The image flickered on the tablet-like monitor. Three priests... Once ablaze with divine faith, they now lay crumpled in the dust. Dead. Instantly.
The pale blue energy, their supposed protection, had simply winked out. The silence in the Stave's small living room was heavy. Broken only by the distant rustling of leaves blown by evening breeze.
Jack didn't move. He kept his eyes on the screen. his expression unreadable beneath the human skin of Jack Night. The sight was a brutal confirmation of the unknown threat.
The so-called 'Twilight Death' was real. And it seemed absolute. Divine protection meant nothing against it. Going outside now would be suicide. Reckless, pointless suicide.
"Love!" Jack said. His voice was low but firm. Cutting through the stunned silence. "Keep the bird up. Scout the whole village perimeter. Check the church. Check the main street. Anything that moves. Anything that doesn't move."
Reina nodded. Quickly adjusting the mental control of the Silver Hawk. Her dark eyes glued to the screen.
The view from Silver Hawk's perspective began to shift. Slowly scanning the panoramic view of the shrouded village. Now littered with three new corpses.
The darkness outside seemed to deepen. Pressing against the screen like an unseen, malevolent presence.
Rune was perching on Jack's shoulder. It pulsed with a soft, concerned violet glow.
Jack turned from the monitor. His gaze was sweeping over the faces of the others in the room.
Alenna Keener, Nick Glaiver, Harold Mason... These teenage Mystic Scholar Apprentices... Their faces were pale. Shock was etched onto each one.
Mr. Keener looked grim. His hands were clasped tight. The two children, Locke and Rose, huddled together on a worn rug. Their eyes were wide with fear as they stared at the screen. Then at their uncle.
This wasn't a time for dramatics. It was a time for information.
He knelt down. Bringing himself to the children's eye level. His voice softened. A stark contrast to the blunt tone he often used. "Locke. Rose. I need your help."
The children looked at him. Startled. Locke, the older boy, swallowed hard. "Our help, Sir?"
"Yes." Jack affirmed. "You've lived here your whole lives, right? You know this village. The people, the sounds, the little things that happen. Right?"
He paused. Letting the words sink in. "The first person died two weeks ago, didn't they?"
Rose nodded shyly. Clutching her brother's arm. "Yes. Big Brother Dirge."
"Before that?" Jack continued gently. "Think back. Before the first death. Was anything… unusual? Anything different? No matter how small. No matter how silly it might seem. A funny smell, a strange sound, an argument, something broken. Anything at all."
Locke hesitated. Then looked at his sister. Rose gnawed on her lip.
"Well..." Locke began slowly. "There was that fight. Just three days before the death. Old Man Hemlock's son, Rocke, and Mr. Lewison's son, Peter. They were fighting near the place where Big Brother Dirge died. Yelling real loud. Peter broke Rocke's nose."
"A kids' fight." Jack noted. Pulling out a small, well-worn leather-bound notebook and a pen. He jotted it down. He didn't dismiss anything.
It might be hard to imagine that kids' fights caused supernatural curses. But if they broke something, or a drop of their blood interact with something... He couldn't ignore such possibility. He had read too many horror stories caused by stupid things.
"And before that..." Rose chimed in. Finding her voice a little. "The hunters. From Wavewater Town. They stopped here for one night. Before they went to the Northern Caves. They said they were going to hunt Dusk Bats."
Dusk Bats. Jack's mind immediately went to creatures of darkness. Creatures of sound. Bats used echolocation. Northern Caves. He made another note. "When was this?"
"Maybe three weeks ago?" Locke guessed. "Before the big rain."
"The big rain?" Jack echoed. "Tell me about that."
Rose piped up. "It was a really bad storm! Thunder and lightning all night. And it broke Farmer Drumbell's old oak tree. The big one by his barn."
Jack's pen scratched across the page. Lightning strike. Old tree. A point of impact. A sudden surge of raw energy. Could it have awakened something? He filed that thought away.
Locke then added. "Oh! And Father Minnow's parrot died. The old, mute one. It was always there beside the church. It just… fell off its perch. After the rain, I think."
A mute parrot. Jack raised an eyebrow. Parrot. A creature known for mimicry. For sound. Yet this one was mute. Its death was after the storm. Another curious detail. He wrote it down.
"Anything else?" Jack prompted. His gaze was encouraging. "Think hard. Any strangers passing through?"
Rose gasped. Remembering. "There was a minstrel! A really strange one. He wore a suit with squares, black and white. Like a checkerboard. He played a tiny lute and sang a sad song about a lost key."
A minstrel. A musician. Sound. And a strange appearance. The checkered suit was unusual for this region. Jack made a point of it. "When did he arrive? And when did he leave?"
"He was just passing through." Locke said. "He stayed one night at the inn, sang for his supper, then left early the next morning. It was maybe one month ago. He said he was going to Lonestone City."
