bellowed, his voice ringing out like a thunderclap.
The force of it stilled the room, snapping every head toward him as if drawn by the pull of a noose. The hall fell into a stunned silence, the audience frozen, wide-eyed and trembling as all gazes locked onto the old shaman.
But this wasn’t the Selis they knew—the twisted leg, the hunched shoulders, the broken shell of a man who skulked through the town like a ghost. No, this Selis stood tall, his frame straighter, shoulders squared with an unholy power.
“Yes, fear!” he cried, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the entire hall, a grotesque parody of a saviour. “Fear is what you should feel! Fear is what they demand of you!”
The crowd flinched collectively, a wave of dread sweeping through them as sharp intakes of breath broke the tense silence.
“The gods are angry!” Selis roared, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating through the beams of the Great Hall. “The lake, the land, the very air—you have defiled it all with your sins and your weakness!” He leaned forward, his gaze blazing with a manic fervour. “And now, they rise to punish you. To cleanse this town of its corruption!”
Selis didn’t falter. He didn’t pause. He was no longer just speaking to them—he was commanding them. His presence was suffocating, a dark, magnetic force that pulled at their souls, leaving no room for dissent, no space for hope.
“You are blind! Deaf!” he spat, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. “I have been trying to warn you for years, but you laughed—you mocked—you called me mad!” He flung his arms wide, his chest heaving as he glared at them, a mad prophet lit from within by the dark power coursing through his veins. “But now, do you see? Do you hear the gods’ wrath roaring in the depths of the lake? Do you feel it?”
He jabbed a trembling finger toward the council, his gaze narrowing into slits of hatred and scorn. “They had denied their power. They had denied me. But I—I am the true voice of the gods! I am the one they have chosen to save you!”
Eyes darted back and forth, wide and fearful. Selis’s words echoed through the room—insane, yes, but laced with something that struck a raw, primal chord in their hearts. They shrank back, huddling closer together, as if the force of his conviction alone could burn them.
Even Thorn felt a shiver run down his spine at the sheer intensity of Selis’s words. This was no mere outburst. No rambling tirade of a madman. This was something darker—something terrible and compelling, madness wrapped in the guise of truth.
And then, soft but steady, Finnian’s voice cut through the rising tension.
“Selis, enough,” His smile was strained, his expression carefully controlled, but there was a subtle wariness in his eyes. “We need calm now, not more fearmongering. These people—”
“Silence!” Selis roared, his voice cracking like a whip.
Finnian blinked, taken aback, surprise flashing across his face for the barest instant before he masked it behind a smooth facade. But it was enough. Thorn saw it—the flicker of something raw and dangerous, a spark of fury, lurking beneath Finnian’s polished calm.
“You dare?” Selis hissed, stalking forward, his voice dropping to a venomous snarl. “You dare speak to me as if I am still the broken old man you pushed aside—the fool you humiliated with pathetic scraps?” His gaze locked onto Finnian, blazing with a feverish intensity. “I am the true leader now!”
“The gods have chosen ME! Not you, you pathetic, weak-minded barkeep!” His words dripped with venom, each syllable striking like a dagger aimed at Finnian’s very core.
“How dare you question my will—the will of this town—the will of the gods!” Selis spat, his voice trembling with rage. “This town will bow to me, its rightful ruler!” He took a step forward, his gaze blazing. “I am the chosen of the gods!” He sneered, his lips curling back in disdain. “Why should I listen to a snivelling, powerless worm like you?!”
The hall seemed to freeze, every breath caught, every eye locked onto the two men at the centre of the storm. Thorn’s heart pounded in his chest, his entire body thrumming with anticipation. And then, slowly, Finnian straightened. His smile faded. His eyes, cold and sharp as polished steel, locked onto Selis with a gaze that burned with an intensity Thorn had never seen before.
“Powerless?” Finnian whispered softly, rising to his feet.
Selis sneered, opening his mouth to retort—
In a swift, fluid motion, Finnian struck.
With a backhand that echoed through the hall, he sent Selis flying into the crowd, toppling over a cluster of people. The shock of the moment froze everyone in place; heads slowly turned from Selis and the cluster of people he landed amongst to Finnian, who now stood tall, radiating menace.
Daithi’s eyes widened, panic overtaking him. “Finnian! What have you done?” he shouted, his voice trembling with disbelief.
