As the sun dipped on the horizon and darkness covered the Draconis dukedom, a stillness fell on the villages.
The storm was approaching. Villagers could feel the change in pressure, and then came the wind-a cold, whistling wind. Villagers started closing their shops. Blacksmiths stoked their furnaces to get some heat and helped others board up windows with wood and cloth.
Domestic animals were taken inside, and even strays were given shelter. Children were forced to stay indoors, but the curious ones watched from holes in the doors. People hurried through the streets after buying frozen meat, alcohol, and a few even purchased more fur and wool clothes. Boots crunched against the snow-and that's when the wind howled.
Everyone ran toward their houses, leaving whatever they were doing. After the strong wind passed, there was stillness again. A few moments later, snowflakes began to fall, one by one. By midnight, the blizzard had sealed the village shut. Snow piled up in front of doors, climbing higher and higher, until it felt as though walls had formed.
People stayed inside, keeping themselves warm by doing whatever work they could.
And then the border village-Fesia-felt something far more dangerous and ominous.
A scream.
Only a few heard it. The wind swallowed most of the sound, but the scream still reached some ears.
Morning came with no sunrise and no warmth. The darkness merely lifted, replaced by a lifeless, pale light.
The blizzard had passed.
The townsfolk stepped outside, and the only mage in the village, helped others break the snow walls formed in front of their doors.
Will, a fourteen-year-old, was gathering branches broken from the trees the previous night when he saw something near one of the trees-the one that marked the beginning of the forest.
A deep, dangerous forest, filled with monsters and creatures no one had ever seen, only heard of from afar.
Men nearby, along with the Duke's knights, ran toward him-and saw a man.
No.
The body of a man.
His skin had turned blue, his eyes were still open, and a deep cut ran across his face. There were other wounds too, especially on his stomach, abdomen, and thighs.
The knights ordered everyone to step back and continued inspecting the body and its surroundings. One of them-Alistair Gallantheart, a knight of higher rank-ordered the villagers to return to their houses. He was in his thirties, a no-nonsense man, and a very strict knight.
Once the people left, he examined the wounds and searched the man's clothes, hoping to find something that might reveal his identity. Other than a woman's anklet, he found nothing. It was an ordinary piece, offering little chance of identifying the man.
"Gavriel," Alistair's voice flattened. "Go to the Duke and inform him about this. I think this is not something we can handle on our own."
He looked towards the forest and then deliberately turned away, as if meeting its gaze for too late might invite something back.
"What's going on, Sir Gallantheart?" one of the youngest knights asked.
Alistair hesitated. His jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment, he curled his fingers into a fist and with a firm voice he spoke.
"These wounds are from-Okrum."
There was a silence after he was finished.
"No."
"It can't be."
"But-"
"They aren't real, right?"
"Okrum? Oh, hell no."
The knights spoke over one another, worry and fear etched across their faces.
"They are very much real."
Alistair's single sentence silenced them.
Okrum had been a nightmare for the villagers years ago-a creature no one had ever truly seen, or perhaps none had lived long enough to tell the tale.
Villagers only knew its howl and the chattering sound it made with its tail. It came during blizzards and preyed on villagers.
Then, one day, it stopped.
They thought it was gone. Or dead.
Over the years, it became a bedtime story for children, a tale enjoyed on camping nights.
Only a few knew the truth.
It was a curse-one that crept through the night and killed for pleasure. The Duke's grandfather had come close to defeating the creature. Some believed it was all just a story, but the knights who had fought alongside the former Duke knew better.
Everything was real.
Alistair was the grandson of one of those knights.
His grandfather had told him things only he and the former Duke had known-secrets about the forest and the danger it held. Alistair had been young then and thought them nothing more than stories.
But now, staring at the wounds on the dead man's body, he knew his grandfather had been right.
Okrum always left one of its nails embedded in its prey, and the wounds carried a faint blue, sparkling residue.
No one spoke.
Then the silence shattered.
A howl rose deep from the forest-low, gurgling, and powerful.
"Okrum," Alistair said to knights tightening his grip on hilt of sword.
"Gavriel. Go. Now." Alistair's eyes darted towards Gavriel as he ordered.
Gavriel ran toward the village, toward the Duke's fortress. He didn't hesitate. He ran and ran. Knights were talking to each other, taking their swords out to fight whatever it is.
Before the voices of knights faded, the howl came again.
This time, it was closer.