Jack nodded slowly. His mind already connecting dots. Tracing lines that might not be there.
A fight, hunters of Dusk Bats, a mute parrot's death, a lightning striking a broken tree, and a strange minstrel. All within a few weeks before the Twilight Death began. Each detail seemed to subtly touch upon themes of sound, silence, or disruption.
He stood up. Thanking the children. "Good work, both of you. You've been very helpful."
He then turned to Mr. Keener. "Mr. Keener, you grew up here too, right? Do you know the old stories. The legends. Anything that talks about unnatural deaths, about twilight, about sounds or silence? Anything like that?"
He looked at the closed door. "We couldn't move outside anyway without risking our lives. Let's just hear some stories."
Mr. Keener, rubbing his chin, looked thoughtful. "Legends, eh? Most places have their share. Songstress Village is no different. I've told you one on the train. The name itself comes from one of them."
He glanced at Alenna, who nodded. Indicating her familiarity with the local lore.
"Tell me," Jack urged. "Briefly. All of them that come to mind. Don't worry about accuracy. Just what people say."
Mr. Keener took a breath. Settling into a storyteller's posture despite the grim circumstances.
"Alright. Other than the story of Lady Nerea, the Songstress. There are three main ones that come to mind. The first one was another alternative origin of the village name. It is not as credible as the legend of the Songstress."
"The legend is called 'The Singer and the Evil Tree'." He began. "It was said... long ago, this valley was barren, quiet. No birds sang, no music was heard. Then, a traveling Singer came."
Mr. Keener looked at them and continued. "Her voice was pure, beautiful, and she sang life into the valley. Flowers bloomed, streams flowed, and people settled here, drawn by her songs."
The others listened to the story without interrupting.
"But there was an ancient, gnarled tree at the heart of the valley. A tree that hated all sound. It was said to be a remnant of a darker, older world. The more the Singer sang, the more the tree twisted and cracked, its roots clawing at the earth as if in agony."
Mr. Keener stopped for a breath. Then continued the story. "One day, when the Singer was performing her most beautiful melody, the tree could not bear it and act. It let out a soundless scream, a shriek that stole the very breath from the Singer's lungs."
He paused again before continuing. "She crumpled, dead instantly. Her song, her life, was extinguished by the tree's silent hatred. After that, the tree was said to whisper its rage, and anyone who heard its whispers would eventually be tone-deaf. The villagers eventually cut it down. It's why they say the village was named the Songstress Village, as if to defy the tree's curse."
Jack listened intently. His eyes narrowed. "Soundless scream. Stole breath. Instant death. Whispers that kill." He scribbled furiously. The parallels were deeply unsettling.
"The second legend..." Mr. Keener continued. "... is known as 'The Silence that Steals Life'. It was more like a folklore taught to make children less shy and silent. I think."
He started the second story. "It speaks of a time after the Singer. The valley had been a lively village. Full of sound and songs. But, a creature from underworld came to the village. The Deep Silence. It was not just quiet, but utterly devoid of sound."
"Whenever it passed through, there would be no rustling leaves, no flowing water, no animal calls. Everything was muffled, muted. And in that absolute silence, life itself began to wither. People would simply fade, their forms becoming transparent, slowly dissolving into nothingness."
Mr. Keener paused before continuing. "It was said that the Deep Silence craved the shy and silent soul. It yearned for it. And it would come and devour the sound around such kind of soul. Eventually, it would also consume the life of the shy and silent targets."
"Silence that steals life." Jack muttered. "Deep Silence. Devouring sound and soul." This one was different. But the theme of sound and its absence was still central.
"And finally..." Mr. Keener said. Looking out towards the flickering fire on the fireplace. As if seeing the ancient myth play out. "There's 'The Singing Dragon'."
"This isn't about an evil entity. It's more of a guardian or a powerful entity." He explained. "The story goes that deep beneath the caves of the Northern Hills, there sleeps a great dragon whose very breath is a song of its dreams."
Mr. Keener explained further. "When it stirs, its song can bring life or destruction. It can mend the broken or shatter the strong. Depending on what it is dreaming about."
"It's said that once every few centuries, its song resonates through the earth, a deep hum that heals the valley, or, if angered, a piercing shriek that causes tremors and brings calamity. It's a force of nature, beyond good or evil, simply is. And its sound shapes the world."
The Singing Dragon. Jack's mind raced. This was likely a metaphor. Or personification of natural events. Not a quiet, insidious threat. But a powerful, world-shaping natural events personified into an entity of sound.
However, he didn't reject the possibility that the dragon might truly exist. In this strange world, anything could happen.
And it was said to be beneath the Northern Caves.
The Northern Caves... The sites where the hunters went for Dusk Bats. The same northern direction where the Singing Dragon was supposed to sleep. Was there any connection?