CHAPTER 4:  The VILLAGE OF FLAMES

The first thing Alaric noticed was the air—thick, heavy, and laced with the acrid scent of burning flesh. It clung to his nostrils, invading his lungs with every breath, a silent promise of death. The village that once stood as a beacon of warmth and familiarity was now a smouldering graveyard.

He stood at the outskirts, his feet rooted to the ground, unwilling—unable—to take another step forward. A red glow illuminated the night, flickering against the backdrop of blackened ruins. The fire moved like a living beast, its tendrils devouring wood, stone, and bone alike, feasting without mercy.

The sound of crackling flames was deafening, yet beneath it, something else lingered. A whisper, carried on the wind. A lament.

Then—screams.

Not the kind of screams that belong to the living. These were hollow, guttural wails, voices stretched thin by agony. They came from everywhere and nowhere, twisting through the smoke like lost spirits.

Alaric swallowed, his throat parched. He knew he had to move. He knew he had to search. Yet something inside him—some deep, primal instinct—warned him against stepping into the ruins. The fire was not the only thing that waited for him in the darkness.

And then he saw them.

Figures.

Not quite human. Not entirely shadow.

They moved between the burning houses, gliding rather than walking, their forms flickering in and out of existence. Their faces—if they had any—were hidden beneath shifting veils of smoke.

A strangled breath left Alaric's lips.

The fire hadn't destroyed this village.

They had.

A rustling sound behind him.

He spun, just as something lunged from the darkness.

Pain.

A searing, white-hot explosion in his side. He stumbled backward, his vision tilting. The ground beneath him was no longer stable—it was falling away. No, he was falling.

Down.

Down.

Into the earth.

His body hit something solid, and the world tilted into darkness.

When Alaric opened his eyes, he was no longer surrounded by fire. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of stagnant water and rotting wood. He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his ribs. He coughed, a deep, shuddering breath escaping his lips.

He was in a well.

A deep one.

The walls, slick with moisture, glistened faintly in the dim light that filtered from above. The opening was impossibly far, just a small, jagged hole in the sky.

Alaric pushed himself upright, his body protesting with every movement. Something moved in the water around him—a ripple, slow and deliberate.

He froze.

The water was dark, but something inside it was darker.

Then, a whisper.

Not from above.

Not from the surface.

From beneath.

It started as a murmur, a voice that was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It spoke a language Alaric didn't understand, yet somehow, he felt it clawing its way into his mind, unravelling him thread by thread.

The water stirred violently.

A hand—pale, elongated fingers tipped with jagged nails—broke the surface.

Alaric scrambled backward, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He pressed himself against the wall of the well, his heart pounding.

The hand was followed by another.

Then, a face.

No eyes. No mouth. Just a smooth, featureless void where human features should have been.

It tilted its head, as if listening.

Then, it reached for him.

Alaric screamed.

His hands scrambled against the walls of the well, nails tearing at the damp stone. He climbed without thought, without care for the pain searing through his limbs. The thing in the water did not follow immediately. It simply stood there, its faceless void turned upward, watching.

Waiting.

Alaric's fingers found a jagged edge in the stone. He pulled himself up, muscles straining. Above him, the fire still raged, smoke curling into the night like the breath of a waiting beast.

A voice—his own, but not—whispered in his mind.

You should not have come here.

His grip slipped.

He screamed again, his fingers clawing for purchase.

Then—a hand. A real one.

Strong. Warm. Human.

It grasped his wrist, pulling him up with impossible strength. He barely registered the moment he was hauled out of the well, collapsing onto the scorched ground.

His chest heaved. His mind spun.

He turned his head, expecting to see his saviour.

But there was no one there.

Just the burning village.

Just the fire.

And behind him, the well sat silent once more, the water unbroken.

As if nothing had ever been there at all.

Alaric lay still, staring at the sky, his body trembling. He could still hear the screams in the distance and still smell the acrid scent of destruction.

But now, there was something else, too.

Something worse.

A whisper.

Not from the fire.

Not from the ruins.

But from within himself.

Something had followed hi

m out of that well.

And it was waiting.

The journey has only begun.