The Last Night on Arnan (1)

Night in Arnan fell quickly after that tragic dawn, the darkness outside pressing heavily against the walls and hearts of those inside. It had been many years since village dinner ended in complete silence, but now there was no music, no laughter, not even the usual polite chatter of farmers and tradesmen. Only the scraping of wooden benches and the soft whimpers of children could be heard as the villagers finished their meal.

Keynes sat apart by the wall, arms wrapped around one of his knees, his eyes watching the shadows trembling under the flickering oil lamps. The smell of stew hung in the air, but nobody really ate. Every few minutes, someone would glance nervously toward the west gate, listening for the familiar sounds of scratching, banging, and desperate howls from beyond the village wall. It was a far cry from the comfort of his childhood, before sickness and violence took his parents and left him the ward of the weary village chief.

Now, looking around, Keynes felt both responsibility and powerlessness eating away at him. So many people depended on sturdy walls and the grit of the few able-bodied defenders. But tonight, all that seemed like it was beginning to crack, just like the wooden boards and the spirit of the villagers within.

Many were not even in the dining hall. Some families, unable to bear the agony of seeing their loved ones suffering and wounded in the village hall, stayed close to their huts, tending the injured in quiet isolation and hoping things would turn out alright. The worst cases, though, were gathered in the hall under the flickering gaze of the oil lanterns. The herbalists moved from bed to bed, dabbing at wounds, muttering hushed encouragement, but even their voices shook with strain.

The village chief, his hands hanging limply at his sides, moved as though in a dream. He was kind, always putting others before himself, but the cracks were beginning to show. His short beard looked more grey than brown tonight and his voice held barely more authority than a whisper.

Keynes couldn't remember a grimmer night. Even the children, usually so energetic and wild, sat quietly on their mothers' laps, wide-eyed in silent confusion or clutching small bags stuffed with whatever precious belongings their families could gather. The comfortable rituals of Arnan's community life had evaporated faster than dew under a summer sun.

He stood, feeling the weight shift on his tired feet. It wasn't his duty tonight, but habit called him to patrol as usual. He first checked the four village gates: north, where the road to the far hills ran and where it led to Huinan Village. East, where the old mill and riverbank lay. South, leading toward the distant city of Molano. And West—the most ominous, closest to the deep shadow of the forest, where villagers usually use this gate to gather some fruit or hunt in the forest.

There, the scenes were the worst. What once separated Arnan from forest and freedom now felt like a thin shield against another world. Shadows flickered in the corners of his eyes as he moved from post to post, his wooden lamp trembling in his grip.

By the time Keynes reached the west gate, the cool night air seemed heavy, almost thick. A lot of things are put in there to make sure the gate holds on as long as possible. He found Rudy already at the station—young, all wild hair and nerves, but the boy tried hard to keep a brave face. Rudy looked up as Keynes approached, quickly wiping his mouth, as if he'd just been sick.

"Evening, Keynes," Rudy said, managing a nervous smile. "What a quiet night, yeah?"

Keynes forced himself to nod. There was nothing quiet about this night, only a different sort of noise. Beyond the narrow wooden planks of the gate, the world was alive with an unnatural rustling wind—and something worse: thuds, scratching, the raking of claws or nails. Sometimes, a wet sound, somewhere between a growl and a sob.

"Checked the gate?" Keynes asked.

Rudy nodded, biting his lip. "Locked and barred… but…" He trailed off, glancing at the cracks between the wood logs.

Keynes stepped closer and used his lamp to peer through. A few feet away, in the silver moonlight, there were moving shapes—a dozen or more, judging by the shadows. Some looked almost human, but limp. Their movements awkward, their bodies twisted in a way that defied nature. Limbs bent the wrong way, heads lolling to one side. One—he recognized the shape—had once been a farmer who lived near the creek.

Others were worse. A big beast, like a wolf but missing half its fur, thrashed at the gate. Some grotesque hybrid-like creatures shambled that hard to be recognized, twisted and broken, their eyes reflecting red, green, or blue as the Arias—the Chronoa world's moon-like lights—lined up in the sky, bathing the whole world in ghostly color. The stench that rolled off the things was foul. Rudy covered his nose, though it did little to help.

Keynes' heart thudded in his chest. He'd seen dead bodies before. He'd even fought a monster once or twice. But this was wrong. These were things that should not move, things that carried an air of death with them, yet walked and clawed and scratched incessantly at the wood, endlessly, as if driven by hunger or rage. Or perhaps by nothing at all.

He watched silently for another minute, listening to Rudy's quiet whimpers. "We can't keep them out forever," the boy whispered.

"We'll keep them out as long as we can," Keynes replied quietly, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Their eyes met in the dark, and for a second, Keynes saw the gratitude—mixed with terror—in Rudy's expression.

The banging at the gate continued into the night, sometimes soft, sometimes wild, with claws scraping paint and teeth gnawing at the wood. At times, the battered gate would shudder, as if the whole world outside wanted to break in and claim them all.

The only other sound in the air was the distant, almost constant moaning from the village hall. Now and then, the howl of grief would cut through the dark, twisting the guts of everyone who heard it.

By midnight, much of the village had either gone to hide in their homes or gathered in clusters, whispering anxiously. Those who hadn't lost a family member or suffered wounds were pressing the village chief for answers. Should they run for the city? Open the south gate and head for Molano in the safety of daylight? Or should they stay and defend their home, even knowing that help wasn't coming?

