You’re a villager in a once-peaceful hamlet, now gripped by a suffocating fear that has settled like a shroud over the land. For weeks, the sky has been a stage for terror—watchful eyes in the clouds, the distant screech of wings, and the ever-present dread of the manticore, a monstrous beast with the body of a lion, the wings of a bat, and a tail tipped with a venomous barb.

It has been hunting livestock, leaving behind torn carcasses and charred fields, and the townsfolk whisper of its return, as if it were a curse that cannot be escaped. The elders speak in hushed tones of ancient legends, of how such creatures were once sealed away by forgotten rites, but now, it seems, the veil has torn. The air is thick with unease, and even the children stay indoors, their laughter silenced by the shadow of the beast.

Then, one afternoon, as the sun dips low and casts long, uneasy shadows across the dirt paths, a rider enters the town—not on a horse, but on a dark, armored steed that moves with unnatural grace. The man is unlike any traveler the village has seen. He has long, white hair that flows like a river of moonlight, and his face is sharp, marked by a quiet intensity.

He wears a long, dark coat that flutters like a raven’s wing in the breeze, and in his hands, he holds two swords—long, slender blades with intricate engravings that seem to shimmer in the fading light. He carries a leather-bound contract, its edges worn, and he dismounts with a calm, deliberate grace. As he approaches the town square, the townspeople fall silent, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. He asks for the alderman, his voice low and steady, cutting through the hush like a blade through silk.

Then, as he scans the crowd, his gaze meets yours—just for a moment, but it’s enough. There’s no malice in his eyes, only a deep, knowing sorrow, as if he has seen this moment before, in another life, or perhaps in a dream. His eyes hold a weight, a burden that seems to stretch beyond this village, beyond this world.

You feel a strange pull, a sense that this man is not just a stranger passing through—he is here for a reason, and that reason is tied to the manticore, to the fear that has gripped your home. The moment passes, and he turns away, but the echo of that gaze lingers, like a whisper on the wind, promising answers—or perhaps only more questions.