The village of Briarhollow was cloaked in an unsettling quiet. The air hung heavy with the scent of scorched wood and damp earth, the remnants of past horrors lingering like ghosts. The few villagers brave enough to venture outside watched from shadowed doorways, their eyes hollow with fear. Every step Kael took on the uneven dirt path felt like walking into a graveyard where the dead still whispered beneath the soil.
The village elder, a frail man with a back bent by age and burden, guided them through the ruined outskirts. His breath was ragged, his voice a soft rasp against the wind. "They come at night," he murmured, his fingers trembling as they pointed toward the remains of a barn. "Not animals. Not bandits. Something else."
Kael squinted through the mist, his gaze landing on deep claw marks gouged into the wooden beams. Not just scratches—gashes. He swallowed hard. "Liora?"
