Deep within the bowels of the desecrated temple in Ebonfield, a sinister stillness hung in the air, heavy with the scent of old earth, rotting leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of dried blood. The only light came from the thin shafts of moonlight that filtered through the shattered windows high above, casting eerie beams across the stone floor.
It was here, in the very heart of the corruption, that something began to stir.
A thin, green mist wafted through the broken halls, coiling like a serpent and seeking out its source. This vapor wasn’t natural—it seemed alive, its movements purposeful, and it carried with it a fetid stench of decay mixed with sulfur and charred bones. The air buzzed faintly, a noise like the low hum of dying cicadas, growing louder as the mist drifted into the central chamber.
The mist pooled in the center of the room where Erik and Vesper had fought the eldritch monstrosity days before. The stone floor was still marred by the deep gouges and the dark, crusted remnants of corrupted blood. And there, amidst the aftermath of battle, lay the small amulet that once adorned the fallen creature.
The amulet was a simple thing—a twisted piece of metal, dark and dull, attached to a worn leather strap. But at its center, embedded like a festering wound, was a severed finger. It was blackened and withered, the flesh leathery and gnarled, save for a single, gleaming yellow nail at its tip. The nail caught the moonlight and reflected it with an almost sentient glow.
The finger, despite its decayed appearance, was anything but lifeless. As the green mist touched it, the finger twitched, and then a dark energy began to ripple through its length, pulsing with a grotesque, yellow-green glow. The nail, now illuminated fully, shone brighter with each pulse, emitting a rhythmic, high-pitched keening sound—a sound that was both agonizingly sharp and disturbingly melodic.
A sour, acrid smell filled the air, like the burning of old flesh mixed with the wet stench of rot. The glowing finger began to dissolve, liquefying into a viscous, tar-like ooze that dripped down the amulet’s surface. The sound of sizzling flesh hissed through the silence as the goo seeped into the stone beneath, which bubbled and hissed in response, releasing thin trails of black smoke.
And then, the amulet cracked.
A violent flash of light erupted from the amulet’s center, its illumination bathing the chamber in a sickly green hue. The finger burst into flames—yellow, green, blue, and finally a deep, consuming black. The high-pitched keening sound swelled to a crescendo, splitting the air like a dying scream. And then, in the next instant, all sound stopped.
In the silence that followed, the stone floor where the finger had dissolved began to ooze with a thick, dark-green substance. It collected in a pool, glistening like oil in the moonlight. The goo roiled and churned, and a foul stench permeated the room, so potent it seemed to cling to the very walls. It smelled of decaying leaves, fetid water, and the iron tang of ancient blood—all mingling into a putrid aroma that would have made any human retch.
The pool of goo began to move, spreading slowly and with deliberate intent. It slithered across the stone floor, each ripple of movement making it seem disturbingly alive, as if it were seeking something—someone. As it traveled, it left behind a glistening trail of foul-smelling slime.
The green pool approached a massive boulder that had been dislodged during Erik and Vesper’s battle. Underneath, a partially-crushed eldritch creature lay trapped, its twisted body half-buried in the rubble. The creature’s eyes were dim, its once-glowing limbs now limp and feeble, twitching weakly in the darkness. It whimpered softly, its corrupted flesh withering as if drained of vitality.
The goo reached the creature’s twisted form, hesitating for only a moment before slithering over the beast’s shattered limbs. The trapped monster let out a pitiful, choked gasp as the green substance enveloped it. The goo began to pulsate, feeding off the creature’s waning life force, drawing out its remaining essence like a leech drinking its fill.
The creature’s eyes flared briefly with a bright, panicked green glow, and then it fell silent. The goo, having absorbed all that was left, began to change. It solidified, its gelatinous form congealing into something more defined. Slowly, bone by bone, a skeletal frame emerged from the mass—a ribcage, long and spindly fingers, and vertebrae clicking into place with an eerie, rhythmic precision. The bones were not the dull, dry white of the dead; they were an iridescent green, glistening as if made from the very essence of the corrupted pool.
Once the skeletal frame had fully formed, the green energy continued to coalesce around it, weaving sinew and muscle in intricate patterns. The skin was the last to return—a thin, translucent layer that stretched over the frame, glistening with the same sickly green hue. The reconstituted figure stood there, swaying unsteadily for a moment, its newly-formed flesh rippling with leftover energy.
