The night was too quiet.
Not the peace of rest, but the silence that follows the drawing of a blade.
Hollowmere had always been a sleepy village, its days marked by the rhythm of chores and gossip, its nights broken only by the croak of frogs or the barking of dogs. Tonight, those sounds were gone. The air felt wrong—thick, pressing against the skin as though the darkness itself was leaning in.
The frost-bitten air clung to Alaric's throat with every breath. It wasn't the crisp cold he'd grown up with; this chill was heavy, as if the night itself was draining warmth from him. His breath came out as pale mist, but even the mist seemed reluctant to linger.
Shadows clung to the crooked streets, stretching unnaturally beneath the pale wash of moonlight. The houses stood like watchful sentinels, their timber frames silvered by frost. Windows were dark; hearths had been left cold. Even the drying herbs strung across doorways were still, as if the wind had forgotten Hollowmere existed.
Alaric's boots crunched on the frost-hardened dirt, each step loud in the suffocating quiet. The scent of damp earth mixed with a faint acridness—smoke, but not from a hearth fire. It smelled sharper, almost metallic, biting at the back of his throat.
He had walked these streets since childhood, carrying baskets for his mother, running errands for the old smith, sneaking to the edge of the forest to fish in the streams. Every creak of wood, every uneven stone in the road was known to him. But now… now every shadow felt alien. Hollowmere had always been a place where people lived. Now it felt like a place abandoned to ghosts.
Then he heard it—faint, sharp, and wrong. Not the wind. Not an animal. Something human, but fractured.
He followed the sound into the square. The old well sat at the center, its moss-covered stones slick with frost. The moon cast its pale light across the worn stones, catching on a figure kneeling by the well's lip. She clutched something small and limp to her chest.
"Elira…" Alaric's voice was a breath, torn between relief and dread.
The herbalist's daughter looked up. Her face was streaked with dirt, her eyes wide and glassy as if she'd been staring into a nightmare she couldn't wake from. In her arms was her little brother, Lio. His head lolled against her shoulder, mouth parted, skin pale as bleached linen.
"They came," she whispered, her voice trembling, cracking in places. "They came from the trees… the shadows… they took the breath from him—"
Her words dissolved into sobs.
Alaric knelt beside her. His hands hovered over the boy before resting lightly against his cheek. Cold. Too cold. He searched for the rise of a chest, the flutter of breath—nothing. A heavy knot tightened in his stomach.
"Elira," he murmured, not sure if he was trying to comfort her or himself. "When?"
She shook her head, clutching Lio tighter. "It was so fast… they moved like smoke… and their voices—" She shuddered violently. "Like something speaking inside your own head."
Before Alaric could speak, a sound pulsed through the air. A low, steady hum—not from any direction, but from everywhere at once, as if the ground, the air, and his own bones were resonating together.
The moonlight dimmed. Not from a cloud. From something moving.
The well water rippled though the air was perfectly still. Then a whisper rose from its black depths. At first it was only the sound of breath being stolen from a sleeping child. Then, in a voice soft as ash:
"One breath taken… one more to go…"
Elira's scream tore through the square. She stumbled back, nearly dropping Lio's limp form.
Alaric's heart lurched into a sprint. The voice seemed to press against his chest, squeezing until each breath felt like a battle.
"Run," he ordered, grabbing Elira's arm.
They bolted from the square, boots striking frost-slick stones. The buildings they passed leaned closer, their shadows bending unnaturally across the ground. The hum in the air deepened, rattling his teeth.
The frost spread in their wake, crawling up walls and lacing across shutters in delicate, unnatural patterns.
They reached the chapel at the far end of the road. The door stood slightly ajar, warm candlelight spilling through the gap.
Inside, a dozen candles flickered weakly at the altar. Father Brenn knelt before it, muttering prayers too fast to be coherent. His hands shook so badly that the wooden talisman he held clicked against his knuckles.
"They're here," Alaric said, slamming the door shut behind them.
Brenn's gaze lifted slowly, the look of a man who'd already seen the outcome of this night. "No," he rasped. "They've been here since the first breath was taken."
Before Alaric could answer, a howl split the night—low, mournful, and too deep to belong to any wolf. It rolled across the land like distant thunder, shaking dust from the rafters.
Elira clutched Lio tighter, her knees buckling. "What was that?"
"The Hollowmere won't see another dawn," Brenn said flatly.
The candle flames bent toward the door, as if drawn by something unseen. The hum outside shifted into something slower, heavier—a heartbeat.
Alaric drew his dagger. The steel felt pitifully small in his grip. "What are they?"
The priest's voice was barely a whisper. "The Veilborn. They take breath… and with it, the soul."
Something scraped against the chapel door—long, deliberate drags of claw against wood.
Shadow Interlude
Beyond the village, beneath the blackened forest canopy, it waited.
Its eyes were pale and lidless, drinking in the darkness as if it were light. Hunger was not a pang but a constant truth. Breath was the scent. Fear was the seasoning.
Through the windless night, it inhaled, tasting the panic blooming in Hollowmere. Somewhere far away, a candle flickered… and died.
Another shadow shifted beside it—taller, thinner, crowned with antler-like growths. Soon, it seemed to murmur, though no mouth moved.
The first one's gaze turned toward the chapel. There was one more breath it wanted.
Back in the chapel, the scratching stopped.
In its place came the slow sound of breathing on the other side—long inhales, longer exhales. Counting them. Measuring them.
Brenn clutched his talisman. "You can't fight it, boy. You can only run."
But Alaric wasn't listening. His father's words echoed in his memory: The moment you feel the predator's breath, you're already in its jaws.
He took a step toward the door.
And outside, the breathing stopped.