The mountains, bathed in the rays of the noonday sun, gently cradled the settlement. Stone houses laced with wooden walkways looked like ancient mountain monasteries. The air was fresh, almost crystalline—with a taste of smoke, bark, and alpine herbs. Children dashed across the square, laughing, leaping over a brook. Women of the tribe sorted berries, scraped the hides of the hunt, and sang in a soft, throaty unison.
Queen Lianisa watched it all with a gentle smile on her lips. She stood by the well, listening as someone spoke about the season for gathering wild roots, about the days when the "Great Mist" arrives, and about the traditional festival "Sun in Blood," when everyone gathers in a circle.
"They're so simple… and at the same time so strong. As if these people hide something more than meets the eye," Lianisa thought, watching one woman hoist a heavy basket onto the roof with a single roll of her shoulder.
She began asking questions, carefully. At first, light ones:
—"Have you always lived in the mountains?"
—"What is your lineage? Are there legends about your beginning?"
—"Your language is so unusual… It resembles Old Elvish, but its rhythm is entirely different."
The women answered plainly, even cheerfully. One of them, tall and broad, even offered Lianisa a decorated braided belt that symbolized a "guest from the heavens."
But when the queen asked:
—"And what happens at night? I noticed—after sunset no one goes outside. Is it some feast or ritual?"
Silence. The women lowered their heads. The children stopped laughing. Even the wind went still, as if it too didn't want to hear what would follow.
One woman smiled cautiously and whispered:
—"At night it's better not to disturb the stillness. It's safer… for everyone."
"Stillness?" Lianisa's heart clenched. "Are you afraid of yourselves, or of someone else?"
She tried to change her tone, pretending to be a curious traveler:
—"In my lands, when the moon is full, we hold night dances. What about you?"
The woman abruptly changed the subject:
—"Our night cloak would suit you. Woolen, warm. Perfect for sleeping in the mountains."
Lianisa understood—there was no use asking more. But something else suddenly caught her attention.
A narrow path led an elder to the well. His stately figure stood out even among giants. He walked slowly, leaning on a wooden staff like the branch of an ancient oak. And that was when Lianisa saw the amulet hanging on his chest, half-hidden beneath his cloth.
The stone was of middling size, set in a delicate weave of threads—green, black, and silvery. As if nature itself held it in its net.
But what was happening inside the stone defied logic.
Two liquid masses—one red as molten blood, the other black like a starless night—flowed through one another in an endless dance. Now merging, now parting again, as if contesting for dominion within this miniature world.
"This is no mere ornament..." Lianisa thought.
"This is a heart. Perhaps a whole mind. It breathes."
Her fingers tightened of their own accord. Her eyes could not look away. Her breathing slowed.
—"Don't look too long," a boy suddenly whispered beside her. —"Or you'll forget who you were."
Lianisa startled. The elder had already moved on, unaware of her gaze. The women spoke again—as if nothing had happened. But something in the world had shifted. Something had entered her, through her eyes, straight into her heart.
Evening slid slowly down the mountains. The sun's rays still brushed the peaks, but something anxious already hung in the air—as if the shadow of night crept in unnoticed, yet inevitable.
First—a scream. Somewhere on the outskirts. Then another, closer.
Warriors ran across the yard with spears and bows, exchanging sharp calls. The children fell silent; the women grabbed their hands and hurried into the houses.
The elder appeared as if from the air. His voice was brief, commanding:
—"Everyone to your homes. You—to your shelter. It's getting dark."
Lianisa didn't even ask. She was already running. She felt on her skin how something dark was following their trail. This wasn't just alarm—this was Lokris. She knew his scent, his style—and his hunger.
She burst into the house. Siris sat on the floor; beside her—two children, still very small. One of them was already nodding off, hugging a blanket.
—"Siris!" Lianisa breathed. —"They're here. They're coming for us. We have to run. Now!"
Siris flinched.
—"Who?"
—"Slavers. I know them by the silence. By the rhythm of panic. They're here."
Siris stared out the window, watching the shadows lengthen.
—"But Lurk… He ordered us to wait. He said we're safe."
—"No one will save us if they get here," Lianisa said tersely. —"But you have a chance. Take the children—and run into the mountains."
Siris began to tremble. Her eyes filled with dark memory.
"I was a slave. I will not go back there a second time. Lurk saved me—he will find us again. The main thing is not to fall into those beasts' hands. But… leave Lianisa? She's alone… No. No. I have to go. Otherwise we'll all die."
—"And you?" she whispered.
Lianisa stepped closer, looked straight into her eyes:
—"If they find me—you'll have at least a little time. They need me. They won't harm me. Because if Lokris learns that anyone touched me—he will kill them all. Slaves, guards, even those who merely stood nearby. To him I am… property. His possession."
Her voice trembled. She lowered her eyes. Her body tensed, her jaw clenched.
—"He… said I was only his. And he did whatever he wanted to me. And he stopped asking."
A brief silence.
Siris wordlessly went to the children. She wrapped them in fur. She lifted one into her arms. She led the other by the hand.
Before the threshold—she stopped without turning.
—"I will find Lurk. And he will find you too. I swear it."
—"And tell him… that I stayed so at least one of us could survive," Lianisa whispered.
Siris slipped into the dusk. The door closed.
Lianisa was left in silence.
She pressed her back to the wall, sank down slowly, hugging herself.
Her body trembled not from the cold—but from what night was about to bring.
Night dropped suddenly, like a curtain. The sun had not quite vanished, yet shadows were already crawling from under the roofs, sliding between logs, hanging from the trees.
Siris ran, clutching one child in her arms. The other—a small boy—went beside her, shivering from cold and fear. They ran through back yards, crossed narrow paths, wove between huts. Behind them—the settlement. Ahead—a dark wall of forest.
And then—it began.
First—a distant roar.
As if from the depths of the earth.
Then—cries. But not human. Not animal. Something else. Mixed. Broken.
Siris stopped, looked back.
Flames flared on the edge of the village. Black figures—men, armed, in mail, in masks—raced down the narrow streets, burning houses, shouting unintelligible commands.
"They're here. It's them. Damn it, they're already inside."
She was ready to run on—when another scream split her open.
Throaty, bestial… and familiar.
She turned. At the far end of the street a giant stood clutching his chest, his body buckling with convulsions. And then… he began to change.
His arms lengthened, fingers turning into claws. His eyes burned with a yellow fire. Fur burst from his back. His jaw tore open, freeing rows of feral teeth.
Others—giants like him—fell to their knees, howled at the sky, and then in a single instant exploded into transformation—taller, broader, werewolves sheathed in muscle, fur, and wildness.
"It's them… It's them at night. That's why…"
Siris was paralyzed with fear. One of the shapeshifters—smaller, shorter—suddenly sprinted past her, looked at her… and stopped.
Those eyes… familiar.
It was that boy. One of the children who'd played in daylight. His body—wolfish. But his eyes—terrified. He did not attack. He was… fleeing.
Two more ran behind him. Small, thin werewolves—children. They had transformed and were fleeing alongside her.
"They're afraid… like us."
Siris grabbed the children and ran on. The werewolves—beside her. They did not attack. They only ran. From pain, from fire, from the slavers in armor.
Behind them a real slaughter raged.