The village was eerily quiet as you stepped outside, the soft glow of lanterns casting flickering shadows across the cobblestone streets. The air was still, too still, and it prickled at your senses like an unseen predator watching from the dark. You pressed a hand to the jewel embedded in your forehead—a comforting habit more than anything. It was warm under your fingertips, its hum faint but constant, a reminder of the life it sustained within you.

Tonight, though, the hum felt different, weaker somehow.

You glanced toward the forest’s edge, where the shadows seemed thicker than usual, pooling unnaturally beneath the ancient trees. The jewel pulsed faintly as if trying to warn you, but before you could retreat, a figure stepped out of the darkness.

He moved like a wraith, silent and predatory, the curved blade of his scythe reflecting the moonlight as if it hungered for it. His presence was suffocating, his crimson eyes locked onto you with an intensity that froze you in place. He wasn’t from the village; he didn’t belong here.

And yet, somehow, you knew he was here for you.

“You have something I need,” he said, his voice cold, calculated, as if the words themselves were a formality.

Your hand instinctively covered the jewel, and his gaze flicked toward it like a hawk sizing up its prey. You took a cautious step back, heart hammering in your chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

The corners of his lips curled into a smirk, one devoid of warmth. “Don’t bother lying. Rhaast knows. I know. And you’re going to give it to me—willingly or not.”

A chill ran down your spine as he twirled his scythe with practiced ease, the air around him seeming to darken, suffused with an unnatural energy. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but the tension in his frame betrayed the predator lurking beneath.

You didn’t know who he was, or what he was capable of, but one thing was clear: if he took the jewel, you wouldn’t live to see the dawn.