High above, wrapped in the shadows of the sprawling branches, a creature clung to the underside of a tree limb, as still and silent as death itself. Its body blended seamlessly into the night—a void of twisted limbs and shifting darkness, almost more a suggestion than a creature. Its form seemed to drink in the dim light, becoming a blot of blackness against the canopy. It watched the movements of the cave people in the day when they were outside and below it, and when they sealed there cave with an intensity that was neither idle nor curious. A ravenous need simmered within it, one that stirred halfway between hunger and something colder, sharper—an eager lustful malice.

The human tribe’s beauty stirred it, but not with anything as familiar as lust or admiration. Beauty affected it as much as the people. But its desires were different, while lust was a driving motivation of reproduction, to the black thing under the tree branch beauty was only a beginning, a point of departure. Using the souls of others to reproduce more fae was less satisfying to it then feeding of its hunger.

To the creature, beauty was a beginning, a lure to something deeper, darker—a gateway to destruction. While humans saw beauty as something to cherish, to the black creature under the branch, beauty was simply an invitation, a silent plea to be unraveled. It knew that beauty could only be fully understood through ruin, through a slow unraveling that descended into suffering. Pain was not an accident but an art, a brushstroke that could be refined, perfected, until the last gasping breath was drawn.

And then, in the stillness of its musings, a thought coiled and took hold—a whisper of a darker truth. It had observed the boy, the one who had killed a fae. The creature’s darkened mind stirred, savoring the potential agony of such a prize. That boy, with his fierce innocence, was a curious contradiction—a killer yet somehow pure, like a blade tempered in fire. Strong yet still innocent, a killer yet still pure. He was a prize. And oh, the reward that would come from his ruin… sadly not its prize his end belongs to another.

The creature paused, indulging in its dark imaginings. To twist him, to break that purity with lingering terror, to savor the taste of his pain... It shuddered, each limb vibrating with anticipation. But then it froze, stilled by a prickling awareness. Somewhere below, in the depths of the forest’s shadowed heart, something else lay in waiting—darker, ancient, a force to which even it, with all its vile cunning, was bound.

*Not my prize,* it reminded itself with bitter restraint. The boy’s fate belonged to another, an ancient presence that even this blackened creature dared not challenge. For a moment, it recoiled, that hidden malevolence slinking back from the edge of its dark thrill.

And yet, it lingered, savoring the knowledge that terror and pain awaited him in the days to come.

The creature melted back into the shadows, leaving only a ripple of chill in the night. Its purpose was held in abeyance, but not erased. Something darker stirred in the shadows beyond—a master of this twisted thing’s desires, who would find satisfaction not just in one soul’s ruin, but in the destruction of everything the boy held dear.

In the shadows, the forest waited.

Inside the cave

Lilona was only seven, she knows the night very will, but tonight felt different. The fur bed that usually provided comfort felt rough and smelled of old, musty earth, filling her nose with ancient scents that mingled with the cool, damp air of the cave. She tried to bury herself deeper beneath the fur blankets, hoping to escape the unsettling noises echoing through the dark space.

Faint creaks and groans filled the cave, like whispering bones, and occasional chitters and murmurs made her shiver. She peeked over the blanket's edge, her small hands gripping the fur tightly. Her mother lay beside her, breathing deeply in a deep, undisturbed sleep. “Mom?” Lilona whispered, but the only response was her mother’s steady, oblivious breathing.

The rush-light, usually soft and warm, flickered erratically tonight, its flame stuttering as shadows danced across the walls. Slivers of light slipped through the gaps in the leather wall coverings, sending flickers of eerie glow into the room. Shadows swayed and stretched, casting strange shapes against the walls—claws, eyes, strange wisps that seemed almost alive, writhing as if fueled by something sinister. She found herself holding her breath, heart hammering as the patterns played in dark, shifting strokes across the stone walls.

Then something changed.

In the far corner, where the shadows lay thickest, something stirred, barely perceptible against the dark stone. Lilona's chest tightened, her breath caught in her throat as she tried to see clearly. The shape moved against the natural flow of the shadows, and for a dreadful moment, she knew it was coming closer. She felt ice-cold fear settle in her stomach, rooting her in place.

“Mom…” she whispered again, her voice trembling. Her mother stirred but didn’t wake, leaving Lilona alone to watch as the shape inched forward. It slid along the stone floor, weaving its way across the room, its movement strange and jerky, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. It would vanish for a few heartbeats, and lilona strained her eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments she couldn't see any hint of motion, and just when she dared to hope it was gone, it would stir again.

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"Mom!" her voice disappeared as if killed the moment it left her mouth.

The maddeningly indistinct shape approaching her slowly, a shiver in the darkness, closer each time. Slowly, purposefully, vanishing and reappearing until it was nearly at the foot of her bed. Lilona felt trapped, pressed back into the corner of her blankets, her wide eyes fixed on the place where the shadow had last been. She held her breath, afraid that even the smallest sound might draw its attention.

