Another home without a statue drew the thralls next, this one belonging to a woman who believed the godlings were pretending, tricking the village for unknown reasons. Her doubts ended in the dark, swallowed quickly by the sound of splintering wood.
A third home, this one held children. The thralls tore through the window, glass scattering across the street. Tiny footsteps pattered. A choked cry. Then nothing.
The screams began to wake the village.
Doors flew open. People stumbled into the streets, terrified, only to freeze as the thralls turned toward them—hungry, jerking, animalistic.
But the protected houses held.
Some statues flared bright enough to push thralls back like gusts of wind. Others created small circles of untouched ground around their homes. Families huddled inside, listening to the monsters claw at invisible barriers.
The thralls were confused.
They were starving.
And they grew frustrated.