Roric’s composure shattered as he shouted, “No!” He rushed over to Finnian, kneeling at his feet, desperation etched across his face. “Please, Finnian—my family—you promised me! You said you would…!”
Finnian’s dark gaze settled on Roric, his lips curling into a cruel smile. He gripped Roric by the neck, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. “I don’t recall making any promises,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
Roric’s legs kicked feebly as he clawed at Finnian’s unyielding grip, his voice choked and broken. “I did everything you asked! I kept my end of the bargain!”
“Just words, Roric,” Finnian dismissed him coldly. “No guarantees.”
With a swift, brutal motion, Finnian snapped Roric’s neck, the sickening crack echoing through the hall like thunder. He dropped Roric’s lifeless body to the ground, the thud reverberating ominously in the stunned silence that followed.
“Finnian, you monster!” Leora cried out, backing away in horror.
“Restrain yourself!” Orla shouted, though they seemed frozen, caught between shock and disbelief.
In stark contrast to the chaos, Thorn stood ready, calm and composed, the only one showing no fear amidst the unfolding horror. “This ends now, Finnian,” he said firmly, his voice steady and unwavering.
Finnian’s gaze met Thorn’s, amusement flickering across his features. “And what will you do, outsider? You think you can challenge me?”
“I will do what needs to be done,” Thorn replied, his expression unyielding. “You will not harm anyone else.”
A heavy silence settled over the hall, thick with tension as the air crackled in anticipation. The council members, wide-eyed and breathless, instinctively backed away from the ritual pool at the centre, creating a wide circle around the impending conflict. The crowd, a sea of shocked faces, watched in awe, sensing the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Then, with a sudden burst of energy, Thorn lunged at Finnian.
The movement was swift, a blur of precision as Thorn closed the distance, his strikes quick and calculated. Finnian responded with a slow, deliberate motion, his form solid and unyielding. Each punch he threw was a force of nature, destructive and powerful, designed to overwhelm.
Their fists met in a flurry of blows, the sound of flesh striking flesh echoing in the hall like the percussion of a drum. Thorn darted in and out, his quick jabs finding their mark, while Finnian’s retaliatory strikes were slower but carried the weight of a mountain behind them.
“Impressive,” Finnian grunted, absorbing a punch to the ribs that sent a shockwave through him. He staggered back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Thorn’s speed. “But can you keep this up?”
Thorn didn’t answer with words; instead, he launched another series of rapid punches, each one aimed with deadly precision. He felt the thrill of the fight coursing through him as he danced around Finnian, looking for an opening. But Finnian was no ordinary opponent; he countered with devastating power, each blow a reminder of the strength he wielded.
With a calculated sidestep, Finnian caught Thorn off guard, landing a heavy punch that sent Thorn flying back, skidding across the floor. The impact rattled through the hall, and for a moment, the audience gasped in collective disbelief.
Thorn quickly regained his footing, determination igniting in his chest. He shook off the pain, eyes locked on Finnian, who took a step back, recalibrating, a flicker of respect crossing his features.
“Not bad, outsider,” Finnian said, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder. “You might actually pose a challenge.”
The two combatants circled each other, testing the waters, each seeking to gauge the other’s strengths. The council members edged back further, the ritual pool now a silent witness to the fierce contest of wills.
Thorn took a deep breath, grounding himself. “We’re just getting started,” he replied, his tone steady and unwavering.
As the tension crackled in the air, the fight intensified.
The crowd watched in shocked awe as the battle unfolded. Just as Thorn lunged forward for another strike, a sudden commotion erupted from the crowd. A person coughed violently, the sound harsh and jarring, cutting through the intensity of their battle.
“Get back!” someone shouted, panic lacing their voice. The words sliced through the thickening air, igniting a wave of fear.
A piercing scream followed, filled with pure agony. “No! Please, someone help!” a woman cried out, her voice breaking as she rushed to her husband, who had collapsed, clutching his chest. The sight sent shockwaves through the crowd, their eyes wide with horror.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong with him?” someone shouted, backing away as if distance could protect him from the nightmare unfolding before them. Gasps rippled through the onlookers, and fear washed over them like a tidal wave.
“Stay away from him!” someone yelled, panic rising as they recognized the signs of sickness. “He’s infected!”
Chaos erupted. People stumbled backward, their feet trampling over one another in their frantic attempts to escape. “We have to get out of here!” a man cried, eyes darting wildly.