Then, in the dim light, a hand—if it could be called that—emerged from the darkness. Crooked, claw-like fingers dark and terrible in their deformity curled into view, no one heard the sound of claws upon stone moving blindly across the floor, reaching toward her. Lilona pressed herself against the bed, her heart pounding, as a blackened face followed, a misshapen mask of twisted hate and eyes like polished black stones. Its gaze was empty yet filled with malice, its face twisted in a terrifying expression that made her feel small and utterly helpless as she wet her bed.

She wanted to scream, to call for her mother, but her voice failed, strangled by sheer terror. She could only watch, her eyes filling with tears as the creature drew closer. The air felt cold, dense, pressing in on her chest as the clawed hands stretched out toward her.

But then, something strange happened. A faint mist began to enter her home gathering around her, swirling softly, moving almost like it had a mind of its own. The mist gathered, coiling like silken tendrils, and then it wrapped around the dark creature, clinging to it, pressing in against its twisted form. The thing shrieked, a horrible, hissing scream that filled the room with a chilling echo. It recoiled, scrambling back into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Lilona lay frozen, her wide eyes fixed on the corner where it had disappeared. The mist lingered for a moment longer, then faded into nothingness, leaving only silence and darkness behind.

As the darkness settled once more, Lilona remained motionless, her heart pounding as questions swirled in her mind. What was that thing? And why had the mist come to her aid? Just as she was beginning to relax, a soft whisper echoed from the corner—a low, sinister promise that this encounter was far from over.

Outside the cave, something dark and twisted unfurled from the shadows. It slithered down the rocky outer wall, its claws scraping softly against the stone, its limbs stretching and retracting like the limbs of a monstrous spider, each movement a whisper of malice. Once free of the stone's grip, it slinked low to the ground, gliding over the damp earth as it scampered toward the woods.

It paused, glancing back toward the cave’s entrance, eyes like polished obsidian pools glinting with a mixture of pain and something colder—hatred.

A hiss escaped its malformed mouth, a sound that hung in the air, mingling with the silence of the night. Despite its injury, it darted toward the treeline, sinking deeper into the cover of the forest, its movements jittery and sporadic, an unnatural blend of animal instinct and something darker. Its wounded arm burned, a fresh agony that sizzled through its veins, each pulse a brutal reminder of the iron’s touch, a substance it despised but could never conquer.

Its breath came in ragged, hissing gasps, punctuated by odd whispering sounds that seemed to float through the air as if carried by a hidden breeze. When it reached the nearest tree, it clung to the bark with its misshapen claws and, despite the pain, launched itself upward.

Each leap was a twisted, acrobatic dance as it spun from branch to branch, climbing higher and deeper into the forest. But with every movement, its body betrayed it—a searing pain radiated from the wound inflicted by iron, burning with a venomous heat that only grew more intense the farther it moved from the cave. Its hissing became sharper, laced with agony, and at last, it was forced to pause. Panting, it scrambled down the tree, its claws digging into the bark before it dropped the last ten feet to the forest floor.

It moved with a grotesque, rolling gait—an unnatural stoop that gave it the appearance of a twisted ape. A creature of shadows, hunched and sinewy, its eyes glinted like dark opals, an iridescent gleam in the depths of its sockets. It paused near an ancient stone gazebo, half-buried in the earth, remnants of a forgotten age now choked by vines. Its gaze flicked back toward the cave, burning with a hunger tinged with fear, as if still drawn to the one who had dared to strike it.

But then—another sound. A whisper of movement in the woods. It ducked down, shrinking into itself, instinctively avoiding whatever new presence had entered the forest. Silence followed, so deep it was as if the entire forest held its breath, waiting.

The creature hesitated, frozen, its ancient heart pounding. No sound, no scent, no movement. Yet the shadows felt heavier, closer, pressing in around it like a thousand watching eyes. It cradled its wounded arm against its body, its gnarled fingers clutching the burn left by the iron. It closed its eyes, willing the pain to recede, attempting to focus its dark magic to heal the wound.

But as it began to pull the magic inward, it felt something—a warning, a shift in the air. A realization settled like a stone in its chest: it was no longer the hunter.

From the shadows, an unseen force seemed to stir, something far older and darker than itself. Its twisted face contorted in fear, and it froze, feeling a gaze upon it, a presence so overwhelming it seemed to press the very air from its lungs. In that instant, it understood its mistake—a fatal misstep in a territory ruled by an ancient, merciless power.

The creature tried to turn, to flee into the trees, into the stone gazebo, anywhere but here.

But the shadows themselves seemed to grip it, holding it in place. A cold whisper echoed from the darkness—a promise of pain, of an ancient debt long overdue. And then, as it quivered in terror, a shadow detached from the night and began its slow, deliberate approach.