The old woman's scream tore through the pre-dawn stillness, sharp as a cracked bone. It wasn't the startled shriek of someone stumbling in the dark, but a raw, tearing sound that spoke of things far worse than a bumped knee. Elara, already awake and tending the sputtering embers of the hearth fire, froze, her hand hovering over a half-peeled root.
She lived on the fringes of Oakhaven, a village nestled where the ancient Sunwood began its deep, sprawling embrace, and the Whispering Mire stretched its murky fingers towards the horizon. Most folk here were content with their simple lives, their days marked by planting and harvest, the turning of the seasons. But Elara knew better. She knew the land hummed with forgotten energies, and that some whispers in the mire weren't just the wind through the reeds.
"Grandmother Lyra," Elara murmured, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. Lyra, the village's oldest, had been complaining of bad dreams for weeks, of creeping shadows and a chill that settled in her bones even by the warmest fire. The other villagers had dismissed it as the ramblings of old age, but Elara had seen the fear in Lyra's eyes, a fear she recognized from her own infrequent, unsettling visions.
She grabbed the heavy iron poker by the hearth, its familiar weight a small comfort, and pulled her thick wool shawl tighter around her. The cottage door groaned as she eased it open, letting in the damp, cool air that carried the scent of bog water and pine. The sky was still a bruised purple, the first tentative streaks of dawn barely staining the eastern horizon. Mist, thick and spectral, clung to the ground, shrouding the familiar path to Lyra's cottage in an eerie veil.
The scream came again, weaker this time, punctuated by a ragged gasp. Elara didn't hesitate. She moved quickly, her bare feet silent on the dewy grass, the iron poker held ready. Lyra's small cottage, barely a stone's throw from her own, looked unusually dark, its single window a blind, unseeing eye.
As she neared, a sickeningly sweet stench assaulted her senses—like rot and something else, something metallic and sharp, like too much iron. It wasn't the usual smell of the mire. A shiver traced its way down her spine. This was wrong.
She pushed open Lyra's door, which was already ajar, and stepped inside. The air was heavy, cloying. What little light filtered through the open doorway cast grotesque shadows across the single room. Lyra lay on her straw-filled cot, writhing. Her old, wrinkled hands clutched at her throat, but it wasn't the strangulation Elara feared. It was her face.
Lyra's skin was sickly pale, almost translucent, but streaking across her cheeks and forehead were thin, dark veins, like cracks in old pottery, pulsating faintly with an unnatural, dull crimson light. Her eyes were wide, milky white, and vacant, but her mouth was open in a silent scream, contorted in a rictus of pure terror.
"Grandmother!" Elara dropped the poker with a clang, rushing to the cot. She knelt, reaching for Lyra's hand, but pulled back sharply. The old woman's skin was cold, clammy, yet it seemed to prickle with a strange, latent energy, like static electricity.
As Elara watched in horror, the crimson veins pulsed brighter, spreading across Lyra's face, down her neck, and under the collar of her nightgown. A low, guttural gurgle rose from Lyra's chest, not human, not animal, but something ancient and dark, like stones grinding in the depths of the earth.
Then, from the corner of the small, cramped room, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom. It was formless at first, a deeper shade of black than the darkness around it, but it solidified, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape. It was tall, impossibly thin, its limbs too long, too spindly. It had no discernible features—no eyes, no mouth—just an indistinct, swirling vortex of deeper shadow where a head should be. Yet, Elara felt its presence, a profound, chilling malevolence that turned her blood to ice. It pulsed with the same faint crimson light that now consumed Lyra.
The air grew heavy, pressing down on Elara, stealing her breath. A whisper slithered into her mind, not a sound in the air, but a direct intrusion into her thoughts, a chilling chorus of indistinct voices, murmuring promises of oblivion, of stillness, of the end.
Lyra's body gave one final, violent shudder. The crimson light in her veins flared, then died, leaving her face an ashen mask. The old woman's eyes remained open, milky and vacant, but the terror was gone, replaced by an unsettling placidity. Her breathing ceased.
The shadow in the corner seemed to… absorb something from Lyra. The cloying stench intensified for a moment, then began to dissipate, leaving behind only the faint scent of damp earth and stale air. The amorphous shape shimmered, losing its solidity, becoming once more a patch of deeper darkness, before flowing silently, impossibly, out through the cracks around the closed window.
Elara was left kneeling beside the lifeless body of Grandmother Lyra, her hands trembling, the taste of ash in her mouth. The terror in her own heart was a cold, hard knot. It wasn't the shock of death—she had seen death before, a common companion in the quiet village. It was the how. The unnatural cold, the pulsing veins, the formless shadow, and the whispers that had seeped into her very soul.
This wasn't old age. This wasn't a natural end.
A flicker of light caught her eye. On the floor, near where the shadow had been, lay a small object. It was a shard of something dark and crystalline, no bigger than her thumb. It pulsed faintly, a dull, malevolent crimson, mirroring the veins she had seen on Lyra. It felt cold to the touch, and yet, oddly warm beneath her skin, as if resonating with something deep within her. It was heavy, too, for its size, like solidified dread.
Elara snatched it up, her fingers closing around it. It was alien, terrifying, yet she couldn't bring herself to drop it. She knew, with an instinct that chilled her to the bone, that this shard was connected to what had happened. It was a piece of the darkness, a tangible manifestation of the whispers.
The rising sun, now a faint blush in the east, began to cast its first weak rays through the open doorway, banishing some of the oppressive gloom. But the light felt hollow, powerless against the shadow that had just been there.
Footsteps sounded outside, heavy and hurried. "Elara? Lyra? What was that noise?" It was Old Man Hemlock, the village elder, his voice raspy with concern.
Elara swallowed, trying to find her voice. Her throat was tight, her mind reeling. How could she explain? How could she tell them about the shadow, about the whispers, about the impossible chill and the pulsating veins? They would say she was delirious, that grief had unhinged her. They would say Lyra died peacefully in her sleep, as old folk do.
But Elara knew the truth. And the cold, heavy shard in her hand was a terrifying confirmation. The fragile peace of Oakhaven, of all Aethelgard, wasn't just threatened; it was already cracking. And something ancient and terrifying was stirring in the shadowed corners of the world, starting with the quiet whispers in the mire. She looked down at Lyra's peaceful, yet unnaturally still, face. The Shadowblight had come to Oakhaven.