And then, with a low, guttural breath, the figure opened its eyes.
Where there should have been pupils, there were only two pits of darkness, ringed by glowing green flames. The creature’s mouth opened in a silent snarl, and a brief shudder passed through its body as if it were testing its newfound form. The remaining green ooze seeped into the figure’s skin, vanishing as it was absorbed fully.
The figure reached up with skeletal fingers, grasping the now-lifeless amulet that hung around its neck. It seemed almost reverent in its movements, as if aware of the power contained within the object. And then, with a final pulse of dark energy, the amulet and the severed finger within disintegrated into a fine ash, leaving only the glowing, reconstituted figure standing in the moonlit chamber.
Dominion opened his eyes.
The transformation was complete, but the sense of finality only hinted at something far more sinister. Dominion took a slow, deliberate breath, savoring the air as if tasting it for the first time in eons. The silence that followed was heavy with the promise of what was to come.
The corrupted halls of the temple seemed to respond to Dominion’s presence, the air growing colder and the walls seeming to close in ever so slightly. Shadows deepened, and the remnants of eldritch corruption slithered away from Dominion’s feet, as if recognizing a master returned to his domain.
The creature turned its gaze to the altar where the amulet had once lain, its dark eyes narrowing as if recalling something long forgotten. There was a hunger in those eyes, an ancient thirst for power that could not be quenched by mere existence alone.
And as Dominion stepped forward, the floor creaked and cracked beneath his weight, green energy pulsating from his reformed frame, rippling outward like ripples in a pond. The eldritch corruption that Erik and Vesper had tried to cleanse now seemed to find new life, spreading like a plague across the once-holy walls of the temple.
In the distance, the sound of whispers began—soft, almost inaudible at first, but growing louder with each passing moment. They were voices filled with fear, with awe, with madness. Dominion smiled—a cruel, humorless grin—and began to walk towards the exit, his footsteps echoing ominously through the ancient corridors.
Outside, the wind had picked up, howling through the skeletal remains of the once-thriving forest. The moonlight seemed dimmer now, shrouded by the dark clouds that gathered above the temple, and the air was heavy with the scent of impending doom.
The danger lurking within Ebonfield was far from vanquished. Dominion had returned, and with him came the promise of a darkness that would spread far beyond the walls of this forsaken place.
The harvest had begun
***
Within the private chambers of High Paladin Ulric, the faint scent of parchment and burning candles filled the air as Ulric sat back in his ornate chair, carefully reading over troubling reports from messengers across the land. His steel-gray hair and beard caught the flickering candlelight, and his eyes were burdened with the weight of the world as he meticulously reviewed a new series of requests for divine support.
It was quiet in the stronghold, save for the distant murmur of paladins going about their duties. Then, that quiet was shattered.
From down the corridor, the unmistakable, echoing clang-clang-clang of armored boots thundered up the stairs, each step reverberating like a gong. The noise was relentless, growing louder and louder as a figure approached. Ulric’s eyelids fluttered shut in resigned exasperation, and he massaged his temples, throwing his head back as if to plead silently for divine patience. He let out a deep sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
“By the Divine,” he muttered quietly, his voice strained.
A few moments later, the doors burst open, and Paladin Candidate Markus came barreling in, his armor battered, his face covered in cuts and bruises. His chest was heaving, his breath ragged, and he was drenched in sweat. Black ichor and green goo clung to his boots and gauntlets, giving him the appearance of having waded through a swamp of filth.
Markus, in his hurry, didn’t slow down. He tried to stop, but his plate boots slipped on the polished marble floor. He slid uncontrollably, slamming into a pedestal that held a stack of unwritten scrolls and quills. The entire stack flew into the air, scattering across the room in a flurry of parchment and ink.
Ulric didn’t move. He just closed his eyes tighter and kept his hand pressed against his temples, as if willing the impending headache to subside. He waited a beat, letting the calamity subside before slowly opening his eyes and turning his gaze towards the mess.
Markus scrambled to his feet, mortified, and nearly knocked the pedestal over in his frantic attempt to steady it. He took a deep breath, his face beet red under his helm, and snapped to attention, saluting awkwardly.
