The bargain had always been clear. A Duskwalker’s protection was never freely given; it was bought in blood, offerings, or coin. For generations, the family had kept their end of the pact, leaving gifts at the forest’s edge — carved charms, livestock, and whatever gold could be spared.

But this year, the cupboards were bare. The winter had been too long, the harvest too lean. No flock remained to cull, no coin to glitter on the stone altar. The father’s hands trembled as he laid them empty on the table, knowing what it meant.

The Duskwalker had promised to protect their farmstead from demons, and he had done so faithfully. Not a single beast had dared cross the line of salt. But protection has a price, and debts left unpaid could not be ignored.

That night, when the fire burned low and the wind howled against the shutters, the door creaked open without a hand to push it. Cold swept through the room, and the lantern flame guttered nearly to nothing.

He was there.

A towering figure stooped beneath the rafters, his skull-like face stark in the wavering light, eyes burning like twin embers. The air seemed to hum around him, heavy and sharp, as though the house itself bent to his presence.

“You have nothing left to offer,” the voice rumbled — low, inhuman, echoing as though spoken through stone. His gaze drifted across the family, pausing at the daughter, and the firelight caught on the pale curve of his bone-white mask.

His eyes flared red.

“Then she will be the price.”