The Arrival of Fear

The gate of Arnan Village creaked shut behind them. Gilian's heart, which had hammered all through the walk from the forest, did not slow. The fog still hugged the village like a shroud. As the group moved deeper into the muddy lanes, following Keynes, Gilian kept his hand tight on his satchel strap and tried to breathe normally.

Why did everything feel so wrong?

He'd visited other villages before. Arnan should have been just another cluster of houses, another place for merchants and harvest festivals. But as they entered, Gilian saw faces peering out from behind cracked doors and clouded windows, shadows of people half-hidden and watching. Their eyes followed every step Gilian and his friends took, suspicion and silent accusation thick in the air.

He nudged Arvan, but his friend only glanced back, wide-eyed. Arvan's knuckles were white on the hilt of his dagger, and his steps grew shorter, more careful.

They passed a heap of chopped wood. Two children stood behind it. They flinched as the strangers approached, then darted away, silent as rabbits vanishing into a burrow.

The feeling in Gilian's gut wasn't unfamiliarity—it was dread. He felt it crawling into his bones. It reminded him of the way the forest went silent, right before prey realized something lethal was hiding in the grass.

"Don't let them see you're scared," whispered Arvan. But his voice was more hopeful than confident.

They reached the village hall—a low timber building, its roof sagging with age and rain. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of herbs, tangy and sharp, fighting to cover up the stench of blood and fear.

Cots lined the walls, each occupied by a villager—men, women, even a teenage boy not much older than Gilian himself. Most had their shirts and tunics stained with blood, their limbs wrapped or splinted. Some stared blankly at the ceiling. Others twitched or muttered in their sleep, caught up in fevered dreams.

On the farthest cot, a man moaned as a local herbalist leaned over him. The woman's hands were stained green and red, trembling as she pressed a cloth against the stump where the man's lower arm should have been. Gilian's breath caught: the wound wasn't just bloody, it was… gnawed. Bite marks, deep and jagged, ringed the awful injury. Other patients had similar wounds—on their shoulders, calves, even, in one case, a chunk missing from the side of a woman's face.

A retching noise escaped Arvan. Gilian looked away, swallowing. For a terrifying moment, every horrible image from the forest—the mage's mouth opening too wide, the crunch of bone, blood pooling and steaming on cold moss—flashed through his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn't enough to block out the cries and mutters from the cots.

Cren broke the silence, his voice trembling with controlled rage. "Seriously, what happened to these people?"

Keynes, the guard, stood stiff by the door. He looked as pale as the injured themselves. For a moment, it seemed he might answer, but—just then—another guard ducked in and whispered urgently in his ear.

"The chief's ready to see you," Keynes said over his shoulder, deliberately ignoring Cren's question. "Follow me."

They left the hall behind, leaving the air of blood and sickness. But the sounds haunted them as they walked through the torchlit lanes—murmurs, moans, the whisper of a prayer, and then a terrible scream that cut off almost before it started. Arvan's face was drawn tight, sweat standing out along his brow.

The chief's home was larger, but no warmer. Thick wooden beams crossed the ceiling and a faded tapestry showing the old Arnan forest hung limp against the wall. The village chief, a wiry man with a blunt jaw, hunched over a narrow writing desk. Herman greeted him with a tired nod.

"It's worse than anything we thought," Herman said, not wanting to waste a second.

The chief ran a hand through his tangled hair. "I expected bad news, but after what I've seen lately, I almost wish it had only been wolves instead." He motioned for them all—except Keynes—to sit at the worn table.

The room tightened around them, shadows lingering in the corners.

"Start from the beginning," the chief said, his voice brittle.

***

Herman told their story—about the hunt, the carnage in the woods, the blood that trailed along the roots, and what Gilian and Arvan saw on their side when following a loud sound. As he spoke, Gilian watched the old man's eyes—narrowing with every detail, lips pressed thinner and thinner.

When Herman finished, the small room settled into silence. For a moment, it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The chief didn't move for a heartbeat. Then, finally, he reached for a battered cup of water but didn't drink. Instead, he stared at the swirling surface, his hands trembling slightly.

