“It’s before nine, he should still be here.” Worry laces my words.
“Dad!” I call out loudly. My throat tightens, panic bubbling just beneath the surface. The silence that answers feels alive, pressing in on us.
No reply.
I scramble through every room, Nala, River, and Ryder mirroring my frantic pace. Our footsteps echo against the wooden floors, loud and hollow, and our voices ricochet off the empty walls.
“Dad!” I shout again, my throat raw, but the silence only swallows my words.
Every room appears abandoned. Not just this house, but the whole village. Windows are still boarded up, yet doors swing loosely in the wind, unlocked and careless, as if no one had thought to secure them despite the looming storm. My stomach twists. This… this feels too much like Sun and Moon Sovereign—empty classrooms, corridors stripped of life—and now it’s affecting my village too.
I feel my heart hammering against my ribs, a sharp pang of panic slicing through me. That thing—the shadows, the violence—it could be near my father. My throat tightens, swallowing hard against the fear rising in me.
A gentle hand presses against my back, grounding me just a fraction. Ryder’s voice cuts through my spiralling thoughts, low and uneven. “He’s not here… we’ve looked everywhere.”
I glance up at him, searching his face, and something in his eyes hits me harder than any words could, a glint of unspeakabletruth in them…this thing that has them is so much stronger than we thought.
“Whoa, was your dad in the army or something?” River calls from another room.
Ryder and I follow his voice, curiosity pulling us down the narrow hallway. When I see what he’s looking at, a small, involuntary smile creeps onto my face. My father’s cupboard is a treasure trove of weaponry.
“What, this?” I pick up a knife, spinning it lightly between my fingers. “This was all for my training.” The familiar weight in my hand brings a flicker of comfort amidst the tension in the empty village.
“That explains why you’re terrifyingly good with a knife,” River smirks, running his fingers along the length of a long blade as if testing its balance.
“And you didn’t think this was… strange?” Nala’s eyebrows draw together, disbelief etched into her face.
“I just thought he liked fighting,” I shrug, the memories warming my chest despite the chill crawling along my spine.He always trained me to survive, never to scare me.
“Well, we’re gonna need weapons if we stand a chance against that thing,” I say, lifting two daggers and handing them to River. Then I pick up my favourite pair—jewelled daggers my father gave me for my tenth birthday—and strap the holster around my waist.
Nala’s eyes light up as she grabs the bow and arrow set, slinging the bag of arrows over her shoulder. “Your dad is so cool,” she admires, and I chuckle, feeling a small surge of pride.
“Are you not going to grab anything?” River asks Ryder, who hasn’t pocketed a single weapon.
“No… I have one of my own. I’ll grab it before we leave.” Ryder steps back, his eyes refusing to meet River’s.
The scrape of legs against tiles echoes far too loudly in the empty room as we settle down into the chairs at the table.
For a moment, it feels as if the silence itself is listening, waiting. Yet somehow, once we settle, our conversation picks up from where it left off.
“Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t a Moon… I’ve never seen anything like it before.” Ryder admits breaking the silence, “It absorbed my shadow hawks like they were nothing.” His brows furrow harshly as his eyes stare into the distance, his face a mixture of intrigue and fear.
“Guys… whatisthat?” Nala’s voice thins, fear threading through it.
Her eyes are locked on the windowpane from theinside.
I follow her gaze, and my stomach drops.
A black slug is smeared across the glass, clinging to its pane, its slick body writhing slowly as though it’s searching for a wayout. It moves with purpose, dragging itself upward, leaving a dark, oily trail behind.
I’m on my feet before I realise I’ve moved. The chair crashes to the floor behind me, the sound too loud, too sharp. I grab a glass from the drawer and slam it down over the thing, trapping it against the window.
The moment the rim presses into its side, itreacts.
I gag as the glass crushes into its body. It flinches—actually flinches—its surface rippling like disturbed tar, as though pain shudders through it.
“River,” I say, my voice tight, eyes locked on the twitching mass. “The picture. From the frame.”