“High Paladin Ulric! I—I came as quickly as I could!” Markus blurted out, his voice still breathless from exertion.
Ulric finally looked up from his hand and leaned forward on his desk, his expression shifting from resigned patience to pointed expectation. “So it seems,” he replied dryly. “Well, then, out with it, Candidate. What have you to report?”
Markus took another breath, clearly struggling to compose himself. “Sir, it’s—Ebonfield—it’s—!” He stammered, his words coming out in jumbled fragments. He had to stop, inhaling sharply before continuing.
“Sir, Ebonfield was attacked by eldritch creatures. Vesper was holding the line, but there were too many—monsters with glowing green eyes, twisted and corrupted things! They kept reanimating, even after she cut them down!” Markus explained, his words running together in his panic.
Ulric’s face hardened. “Calm yourself, Markus. Speak clearly,” he ordered, the command in his voice cutting through the candidate’s hysteria.
Markus swallowed and nodded vigorously, forcing himself to continue. “Sir, Vesper was fighting them off, but then this man—Erik—arrived. He—he wasn’t human anymore, sir. He’s become something else, something demonic! He had glowing red eyes, and his arm—his arm had a demonic maw that devoured the eldritch energy!”
Ulric’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward. “Devoured the eldritch energy?” he echoed, the severity in his tone urging Markus to continue.
“Yes, sir!” Markus nearly shouted, his voice high with urgency. “He—he moved through the creatures like a demon himself, but he was using their own power against them! He called it Sin Eater, sir. I saw him consume the energy of every eldritch thing that fell. He’s like a—a conduit for the corruption, but he was fighting them! And—”
Markus’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced the rest of his report out in a panicked rush. “Sir, the villagers saw him—saw what he did. He saved them, but now they look at him with fear and awe. I—Sir, I don’t think they understand what he is… And Vesper is still with him. They’re heading toward the Paladin Temple now.”
Ulric took in Markus’s frantic report, his face a mask of stone. He allowed a moment of silence to pass, weighing the information. Markus, still struggling to catch his breath, stood rigidly, awaiting his superior’s response.
Finally, Ulric spoke, his voice measured and firm. “Markus, have you ever written a message and sent it by carrier pigeon?” he asked, his tone almost casual.
Markus blinked in confusion. “Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered, unsure of where this question was going.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“They do teach that, do they not?” Ulric continued, arching a gray eyebrow. “How to write a report—preferably without losing one’s composure?”
Markus fumbled for a response, his face flushing even redder. “Yes, sir, but—”
Ulric held up a hand, silencing him. “Enough. You’ve done well to bring this to my attention, albeit in your own fashion,” he said, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice. “Now, go and see to your wounds, and next time—send a pigeon.”
Markus snapped a salute, stammering a hasty apology before he turned and left the chamber, his armored footsteps echoing down the hallway.
When the doors closed behind the candidate, Ulric turned to the shadows at the edge of the room. “Sir Gregory.”
The Knight Commander stepped forward, his face grim and resolute. “High Paladin?”
“Send word to the Red Queen,” Ulric ordered, his voice taking on an edge of urgency. “Inform her that we have a situation at Ebonfield. There is a man with Vesper.. Erik. He must be detained, and Vesper is to be protected at all costs. She is not to be harmed, but this Erik—bring him in, or, if necessary, neutralize him. Dispatch a company of knights—only those with divine punishment imbuements in their armor and weapons as well as the Celestial Shackles. We will need every advantage we can muster.”
Sir Gregory nodded, his expression stoic. “It will be done, High Paladin.”
“Also, prepare the stronghold,” Ulric added, his voice lowering as he considered the larger implications. “We face more than eldritch horrors. This man may be the key to something far more dangerous than we have faced before.”
Gregory saluted crisply and left the chamber, his steps purposeful.
Ulric returned to his desk, his gaze falling upon the scattered papers and scrolls that had been thrown about during Markus’s entrance. He reached down, picking up the parchment he had been reading before the interruption. As he smoothed it out, his eyes returned to the troubling words inscribed upon it.
The missive spoke of eldritch incursions growing in number and strength, and something new—an unsettling pattern detected by the artificers’ seeking crystals. There was an energy signature, almost like a whisper in the void, that seemed to guide the eldritch beings, as if communicating with them. It was unlike anything the Order had ever encountered.