A few already tried sneaking out, quiet shapes darting along the road by the light of green Arias, bags slung over their shoulders, carrying small children and valuables. Those who remained grew more desperate with every passing hour.

Keynes and Rudy, after a nerve-wracking shift at the west gate, patrolled the perimeter once more, lantern light bobbing at their side. The desperation from outside was growing. The groans were joined by hisses and snarls, and every so often something would crash against the planks. Keynes glanced up—he could see several pairs of glowing eyes staring through the cracks, unblinking, ravenous, determined. Yet not focus on anything.

Tired and sick with fear, they made their way to the south watchtower, near the road to Molano. Here, the sense of dread was less physical, but the fear within the people was stronger. Some clustered near the gate with bags, their faces drawn and exhausted, sneaking glances over their shoulders. The chief walked among them, struggling to keep order, to keep them calm, but Keynes could see the defeat hanging in his movements.

He and Rudy leaned against the tower railing, watching as the colored lights in the sky—Arias—shifted slowly above them. Blue, then green, then red, each color rolling across the world, painting the frightened faces of the villagers in ghostly hues.

"Do you think… Do you think the chief will let us leave?" Rudy asked softly.

"If things get worse, maybe," Keynes said.

A fresh scream cut through the stillness, echoing from the village center. It was followed by another, and another—a rising chorus of terror that sent chills down their spines. Keynes' blood ran cold.

"That's… from the village hall," Keynes muttered. He handed his lantern to Rudy. "Stay here and watch the gate—do NOT let anyone or anything pass unless it's the chief, you hear me?"

Rudy could only nod, looking pale, his hand shaking as he took the lamp.

Keynes ran, boots thudding against dirt and gravel, the sounds of horror from the village hall spurring him on. As he neared the wide doors, he slowed, breath shaky, heart racing. Blood ran from beneath the doorway in a thin, winding stream. The agonized screaming from inside had shifted—now mixed with guttural, animal sounds.

With a trembling hand, Keynes pushed open the old wooden door. The lanterns inside flickered, the shadows jumping along the walls, painting the scene in a way that his mind struggled to accept.

Blood. There was so much blood. It splattered across the woven mats and pooled under the rough, makeshift beds. Two herbalists—women he'd known all his life, who had patched up his own scrapes and bruises—lay on the ground. One had a terrible wound across her neck. The other's arm was little more than a torn patch of flesh. Both were already still and pale in death.

And the wounded—those that had been moaning, groaning in pain just hours before—had changed. Their eyes were white, cloudy. Their mouths hung open, foam and spit mixing with flecks of blood. Some still wore the bandages the herbalists had wrapped, now stained and tattered, but these humans were gone. They moved with a hunger that was not their own, growling and snapping at the few unhurt villagers who had tried to help.

Keynes froze at the sight as one of the wounded lunged forward, teeth bared. He staggered back, shock jarring his senses, barely able to block the attack with his spear. Another rose, hands curled like claws, face twisted in mindless rage.

"No—no, this can't—" he gasped. Every instinct told him to run, but duty forced him to stand his ground. He swung his spear, hitting one attacker in the side. The blow knocked it over, but the thing only scrambled back up, faster than any injured or dying man should. Another shambled forward, mouth wide, eyes unfocused but locked on him.

He recognized her—had seen her just that morning, holding her young son and praying for some miracle. Now, she was only a shell, teeth gnashing, pain and fear warped into something horrifying.

The young guard backed away, his boot slipping in blood. Behind him, more began to rise from the straw mats, staggering and snarling, their broken arms twisting, legs smashing into overturned tables.

Some of the limp villagers that got bite, still safe and running. Unfortunately, some of the villagers that lost their reason chase after him and start wandering loose inside the village.

Panic closed in. Keynes looked for a way out—windows barred, doors blocked by the swarm. All he had was his spear and a thick wooden shield. He raised both, steeling himself as hands clawed at his clothes, as teeth flashed in the weak lantern light.

He tried to shout for help, but the sound was swallowed by chaos. The village hall had become a death trap, and now those he'd sworn to protect had become his hunters.

Behind him, another scream echoed—a voice he knew, belonging to one of the elder villagers. Feet slipped in gore, the air thick with the scent of blood and death and the cold grime of unspeakable terror. Keynes jabbed with his spear, keeping the creatures at bay, but for every one that fell, two more stepped over the bodies.

He ducked as one lunged for his throat. Another scratched at his shield, nails cracking against wood. Adrenaline surged, fear twisting through every muscle.

He thought of Rudy, standing guard at the gate, and the chief, exhausted beyond words. He wanted to call out, but knew all too well that it might bring even more danger.

Was this fate? To end like this, alone and surrounded, those he'd cared for turned into monsters by a horror no one really understood?

The creatures pressed in. Keynes swung his spear, his mind slipping into a chaotic blur, the world spinning around him. He slipped, staggered, pushed back, his feet sliding in fresh blood as yet another clawed hand reached toward his neck.

The last things he heard were growling, moaning, and the sound of his own rapid breaths as the world narrowed to a moonlit tunnel of terror.

His only hope was that some piece of him—bravery, duty, memory—might last long enough for help to come. But outside, the darkness was only growing, and the cries of the wounded and dying would soon be joined by many more.

And as the Arias moons aligned fully overhead, bathing all of Arnan in shifting red, green, and blue, the story of that night wasn't over. Not for Keynes, not for Arnan village, and not for the world beyond the west gates.