They buried Jeffrey at dusk.

Outside the town of Vesper, a small crowd had gathered within the somber confines of the burial grounds, their heads bowed in reverent silence. In the gentle evening breeze, the occasional rustle of leaves punctuated the quiet. The Seneschal, a tall figure cloaked in deep azure robes, stood before them, his presence commanding yet gentle. The waning light of day cast elongated shadows that danced across the earth, weaving a tapestry of twilight that seemed to mourn alongside them.

As the sun sank behind the distant treetops, bleeding its last hues of gold and crimson into the horizon, the atmosphere grew heavy with unspoken words. Slowly, the Seneschal raised a hand, steady and resolute, and scattered the first handful of dirt over the lifeless form now entombed with the cold embrace of the ground. The azure fabric of his robes shimmered softly in the fading light, a stark contrast to the somber mood surrounding him.

As the dirt settled, a collective sigh swept through the crowd. The Seneschal paused, allowing the moment to linger. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and soothing, reverberating through the gathering. "In this evening light, we honor not only the body that has returned to the earth but the spirit that has gone to wait redemption with our Risen God. Blessed are those who rise on the morrow!” The Seneschal spoke to the gathered crowd.

“Blessed are those who rise with the dawn!” replied the crowd as one.

Hayden murmured the words of the rite dutifully, but his thoughts strayed far from the solemn ceremony. He cast a furtive glance toward the dense trees at the edge of the burial grounds, their gnarled branches twisting like skeletal fingers against the fading light. A killer lurked in the Vale, promising to send him to the ground as surely as it had claimed Jeffrey.

As the ceremony unfolded, Hayden fought to keep his focus on the words, but thoughts of the killer haunted him. If all the others were dead, he was next, wasn't he? What if he couldn’t escape the fate that had already befallen his friend? The thought tightened like a vise around his heart, each syllable of the rite feeling like an empty promise against the encroaching dread. He felt a shiver run down his spine, the air thick with unspoken fears. This wasn’t just a ceremony for Jeffrey; it was a warning.

Distractingly, to his left, a woman wept softly at the front of the gathering. Lady Facilious, Jeffrey's mother, appeared a wisp of a figure beneath her thick white cloak, fragile and quivering against the chill that cut through the dusk. The once-radiant glow of her face had dulled, now bearing the heavy burden of sorrow as she huddled in on herself, her shoulders shaking not just from the cold but from the grief that threatened to consume her whole.

Beside her stood Lydia, her eldest daughter, who wrapped an arm protectively around her mother, providing what little comfort she could amid the overwhelming sense of loss that enveloped them both. Lydia's expression was a mixture of determination and despair, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that mirrored the pain etched on her mother’s face.

Lord Facilious, on the other hand, was a towering figure radiating palpable fury. His face burned a worryingly vivid shade of crimson. As the lord of the northern wilds of the Vale of Shadows, he embodied his nickname, the Bear, wearing it like a second skin, and it was easy to see why. He was a mountain of a man, broad and imposing, with a wildness about him that hinted at the danger lurking beneath his coarse exterior. His heavy tunic was adorned with the insignia of his house—an intricately carved bear that seemed to come alive against the fabric.

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As Hayden watched the man’s barely restrained rage, a bitter thought flickered through his mind: I doubt my father would feel such wrath if it were my body being buried instead. The notion clawed at him, a dark reflection of his own insecurities, and it settled like a weight in the pit of his stomach. That man looks like he could shred his son’s killer with his bare hands, he mused, the raw anger emanating from Lord Facilious almost palpable.

By the Risen God, what if he could encourage Lord Facilious to do what his own father had failed to do: slay this killer? The thought sparked a flame of hope in Hayden’s chest. Not that it would take much, considering the Bear’s current state of mind. Hayden could almost see the wheels turning in the lord’s mind, the gears of vengeance spinning faster with each passing moment. If he could channel that rage, maybe they could turn it into something productive, a quest for retribution that would restore honor and bring the killer to justice. And save Hayden from his fate.

Hayden hugged his heavy woolen cloak close to him, though he knew it would do little to stave off the chill that gnawed at his core. The cold that had settled deep into his bones had very little to do with the cool early spring air, which carried a hint of dampness that spoke of the lingering winter. No, this was a different kind of cold—one that emanated from the shadows and uncertainty swirling around him, wrapping around his heart like an insidious fog.

I’m the last. The thought echoed in his mind like a death knell. I’m the last! The killer had claimed them all—his friends, one by one.

As he scanned the burial grounds, even in the encroaching darkness, Hayden noted the gathering was diminished, a stark contrast to the throngs that had gathered for the peasant girls. Fewer souls had come to honor the lord’s son than those who had mourned the innocents, and that reality gnawed at him like a persistent itch. Even as Vesper withered away, these peasants of the Vale banded together, a resilient community forged in their shared suffering.

Hayden couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger at the stark disparity. In life, Jeffrey had been a nobleman’s son, yet his death seemed to inspire less collective mourning than the tragic fate of the peasant girls. What did that say about the world they lived in? The thought twisted in his gut, igniting a fire of indignation.

Narrowing his eyes, Hayden peered down at his friend’s body in the ground. They had stuffed Jeff’s innards back inside his body and changed his torn clothing. Someone had cleaned the blood splattered across his friend’s face and closed his eyes. The dead boy almost looked peaceful.

The peasants kept their distance, eyes wide and whispers hushed, unwilling to venture too close to the corpse. Superstition clung to them like a miasma, each of them convinced that to draw near was to invite the beast’s wrath upon themselves.

Let them believe it was the creature that killed those girls, Hayden thought. His heart hardened.

Yet, such musings did little to change the grim reality that loomed over him. With the killer's current pattern of victims, he knew he was all but marked for death. And his time was only growing short.

I must act swiftly, he resolved before it is my body the Seneschal shovels dirt upon next.