"It's just as I feared," he murmured, breaking the silence. "I'm not really sure what happened but… the curse in the woods has grown bolder."

He turned to Keynes, his voice tight. "Make sure nobody leaves the village tonight. I want the watch on the gate doubled."

Keynes nodded and hurried out. The deep thud of the door echoed behind him.

The chief's eyes flicked back to Herman and the boys. "You said you saw adventurers… and something—no, someone—being devoured?"

Gilian felt a shiver run the length of his spine. The memory surged again.

the grotesque tableau in the mist.

the shuffle of feet

the sound of flesh tearing. 

Even now, the image replayed behind his eyes whenever he blinked.

He nodded, too numb to speak.

Arvan, though, managed to find his voice. "They… weren't normal men or beasts. Their eyes—when one turned to look at us, maybe not really at us—but we're sure they weren't right. They weren't even alive."

Cren, standing behind them, squeezed Arvan's shoulder. "The forest itself feels sick. I've patrolled these woods for years. Yet… never have I felt watched as I did today."

Herman added, "Whatever caused this—it's not a simple monster. I've hunted ogres, wolves, Beary, you name it, but nothing has ever left behind this kind of fear. The atmosphere in the forest is really eerie and tense."

For a long time, the group sat at the table, letting the truth settle in. The wind rattled the shutters outside. Every so often, another scream or whimper drifted through the wall from the village hall.

Nights in Arnan had always been long, but never this long. That's what the chief thought silently while watching the mug of water in his hand.

At last, the chief straightened, seeming older all at once. "Last season, when the merchant Gustave passed through, he brought tales of strange deaths in the capital. Something about an old ritual gone wrong. We all thought it was just cityfolk panicking. But the rumors… they're spreading."

"The capital?" Gilian asked quietly. "Why would what happened there matter here?"

Gilian already knew the gist of the rumor since he'd heard it several times from either Tedy or Alice. Yet, to think this rumor would suddenly pop up even in this village makes him anxious.

The chief shook his head. "No one really knows. Only that the darkness is spreading outward—small towns near Molano. People found half-eaten, some never found at all, and some left with either crushed heads or only the lower part of the body is left. Some victims were adventurers, some just ordinary people. Now, our village. It's like the forest is taking back everything, but with teeth and claws it was never meant to have."

Gilian stared down at the table, hands clenched in his lap. He tried to remember the last time things felt safe. Was it only a week ago, sitting at home, Alice handing him a cup of bitter tea and laughing at something Ronova said? It felt like years ago.

He looked up to see Arvan shaking. Not from cold, but from the effort not to cry. The tough bravado Arvan always wore had shattered under the reality of what he'd seen. Gilian knew that Arvan was not such a crybaby, but this situation was truly dreadful. It was simply because they were facing the unknown—something neither of them had ever learned about before.

Herman, who'd been quiet through it all, finally spoke. "If these are the same rumors we heard, then it means it won't stop here. Not unless someone puts it down."

The chief's face collapsed into lines of concern. "Do you think it's… karma for us? Just because we live somewhere far from the front lines, do the war victims resent us because we're living peacefully here? Is that why they've come to drag us too?"

Cren hesitated, then nodded. "We all heard the whispers. It started as a rumor, but after today… I don't think it's just a story to scare cityfolk anymore. To be honest, at first I thought this rumor was stupid."

Someone outside banged on the door. Keynes pushed back in, a deeper worry creasing his brow.

"Chief," he whispered urgently, "another runner was found outside the south fence. He made it to the gate—but his mind's gone. He just keeps trying to hit our village wall with his head!"

The room plunged into cold silence.

Without a word, the chief stood. "Let's go. I want to see him for myself. The rest of you… stay here. Keynes, come with me, and if it's not too much to ask, Herman, would you come as well? We want to hear your opinion as a veteran hunter."

Herman nodded and stood up. The three of them left. The rest remained, trapped in a growing darkness that even the lantern's glow could not ease.