The fire crackled softly in the center of the group, but its warmth did little to ease the chill that settled in as the Gloomling continued reading. His voice, though small and raspy, carried the weight of the journal's eerie tale, drawing everyone into its mysterious depths.
"For many days now, I have questioned the villagers about the legend of the cursed witch. Their responses were always the same—a story passed down through generations, becoming more fantastical with each telling. But from the one they called the village's madman, I heard something different. Something darker.
'The shadows are coming,' he had said, his voice barely a whisper, eyes wide with terror. 'Be ready for the shades, born from fire and from the souls of the dead. They will rise when the time is right, and they will punish us for the sins we've tried to bury.'
Before I could ask more, a woman hurried over and shooed him away as if he were nothing more than a rambling fool. She apologized, explaining that the old man had lost his family mysteriously one night. Ever since, he had been obsessed with shadows, blaming them for his loss. She assured me that his mind had shattered under the weight of grief, that he was no longer the man he used to be.
But in his eyes, I saw something else—something far worse. It wasn't madness I saw, but pure, unfiltered fear. The kind that clings to you long after the threat has passed.
When I asked her where I could find him, she hesitated, glancing around as if someone might overhear. Eventually, she pointed me toward a small cabin on the outskirts of the village. 'Be careful,' she warned, 'he's not the man he once was.'
Her words echoed in my mind, but my curiosity was too great. There was something in the old man's warning that unsettled me deeply, and I had to know more.
The next morning, I set out to find him. The path to his cabin was narrow and overgrown, twisting through the thick forest until the trees parted, revealing the old shack, almost hidden among the dense foliage. The place looked abandoned, weathered by time, its roof sagging under the weight of vines and moss. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, though, and I knew he was inside.
The old man was outside, chopping wood. His frail body moved slowly, each swing of the axe labored but precise. The rhythmic thud of metal on wood filled the clearing, the sound almost hypnotic in the stillness of the forest.
I approached cautiously, unsure how to start. 'About yesterday,' I began, keeping my distance. 'You mentioned the shadows… What did you mean by that?'
At first, he didn't respond, didn't even glance my way. His focus remained entirely on splitting the logs in front of him, the steady thud of his axe echoing through the trees. It wasn't until I asked again that he paused, leaning on the axe, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
'You should leave,' he murmured, his voice soft but firm. 'Before they come.'
I couldn't help myself. 'Is there a way to stop them? To protect ourselves from… whatever it is you're talking about?'
He looked up then, truly looked at me, and the weight of his gaze was like a punch to the gut. His face was worn, his skin creased with age and hardship. But his eyes—his eyes held a depth of sorrow I had never seen before. They were hollow, haunted by something unspeakable. And in that moment, I realized that this man wasn't mad. He was terrified.
After a long, painful silence, he finally spoke again. 'Come inside,' he said, his voice low and filled with reluctance. 'If you're willing to believe what I have to say, come inside.'
His words hung in the air like a dare, challenging me to follow. And despite the unease crawling up my spine, I knew I couldn't turn back now."
The Gloomling's voice trailed off as the journal's page ended, leaving the group on edge. Around the fire, the immortals exchanged glances, the tension in the air palpable. The story was becoming more unsettling by the moment, and yet none of them could look away. Each word deepened the sense of foreboding, drawing them further into the mystery that lay ahead.
The forest around them seemed to close in, the night darker and thicker than before. Even the usual sounds of the woods—rustling leaves, chirping insects—seemed to have vanished, replaced by an eerie, heavy silence.
Lucius, who had been leaning against a tree, shifted uncomfortably. "That's… disturbing," he muttered, his voice breaking the stillness.
"Disturbing doesn't even begin to cover it," Nyssa replied, her eyes still fixed on the Gloomling, as if waiting for him to continue.
Cassian, always the skeptic, frowned. "This could just be some old superstition. Villagers like to tell stories to keep outsiders from digging too deep. It's not uncommon."
Elara, however, remained quiet, her fingers tracing the cover of the journal thoughtfully. There was something about the tale that tugged at her, something familiar yet elusive. The old man's fear wasn't something easily dismissed, and she could feel the truth hidden within the madness.
Sylvaris, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. "Whether it's superstition or not, it's clear that this journal holds more than just a tale. We must continue reading to uncover what happened next. There may be more truths hidden within these pages."
The Gloomling nodded, eager to keep going but waiting for a sign from the others.
"Let's finish this part in the morning," Isolde suggested. "We're all on edge, and it's too dark to make sense of it now."
The group reluctantly agreed, though the weight of the journal's words stayed with them. As they prepared for the night, the forest seemed to whisper secrets all around them, the shadows stretching longer, deeper. And though they tried to rest, sleep did not come easily for any of them.
The night was long, and the shadows were watching.