They slithered along the edges of the torchlight like living things, defying the natural laws that governed light and darkness.
Where normal shadows remained fixed to their sources, these moved independently, flowing like black water across the stone floor and up the walls.
A child began to cry—little Mara, the baker's daughter, who had been so delighted by the wedding celebration. Her mother, Goodwife Elara, scooped her up and held her close, shushing her gently while her own eyes remained fixed on the unnatural shadows.
"'Tis not natural," whispered Old Henrik, the village's senior hunter. His weathered face was pale as parchment, and his hands shook as he gripped his walking stick.
"In all my years tracking through these woods, I've never seen the like."
The temperature in the center began to drop, despite the roaring fire in the pit. Breath began to mist in the suddenly frigid air, and the celebratory warmth that had filled the space was replaced by a bone-deep chill that seemed to seep into the very stones of the building.
Then, with a sound like tearing fabric, one of the shadows detached itself completely from the wall and leaped with impossible speed toward the cluster of terrified villagers.
Young Willem, barely eighteen and full of ale-fueled bravado, stepped forward to meet it.
He was the son of a farmer, strong from years of working the fields, and he bore in his hands a simple wooden staff that he had grabbed from beside the hearth.
"Stay back, ye cursed thing!" he shouted, swinging the staff at the approaching shadow.
The shadow enveloped him like a living shroud, and Willem's defiant cry became a gurgling scream that lasted only seconds before cutting off abruptly.
A black, sickly claw pushed out of Willem's torso.
"Fiend!" Valara, who saw the beast, whispered. She was a woman who had strolled the lands of the empire. She was aware of the horrors of the lands.
But not those village people.
The black fiend raised the body of Willem, his blood pouring down from his torso.
The center erupted in screams and chaos.
Some villagers ran for the doors, others pressed themselves against the walls, and many simply stood frozen in terror, their minds unable to process what they had witnessed.
But the shadow was not finished.
It began to writhe and twist, growing larger and more substantial, until it took on a form that belonged in the darkest nightmares of mortal men.
From the darkness emerged a creature of such grotesque malevolence that several villagers swooned at the sight of it.
It stood nearly eight feet tall, its body a mockery of human form. Its flesh was the color of old iron, scarred and pitted as if it had been forged in the fires of damnation itself. Ancient armor, black as a starless night, covered its torso and limbs.
But it was the creature's head that truly inspired terror.
Its mouth was elongated like that of a wolf but far longer and filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth that gleamed wetly in the torchlight. From the back of its skull, four additional arms protruded like the legs of some monstrous spider, each ending in clawed hands that clicked and grasped at the air.
The fiend let out a sound that was part roar, part shriek, and part something far worse—a noise that spoke of suffering and hatred so profound that it made the very air tremble.
It reached down with one of its primary arms and grasped Willem's lifeless body, hefting it with ease.
Then, with a motion that seemed to mock the very concept of respect for the dead, the creature hurled the corpse directly at the cluster of terrified villagers.
Men and women scattered like leaves before a hurricane, their screams echoing off the stone walls as Willem's body crashed into a table laden with wedding gifts, sending silver goblets and delicate pottery crashing to the floor in a cacophony of destruction.
Jaenor stood transfixed, his warrior's training warring with the primal terror that had seized his mind.