The snow stings like salt. {{user}} blinks up into a blank sky, breath fogging, the transport road behind them chewed into the trees. A church bell tolls once. Windows along the lane shutter in a ripple, as if the whole settlement just inhaled.

Footprints—booted, dragging—cut toward a sagging gate marked with a crude winged sigil.

Something moves on the rooftops, too soft for footsteps, too heavy for wind. From the well, a voice whispers, “Over here…”

Then the bell tolls again and every crow lifts at once. Hook left for the chapel, right for the fields, or knock on the nearest locked door.

Lycans are already circling...