Only a few hundred kilometers from Benedict, on the same island, lay a city as forsaken as its name. Its towering walls stretched like the ribs of some ancient, dying beast. The citadel's gates, wrought of rusted iron, hung like broken teeth in a jaw left to rot. Rust dripped from them in rivulets, staining the cobbled ground beneath with dark, almost blood-like streaks. These gates creaked open only for trade, or when the city deigned to communicate with the outside, but even then, the shrieking hinges carried an unsettling sense of finality.
Inside, the city was a place where shadows lingered long after the sun had fallen. Buildings rose crooked and lean, like twisted spires of forgotten dreams, their wooden frames warped by the humid air and the weight of neglect. The dampness seemed to soak into everything—into the cracked walls, the rotting beams, and even the very air itself, thick with mildew. Fungus and mold flourished in the forgotten corners, their grotesque shapes twisting like the body parts of some long-dead thing. The streets, narrow and choked with the remnants of past lives, held a suffocating silence. No birds, no insects, no life. Only the soft scrape of boots against stone as those few who still lived here shuffled in and out of the shadows.
The fog clung to the city like a living thing, curling in the alleyways, creeping through the broken windows of abandoned shops. It was a fog that never quite lifted, a persistent dampness that hung in the air, making the city feel like it was sinking into the earth, slowly being consumed by the very ground it had once stood on. Here, nothing grew except for creeping vines that clung to the cracked stone walls, twisting like veins through the stone, a futile attempt at nature's last rebellion. There was no light here save for the flickering glow of dying street lamps, their flames weak and trembling in the oppressive gloom.
And amidst it all, the few souls who remained moved like phantoms, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow. They were part of the city now—just as broken, just as abandoned.
Along the northern side of the town, where law enforcement was as corrupt as the city itself, crime ran rampant. The alleyways were the territory of the desperate and the lost, and here, the darker parts of Ashmoor festered like an open wound. Yet, for all its wretchedness, it was a place where some found life amidst the filth, surviving not through wealth, but through the quiet cunning that came from understanding the beast that this city had become.
In one of the most forsaken corners of Ashmoor, a young boy of fourteen moved with practiced caution. Ezekiel had no family to speak of, not anymore, and not much hope either. His clothing, ragged and threadbare, hung loosely on his slight frame. His dark eyes, deep and watchful, absorbed every detail of his surroundings with unnerving sharpness, a necessary survival instinct in this decaying world. The coat he wore, far too large for his small body, had once belonged to someone else, someone lost to the city's grip. He had long since discarded his old name, the one that had once been given to him by a mother he couldn't remember. Now, he was just another ghost in Ashmoor, his identity shaped by the crumbling streets.
The fog clung to him like a second skin as he crept past dilapidated buildings. Here, the streets were filled with shadows, most of them cast by figures who moved in and out of the fog—slinking between the darkened alleys, their movements as silent as Ezekiel's own. The stink of rot was omnipresent in the air, and yet, the boy barely seemed to notice anymore.
Ezekiel rounded the corner, his heart a steady thrum against his ribs, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a group of men lingering near a crumbling storefront. The air around them was thick with the stench of decay—rotting food, piss, and something more metallic, as if the very city itself was slowly bleeding out.
One of the men, a hulking figure with a jagged scar running down his face—probably from some earlier altercation that left more than just a mark—caught sight of Ezekiel. His lips curled into a sneer, the skin of his face stretched tight over yellowed teeth. His hand twitched toward the hilt of a rusty blade, an idle threat, but Ezekiel could tell by the look in his eyes that it wasn't idle at all. The boy's pulse quickened, but his feet never faltered. If he turned and ran now, it would be over before it started.
"Where you goin', little rat?" the scarred man rasped, his voice rough and guttural, as though he hadn't spoken a proper word in days. His breath smelled like spoiled meat.
Ezekiel didn't flinch, didn't break stride, his voice flat, betraying nothing. "Business. Ain't nothin' important."
The man's sneer deepened, but it wasn't amusement. It was a calculation. He stepped forward, his bulk blocking the way, the weight of his presence oppressive. A slow chuckle rumbled from his throat as he reached out, a hand like a vise, gripping Ezekiel's shoulder with a force that made his bones creak.
"A businessman, eh? Well, maybe you've got something useful to offer us. Something you won't miss. Coin, maybe?" His free hand hovered near Ezekiel's pocket, the fingers twitching, eager.
The boy's eyes locked with his. There was no fear there—just weariness. He'd learned long ago how to wear indifference like armor. "I ain't got no coin. If I did, I'd give it to you." The words were blunt, but the calmness in them unsettled the man more than any resistance ever could. The scarred man's grip tightened, the sharp pain in Ezekiel's shoulder a reminder of the power difference between them.
