Night had crept over them quietly, like smoke through the trees.
Under a crooked old oak, Vincent, William, and Thalia had built a small fire. It crackled weakly, throwing just enough light to fight the mist and enough warmth to make them forget the cold for a while.
Thalia sat close to the flames, rubbing her palms together. William sat across from her, his sword laid beside him, his expression lost in thought. Vincent lay on his back, one arm over his eyes, humming tunelessly as the fire popped.
He tilted his head toward Thalia. "You remember the first time we met?"
She smiled faintly. "Of course. You were trying to steal from the royal armory."
Vincent lifted his hand lazily. "Correction — borrowing a dagger I had every intention of selling."
"You nearly lost that hand," William muttered.
Vincent grinned. "Worth it. It was a fine blade."
Thalia chuckled softly. "And you didn't even run when I caught you."
"I was hungry," he said simply. "And I figured dying at a princess's feet was a better story than starving in the streets."
William rolled his eyes. "You have an excuse for everything."
Vincent turned his head toward him. "It's called charm, my lord. You should try it sometime."
Thalia laughed, and for a moment the air felt lighter. Even William's stern expression cracked into a smile.
Vincent noticed and smirked. "See? That's better. Grieving suits no one. Besides…" — his voice softened — "I know what it's like to lose parents. Both of you do. That's enough sorrow for one lifetime."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time — just gentle. They watched the flames dance until a sharp squawk cut through the air above.
Thalia looked up just in time to see a dark shape descend — wings folding, body stretching — until Anisda landed in a crouch, his cloak sweeping like shadow. In his arms he carried a deer, limp and bloodless.
Vincent sat up, startled. "By the gods… every time you do that, I forget how disturbing it is."
Anisda ignored him. "Eat. The night is long."
They did. The venison cooked slowly, smoke curling upward into the branches. The meat was tough but filling, and for the first time in days, they ate until they were full.
When the fire died down to embers, one by one they drifted to sleep — Thalia leaning against her pack, William close by, Vincent mumbling something incoherent before snoring softly.
Anisda did not sleep.
He stood apart, watching the horizon fade from black to slate gray. The dawn came without color, the same dull light as every morning before. The wind brushed against his hair, but when he looked up, he noticed something wrong,
The clouds weren't moving.
They hung still, like paint on a ceiling, though the wind pushed against his face and cloak. The air tasted sharp, unnatural.
"Watching again," he murmured to himself. "You always were persistent."
His hand brushed the hilt at his side — not in fear, but acknowledgment. Then he looked down at his companions, sleeping soundly under the oak. They must not know. Not yet.
By the time they woke, the fire was gone, and Anisda was staring north.
"It's morning?" Vincent yawned.
"Barely," Anisda replied. "We move."
They packed quickly, the quiet broken only by the sound of boots on dirt and the low hum of wind through grass. The road bent downward into a shallow valley where the trees thinned — and there, what was left of a village waited.
It was Emberlyn, but no life remained. Houses had been burned down to frames; the wells were choked with ash. Even the air smelled of old smoke.
They entered slowly, no one speaking. The only sound was the crunch of wood and stone beneath their steps.
Thalia stopped near what had once been a home. Half-buried in the soot lay something small and fragile — a wooden toy, a little boat, one sail cracked and blackened. She knelt and lifted it carefully, ashes falling through her fingers.
Her lips trembled. For a moment she said nothing. Then she whispered, "A child made this."
No one answered.
William watched her quietly. Vincent's usual wit vanished; his eyes darted around, wary, sad.
Anisda turned away, his face unreadable, but in his chest something twisted — a reflection of her grief, raw and ancient.
Thalia closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She pressed the little boat to her chest, then stood and continued walking, keeping it close.
They followed in silence until the village disappeared behind them. Ahead rose the outline of another bridge — this one old but solid, built from ancient cobblestone and carved with faded runes.
As they reached it, a wind swept through — sharp, biting, and unnaturally cold.
William pulled his cloak tight. "By the gods—"
Vincent cursed under his breath. "This isn't normal."
Even Thalia shivered, clutching the toy in one hand. The air here seemed alive, whispering through their clothes and biting at their skin.
Anisda looked back at her, then without a word unfastened his cloak and draped it across her shoulders. The fabric was warm, smelling faintly of rain and smoke.
Thalia looked up at him. "You'll freeze."
He shook his head. "No. I won't."
For a heartbeat, they simply looked at one another — her eyes bright against the gray, his face still but softened by something unspoken. Her red hair, caught in the faint wind, brushed his hand as he adjusted the cloak.
Vincent cleared his throat loudly. "Beautiful moment, truly. But maybe we could move before we turn into statues?"
Anisda blinked, then looked away. "Stay close," he said quietly. "And keep your heads down."
They crossed the bridge one by one.
The air on the far side hit like a wall — colder than before, the wind shrill and strange. The world beyond was a canvas of gray and white: frost-covered trees, a landscape stretching forever into the mist.
Vincent wrapped his arms around himself, teeth chattering. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Wrap them tighter," William said.
Vincent gave him a look. "Oh, brilliant advice. Why didn't I think of that?"
Before William could retort, Anisda's voice cut through the wind. "Quiet. Eyes forward. Ears open. Speak only when needed."
Vincent leaned toward William, whispering, "What's he listening for, snowflakes?"
"Anything," Thalia said softly before Anisda could answer. Her tone carried the weight of understanding — and warning.
They moved in single file, each footstep crunching softly in the snow. The wind hissed through the valley, whispering in voices none of them could make out.
The deeper they went, the darker it grew, as though the daylight refused to follow.
Far behind them, across the river and the ruins of Emberlyn, the sun broke weakly through the morning haze over Yainna for the first time in days.
Light touched the ashes.
And there — among the broken streets and dead fields — the venomid stirred.
They slithered through the wreckage like a tide of black glass, their eyes shining faintly green. Dozens of them moved together, sniffing, hissing, their tongues tasting the cold wind.
One stopped, its head lowering toward something half-buried — a corpse. The flesh had long turned gray, but the scent it carried was familiar. The creature leaned closer, inhaling deeply.
Its throat rumbled.
A shriek pierced the silence.
The others froze, then turned as one toward the north — toward the snow, toward the scent.
Toward her.
"Thalia," one hissed, its voice not quite human, the syllables sliding together like wet stone.
And then they moved, an army of slithering shapes cutting through the ruined kingdom, hunting their prey across the dying world.