Ulric closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on his shoulders. “By the Divine Light,” he murmured, “we will stand in triumph.”
But even as he spoke the words, a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of his mind as he once again touched the green scar on his face.
***
Outside the temple, the farmers were still on edge. The distant, dark silhouette of the ancient structure seemed more foreboding than ever, now bathed in the eerie twilight. Thomas, Samuel, and Miriam had returned to their fields to check on their dogs, who were barking incessantly and seemed to have cornered something near a patch of tall grass.
Thomas, still tense from their earlier conversation, leaned on his pitchfork and watched as the two farm dogs—old Rex and young Patch—charged after a small, frantic rabbit. The farmers paused in their conversation, caught up in the familiar sight of their dogs giving chase.
"Look at 'em go," Samuel chuckled nervously, though the tension in his voice was clear. "Rex and Patch never miss a chance to chase a rabbit, do they?"
"Good to see them acting normal," Miriam muttered, her eyes never leaving the dogs. Her grip tightened on her scythe as she watched, her instincts still on edge.
The rabbit darted through the grass with surprising agility, zigzagging as the dogs lunged after it, barking with excitement. But something was different. Just as it seemed like the rabbit was trapped, it abruptly stopped. Rex and Patch skidded to a halt, confused.
And then, to everyone’s shock, the rabbit turned around.
The small creature leaped forward, faster than a snake striking. It latched onto Rex’s collar with its tiny teeth, tugging sharply. Rex yelped, not in pain, but in what sounded almost like surprise. The farmers watched, bewildered, as the rabbit twisted and darted between the two dogs, biting and scratching, almost... playing with its prey? It gave quick scratches along the dogs’ backs, making them yelp and squirm unsure of how to react to the quick attacks.
"What in blazes...?" Thomas muttered, his eyes narrowing. "I ain’t never seen a rabbit do that."
"Well, you don’t see that every day," Miriam said flatly, lowering her scythe as her eyebrows knitted together. She had an uneasy feeling, something deeper than what met the eye.
The rabbit paused its strange antics and then, in a flash, disappeared into the tall grass, leaving the dogs standing there, still as as if they were waiting for a treat to be given. The farmers stood there, dumbfounded, the eeriness of the situation settling into their bones.
Thomas was the first to shake off the confusion. "Best get a closer look," he grunted, reaching for his pitchfork. "Rex, Patch—c’mere, boys."
The dogs didn’t respond. Instead, they flopped over onto their sides, legs sprawled awkwardly. They looked as if they had been knocked out cold, tongues hanging out, eyes half-lidded in a state of strange, contented sleep.
Miriam’s sharp eyes narrowed as she approached, cautiously stepping forward. "What is that...?" she whispered, pointing to the dogs’ backs.
The three farmers crouched down, examining the animals. Both Rex and Patch were covered in a slick, greenish slime that glistened in the dim light. It looked viscous, and it seemed to pulse faintly in the fading sunlight.
"That’s not right," Samuel said, his voice wavering as he reached out a hand to touch the goo. When his fingers brushed against it, he jerked his hand back, grimacing. "It’s warm."
"Warm?" Miriam repeated, her voice rising with concern.
"Like fresh sap," Samuel replied, wiping his hand on his trousers, trying to rid himself of the sticky residue.
Thomas inspected the dogs more closely. They were breathing steadily, their sides rising and falling in deep, relaxed breaths, but they were completely unresponsive to their names. The green slime coated their fur in strange patterns, almost like veins branching out across their bodies.
"What in the blazes happened here?" Thomas muttered, looking around the field, as if expecting the rabbit to jump out and explain itself.
"Let’s get them inside," Miriam suggested, her voice firm despite the unease gnawing at her. She glanced back at the distant silhouette of the temple, her instincts screaming that this was no ordinary rabbit.
As they lifted the sleeping dogs, their bodies limp and heavy with the weight of exhaustion, a chill wind blew across the fields. The sun was almost gone now, the last rays disappearing behind the hills. The dark silhouette of the temple seemed to loom larger, as if watching them.
"Whatever that was," Thomas said, his voice low and serious, "I don’t think it’s gone for good."
