The room they had been shoved into smelled of damp wood, mildew, and something metallic—something faintly coppery that made Liam wrinkle his nose. It was small, too small to be a proper living space, though a threadbare chair and a low table suggested someone had tried. A fireplace sat cold and empty, the hearth filled with gray ashes that smelled older than memory.
Alex pressed his back against the door, glancing at the old woman. Her hands, gnarled as tree roots, rested on the top of the chest she had dragged across the threshold. She muttered something under her breath, not for them to hear, just for the room itself, as if it could protect them.
Jordan exhaled shakily. "So… we're safe?"
The woman didn't answer. She wouldn't. Instead, she paced a narrow arc around the table, muttering fragments of words in a language none of them recognized. Her voice rose at times, then fell again to a fragile whisper.
Liam, still clutching the lantern, took a hesitant step forward. "What's… what's out there? That tapping?"
The old woman's head snapped toward him, and for a moment Alex thought her eyes might pierce straight through his skull. "He listens," she hissed. "Not with ears. With what he has, what is… everywhere. He is here. And there. And the air between. That tapping… do not hear it. Do not see it."
Alex swallowed. "Do you mean Lord Drakov?"
The woman's lips pressed into a thin line. She did not answer. Only shook her head, eyes darting to the windows as if expecting them to shatter at any second.
Tara moved closer to Liam, tugging gently at his sleeve. "We need to know more. We can't stay here forever."
"You can't," the woman muttered. "And even if you stay… you are already marked. He watches the living. The breathing. The hopeful."
Jordan groaned. "Great. Marked. Fantastic. We just got here, and we're apparently cursed. Sweet."
Alex ignored him, stepping forward. "We need shelter. We need safety for the night. Can you help us?"
The woman's shoulders slumped. "I… I can hide you. But only until dawn. Then…" Her voice broke, and she turned to the small fireplace. Her fingers grazed the ash. "Then he finds us, and it is not my doing. I do what I can, but the Veil… it does not forgive."
Liam looked at the dying pulse of the lantern in his hands. "The Veil?"
"The Veil," she whispered. "It is the space between the living world and the eyes that watch. Those who step through it do not return unmarked. That light you carry—it shields you, but only briefly."
Tara's brow furrowed. "Shielded from what?"
She shook her head. "From him. From what he sends. From the whispers beneath the veil."
Alex's stomach churned. "We've already heard them."
The old woman's eyes flickered toward the windows. "And they've heard you. They know your smell. Your warmth. Your pulse."
Jordan shivered. "Well. That's comforting."
The woman ignored him. She moved to a small cupboard against the far wall and produced a set of thin, brittle blankets. "Cover yourselves. You will need warmth, and it masks some… of what he senses." She dropped the blankets onto the floor with a heavy sigh. "Sit. Stay low. Speak only if necessary. And do not draw the air around you into words. He can smell lies."
Alex exchanged a glance with Tara. "What does that mean?"
"The air carries the living," the woman said quietly. "It carries you. You move through it, and he follows. He does not need sight. He does not need steps. He needs only to know you are here."
Liam shivered. "So… we're dead the second he notices us?"
She turned, and for the first time they saw her fully. Her face was a map of every hardship the village had endured—wrinkles carved deep with terror and time. "Not dead," she said, "yet. But marked. And the mark does not fade until he is sated, or you are."
The room grew heavier, and Alex could feel a tightness in his chest, the same fear he had felt walking through Lantern Road now magnified. The forest behind the gate had seemed merciless, but here… inside Direford, there was a waiting patience to the dread, like the air itself was alive and aware.
Tara sat down on the floor, wrapping her knees with the thin blanket. "Do we… ask questions? Or just wait?"
"Wait," the woman said. "Wait and listen. Watch the shadows. When he comes, you will know. You always know."
Jordan groaned again. "So. No dinner. No sleep. Just 'wait until the evil overlord shows up.' Sweet."
Alex ignored him. "Tara, Liam—sit close. Keep the lantern between us and the windows."
The old woman muttered something again, then approached the window nearest them. She pressed a wrinkled hand against the glass and drew a thin line in the condensation, a symbol that pulsed faintly blue in the dim light. "This keeps him at bay. Only slightly. But it buys time."
Alex felt a flicker of hope. "How long?"
"Until the moon passes the ridge. Then he will come again. Then…" She looked at them all, eyes hollow. "Then he decides who breathes, and who bleeds."
Liam gulped audibly. "Who's he?"
She exhaled slowly, almost in pain. "A lord. A shadow. A man who was not a man. He rules through fear. Through the Veil. He takes what is living. He listens. He watches. And…" She turned her gaze toward Alex, sharp and piercing. "He knows you are different. That you were not meant to be here."
Alex's throat tightened. "We need a plan."
The old woman shook her head. "Plan is for those who can outrun death. You cannot. Not here. Only survive. Only hide. Only breathe quietly and hope he does not mark you tonight."
Tara's hand found Alex's arm. "Then we hide. We wait. And we learn everything we can before morning."
The room seemed to shrink around them. The sound outside—the soft tapping they had heard in the square—had returned, now against the door, slow and methodical.
Jordan swallowed hard. "That… that's not a person."
"No," the woman whispered. "That is him."
The lantern flickered in Liam's hand. Its pulse quickened. It was almost alive, as if aware of what waited outside.
Alex crouched, his hand brushing Tara's. "We survive tonight. Whatever it takes. We survive."
The woman muttered again, more like a prayer than a warning. "Not all survive. The Veil decides. The living only walk because it allows them. Remember that. Never forget that."
Outside, the tapping continued. Sharp. Deliberate. Watching.
Inside, four humans huddled together in the cold, brittle room, listening. Waiting. Wondering if the forest behind the gate had truly been safer than the village that had welcomed them—or cursed them—into its heart.
And somewhere above the rooftops, a shadow moved, vast and silent.
It had seen them. It knew they were here.
It waited.