Something wrong. Something forgotten.
Everything in me recoiled.
This … shouldn’t have been possible.
A few hundred years ago, I’d encountered a zealous religious group that used a specific flower in their strange, violent rituals meant to keep the so-called darkness at bay.
The group was quaint—laughable, even. All blood and theatrics, as if noise and mess could keep the shadows from watching.
I found myself lingering near their tents more often than I’d like to admit, drawn in by the spectacle.
The flower, with its sweet, citrusy fragrance, was used to make garlands for their massive white tents. The petals were dreary and brown, but the scent was clean and hopeful.
It was a cruel contrast to the blood-soaked woman barking about the evil in every corner of the world.
If only she knew how right she was.
They called themselves the Disciples of Humanity’s Light.
Fucking pretentious pricks.
Their crusade? Monster eradication.
Bigfoot might be a fun Appalachian legend, but there aren’t any seven-foot-tall hairy beasts in the woods or anywhere else. Chupacabras, the Jersey Devil, Mothman, the Loch Ness Monster—most “cryptids” are about as real as a cryptozoologist’s love life.
Still, even blind zealots get lucky.
They had peeled back just enough truth to find what they feared most. Not the fairy tales lurking in the shadows, but the ones standing beside them, smiling.
Once I found out the Disciples were hunting the underborne, I kept an eye on them.
Not because they were a threat—if they’d come after me or my siblings, they’d have been dead before they finished their first chant.
But still … I watched.
Maybe out of curiosity.
Maybe out of boredom.
Or maybe I just liked knowing where the next bloodbath might be.
I’d never admit it, but part of me was almost relieved they didn’t know we existed.
Safer that way. For them.
They were only humans, but they had just enough correct information, half-forgotten relics, borrowed magic, and raw, righteous hate to be dangerous.
It wasn’t until they wiped out an entire huskmaw community and captured a youngling that I stepped in.
I rescued the little brat and ate my fill. Probably one of the best meals I’ve had in centuries.
And the satisfaction of tearing through a swarm of zealots who would’ve hunted me down without hesitation?
Delicious.
Still, I can’t figure out why I saved the huskmaw kid.
Destroying the Disciples was about self-preservation.