"Aye," Samuel agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don’t think this is the last of it."
The air was thick with unease, the kind that pressed on their chests and left their words stuck in their throats. As they reached the little wooden farmhouse on the outskirts of Ebonfield, they cast one last wary glance at the distant temple. The events of the past few weeks had generally avoided the farmers’ lives, but now, an unsettling shift was beginning to take place.
The moon had disappeared behind dark clouds near a mountain high in the west, and the sky took on a twilight hue, transitioning into deeper purples and darkening blues. But something unnatural began to happen as the farmers closed the door behind them. The temple in the far distance emitted a low, throaty rumble, almost like the deep resonance of a horn echoing through the hills. It reverberated through the air and beneath the farmers' feet, causing the tools on the walls to tremble.
Above the temple, a pillar of green light shot straight into the sky—not a dazzling, bright beacon, but rather a murky column, as if it were pulling in the very essence of life and light around the temple. The beam twisted and pulsated, creating an eerie contrast against the encroaching night.
Clouds began to gather, but not like the usual storm fronts. They moved slowly, curling and spreading, like tendrils reaching out across the sky. The clouds started to ripple and undulate in a pattern reminiscent of the strange formations seen during heavy storms, their edges tinged with a sickly green light. Grey and dark hues mingled, interspersed with that unnatural green, creating a looming canopy that absorbed the remnants of the fading moonlight.
The winds picked up in pulses, almost as if they were being pulled toward the temple. They carried with them the mixed scents of the farmers' lives: the fresh till of the soil, mingled with the acrid smell of smoke and burning from Ebonfield in the distance. It was faint at first, the scent of scorched wood and burning straw, but it grew stronger as the breeze shifted, bringing with it hints of decay and the metallic stench of dried blood.
Suddenly, from within the house, there was a sound—violent retching and the unmistakable gurgling of someone vomiting. The harsh, wet noises came from one of the inner rooms, followed by a muffled groan of pain. The smell of bile and fear began to permeate the air, sharp and acidic.
Then came the barking—first, a frantic, high-pitched yelp from one of the dogs, then the other. The barking quickly devolved into snarls, deep and guttural, echoing through the thin walls of the farmhouse. It was not the playful barking of dogs at play, but a frenzied, terrified sound, the kind that sets a person’s hair on end.
And then, cutting through the chorus of snarls, came the guttural screams—a scream filled with raw fear and desperation. It was a terrible, ragged sound, the kind that tears at the throat and leaves one breathless. The sounds mingling with the wind and the distant rumble of the temple, until it, too, was swallowed by the unnatural silence that followed.
The wind continued to pulse, pulling in toward the temple, rustling the tall grasses and the trees, making them sway and creak. The clouds thickened, the undulating pattern becoming more pronounced, and that sickly green glow began to deepen, spreading across the sky like veins in an overripe fruit.
***
The town of Ebonfield had endured much in recent weeks. After the brutal attacks that had decimated the village, the people of Ebonfield clung to each other in shared grief and struggle. They had buried their dead, patched their wounds, and attempted to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, despite the heavy sense of loss hanging over them like the ever-present clouds.
Tonight, however, was different. As the night wore on and the distant rumble of the temple quieted, the skies above Ebonfield began to darken further, the clouds shifting and thickening in a slow, churning dance. The wind blew gently, carrying with it the scent of rain—a scent that the villagers had almost forgotten. The drought had parched their fields and cracked their wells, leaving the town thirsty in more ways than one.
The first drops fell lightly, almost hesitantly, but the villagers were quick to notice. They stood at the doorways of the common house, mouths open to the sky, trying to catch the drops on their tongues. It was a cleansing rain, gentle and cool, and after weeks of oppressive heat and fear, it felt like a small blessing. The villagers who remained huddled in the common house watched, some smiling faintly at the sight of children running outside to dance beneath the falling rain even when the dark of night presses on.
The village had been through so much, and seeing the children play in the rain brought a bittersweet warmth to their hearts. For a brief moment, the fear and pain seemed to wash away with the droplets.
"Fresh water for breakfast, wouldn't that be a surprise?" one older boy remarked, laughing as he danced around a puddle, his hands outstretched to the sky. His younger sister nodded eagerly, her face streaked with rain and a wide grin breaking through.