Finnian stood amidst the chaos, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. “Ah… it is time,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. The panic and despair unfolding before him were as sweet as victory.
“Look at them!” he called out, gesturing toward the convulsing victims. “These people are beyond saving! They are accepting my gift!”
As the woman knelt beside her husband, she shook him desperately. “Please, don’t leave me! Stay with me!” Tears streamed down her face, but he only gurgled in response, his body wracked with spasms.
The other council members exchanged frantic glances, faces pale with confusion. “What do you mean, Finnian?” Daithi shouted, his voice rising in pitch. “What’s happening?”
Finnian’s smile widened, revealing a twisted delight in the chaos unfolding around him. “Behold!” he declared, gesturing toward the stricken. “Our people, our precious townsfolk—they are all blessed!”
The crowd began to realize the grim truth—infected or not, there was no safe place to hide. “What if we’re next?” a voice trembled from the back of the throng, panic rising like a tidal wave. “We have to get away from them!”
“We’re all infected!” another shouted, terror-stricken. “It’s too late for any of us!”
Despair hung heavy in the air, a palpable force. The frightened townsfolk jostled against each other, pushing back in a futile attempt to escape the invisible terror that loomed over them.
“What are we going to do?” a woman cried as she backed away, her eyes darting from one to another. “We can’t stay here!”
Finnian's laughter cut through the chaos, chilling and mocking. He revelled in their fear, the realization of their fate settling like a dark cloud. “This is only the beginning. Now you will witness the true power of the darkness!”
As the audience stumbled back, the sense of entrapment intensified, each person grappling with the horror.
The crowd turned, horror dawning as they looked at the sick. Their realization began to settle in like a chilling dread. “The ritual pool… The ritual…”
Some of the sick began to convulse, their skin turning cold and their eyes darkening into abyssal voids. Gurgling sounds escaped their lips, echoing through the hall as they transformed, caught in a terrible grip of corruption. The sight was horrific, a chilling reminder of the dark ritual.
Finnian laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that resonated through the hall, sending shivers down the spines of those present. “There is nothing you can do!” he taunted, delighting in the chaos around him.
The joy in his laughter twisted into something darker as his own transformation began to manifest. His smile stretched wider, impossibly large, the corners of his mouth peeling back to reveal a disturbing array of sharp, glistening teeth. Shadows rippled around him, his arms bending and twisting unnaturally, stretching like dark tendrils of smoke, giving him an eerie, otherworldly presence that seemed to absorb the very light in the hall.
Thorn's limbs grew heavier with each passing second, his once-precise movements now sluggish as the insidious sickness gnawed at his strength. Around them, chaos reigned—the screams of the townspeople melding into a cacophony of despair. Panic rippled through the hall like a tempest, but Thorn could focus only on the malevolent figure before him.
Finnian's attacks intensified, each strike more brutal and unnatural than the last. His limbs twisted and stretched in impossible ways, shadows coiling around him like living entities. Thorn parried desperately, but his defences were crumbling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. A cold dread settled in his gut.
If he fell here, there would be no one left to stand against the darkness consuming the town.
Finnian's eyes gleamed with sinister delight as he sensed Thorn's weakening resolve. "What's the matter, hero?" he mocked, his voice echoing unnaturally. "Feeling powerless?"
Thorn's vision blurred, the edges darkening as his strength waned. The weight of the sickness pressed upon him like an anchor dragging him into the abyss. He staggered back, barely deflecting a blow that would have shattered bone.
All around them, the townspeople's cries turned to guttural shrieks as more succumbed to the horrific transformation. The air was thick with the stench of corruption and fear. The walls of the Great Hall seemed to close in, shadows dancing menacingly as the torchlight flickered and waned.
A horrifying realization clawed at Thorn's mind: the tide had turned, and the darkness was winning.
Finnian advanced slowly, confidence oozing from his twisted form. "Soon, all will join me in eternal night," he whispered, a predatory grin spreading across his distorted face.
Thorn's heart pounded, desperation surging through him. He had to find a way to turn the tide, to protect those who still clung to hope. But his body betrayed him, knees buckling as the sickness tightened its grip.
As he sank to one knee, eyes locked with Finnian's, a chilling sense of finality washed over him.
The future of Halrest teetered on the brink of annihilation.
And in that harrowing moment, as darkness threatened to swallow him whole, Thorn knew that the fate of the town—and perhaps much more—hung in the balance.