"Best fill the barrels while it lasts!" a teenager suggested, his voice ringing out in the night. He dashed to the side of a building where the rain barrels stood, partially unsealed to catch what precious water they could. The others followed, unsealing the barrels and peering inside to check what little remained.
The rain intensified for a moment, drumming against the rooftops with a steady rhythm. It was a comforting sound, one that whispered of hope and renewal. But as the downpour grew heavier, the villagers called their children inside, scolding them for lingering too long in the wet. The doors to the common house creaked open and shut, the children’s laughter replaced by the clatter of hurried footsteps.
A few of the older boys stayed outside, resolute in their mission to gather as much rainwater as possible. They hoisted the barrels upright, tilting them so the open lids faced the sky, watching in delight as the water splashed inside. But as the rain grew stronger, turning into a deluge, the boys decided it was best to head indoors.
Once the doors to the common house were shut tight, the rain slowed once more, the drops growing larger, heavier. Each drop hit the earth with a soft patter, drenching the mud-caked roads and the remnants of what had once been sturdy houses and vibrant shops.
After a while, the downpour faded, leaving the town drenched and shrouded in an eerie silence. The thick clouds remained overhead, blotting out the moonlight save for the occasional silver beam that slipped through the gaps.
Inside, the villagers waited anxiously for the storm to pass. The guard, a man named Elias, ventured out to check on the rain barrels. He muttered to himself about the children’s carelessness as he approached the barrels. He noticed that they had been left open, their lids barely clinging to the edges. Shaking his head, he leaned down and sealed them tight.
“Kids these days,” he grumbled, “never thinking about keeping things safe.”
He rolled the barrels back to the storage area, making sure each one was properly sealed. As he did, he couldn’t help but glance around at the town—the ruins of what had once been a bustling village. His gaze lingered on the old well at the town’s center, its stones cracked and weather-worn, a testament to the drought and the hardships the villagers had faced. The well stood dry now, its cobblestone edge gathering dust and debris, a reminder of the water that once sustained them.
Around the well, a few remaining buildings of stone and wood stood, scarred by fire and neglect. Some had collapsed entirely, their charred frames jutting out like the bones of a long-dead beast. Others leaned precariously, their roofs half-caved, their walls marred by scorch marks. The streets, once made of packed dirt and cobblestone, were now thick with mud from the rain, making the once-bustling roads difficult to traverse.
The town felt hollow, its heart stripped away by the recent horrors. What few traders had once set up their stalls near the cobblestone square were long gone, their goods replaced by smoldering ashes and broken memories. The air was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and damp earth, mingling with a faint but unmistakable hint of decay and blood that refused to wash away.
The rain continued to fall, its rhythm steady and unbroken and for a brief moment, the moon emerged from behind the clouds, casting its pale light over the ruined town illuminating the rain-soaked roads and cobblestones. In that fleeting glow, the pale light tiny green flecks began to appear intermixed with the rain, blending subtly with the droplets. Each droplet shimmered with a soft, otherworldly light—barely noticeable, yet distinct enough to catch in the dim moonlight. The ground seemed to shimmer with a faint green sheen, like the ghostly remnants of a fading dream. The sheen reflected off the puddles and slick stones, giving the impression of something almost alive, pulsing faintly in the dim light.
Slowly, the greenish tint began to fade, not washing away but sinking into the earth, absorbed by the mud and the cobblestones. The rain seemed to soak into the wood of the ruined houses and seep into the cracks of the old stone walls, its unnatural color leaving behind a faint stain that clung to everything it touched. The barrels, roads, and even the roots of the old trees seemed to drink in the green, as if the land itself were absorbing the tainted rain.
The wind picked up again, a chill breeze sweeping through the village. The last hints of the strange glow vanished along with the green flecks, as if drawn deep into the bones of the village, hidden beneath its surface.
And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moon slipped back behind the clouds. The rain slowed to a steady drizzle and mist soaking into the earth, the wooden beams, and the roots of old trees. The village fell silent once more, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant call of a restless animal.
Yet, beneath the quiet, a sense of unease lingered, heavy and unshakable. The green glow was gone, drawn into the village itself, leaving only darkness in its wake as if the land itself held its breath, waiting for something to break the silence