A second man, shorter but squat and bloated like some diseased creature, slouched forward, eyes glistening with a grotesque sort of amusement. "Oh, I think our little businessman here's got a few spare coins up his sleeve," he drawled, his voice thick with malice. He had a greasy, pockmarked face that looked like it had never seen soap. "Maybe he just needs a little... encouragement. He's probably just too shy to part with 'em."
His laugh was a low, wet chuckle that carried the sour stink of cheap booze. It made Ezekiel's stomach churn. The boy didn't flinch, didn't look away, but his mind was already calculating, already aware of how quickly these men could turn ugly.
The scarred man grinned wider, the sharp edges of his teeth glinting. "You're not getting it, kid. We're not asking. We're telling."
Ezekiel's pulse quickened, but his body remained still, calm. He held the man's gaze with an unsettling certainty. "I ain't got anythin'." The words were matter-of-fact, a quiet defiance in the face of the man's aggression.
For a moment, it felt like the world paused, the fog pressing in on them like a tangible weight. Then, with a grunt, the scarred man released him, shoving Ezekiel roughly away. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, pressing into the boy's skin like a reminder that nothing came for free in Ashmoor.
"Don't forget, kid," the scarred man growled. "Next time, we won't be so generous."
Ezekiel didn't respond, didn't even glance at the men. His steps were quiet, but every footfall carried the weight of a thousand lessons learned in this forsaken city. He knew they'd be waiting for him. They always were. Ashmoor had a way of chewing people up and spitting them back out, harder and meaner than before.
As Ezekiel walked away, the low murmur of the men's voices faded behind him, but he knew better than to let his guard down. The city was always watching, its crooked streets and sagging buildings teeming with unseen eyes. Danger clung to the air like the ever-present fog, thick and suffocating, promising violence at every turn. But Ezekiel was no stranger to it. He had learned to move like a shadow—silent, unnoticed—because in a place like this, to be seen was to be claimed by it.
~~~
Ezekiel traveled deeper into the town, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach a reminder of his desperation. The city was quieter than usual, the usual murmur of distant voices and clattering wagons subdued beneath the heavy shroud of fog. As he turned down a narrower street, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
There, etched into the crumbling stone of a wall, was a strange symbol. It was crudely drawn, perhaps in charcoal or ash, but its shape was deliberate—a spiraling circle, with jagged lines radiating outward like the legs of some unnatural creature. The mark looked fresh, the black lines stark against the damp, moss-covered stone. Ezekiel froze, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the surrounding alley for movement.
He'd seen this symbol before, scrawled in the hidden corners of Ashmoor, where even the city's few brave souls dared not linger. It belonged to a group people only whispered about—the heretical cult. They were spoken of in hushed tones, their true nature a mystery, but everyone knew their presence meant trouble. Death, disappearances, and shadows that stretched too far.
A faint noise broke his trance—a shuffle, barely audible, from deeper in the alley. His heartbeat quickened as he instinctively stepped back, but his hunger and curiosity warred within him. Without thinking, he reached out and touched the symbol. The charcoal smudged beneath his fingertips, as if mocking him, and for a moment, the air felt colder.
Shaking off the unease, Ezekiel quickened his pace, taking a winding path through the streets until he saw the soft glow of the blacksmith's forge. The sight brought some relief, a fragile haven amidst the city's decay.
Garrett stood hunched over his anvil, the rhythmic clang of his hammer against metal cutting through the oppressive silence. The old man glanced up as Ezekiel approached, his bushy eyebrows raising in recognition.
"Well, if it isn't the wisp of a boy," Garrett called out, his voice gruff but warm. "Come to hear an old man ramble again? Or are you hoping I've got a spare crust lying about?"
Ezekiel managed a faint smile, though the image of the symbol still lingered in his mind. "Maybe both," he replied, stepping closer to the forge's warm glow.
"You've been poking around places you shouldn't again, haven't you?" Garrett asked, his sharp eyes catching the boy's unease. "You've got that look about you. Go on, tell me what you've seen."
Ezekiel hesitated, the weight of the symbol he'd seen earlier pressing heavily on his thoughts. Garrett's tales always had a way of pulling at the threads of his imagination, but tonight, they felt different. Too real. Too close.
The boy's silence didn't go unnoticed. Garrett, hunched over the forge, paused his work, his gray-white beard catching the faint glow of embers. His keen eyes studied Ezekiel, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he twirled the end of his wiry beard.
"Ah, I suppose trouble is the nature of this miserable place," Garrett said, his voice carrying a weight that came from years of hardship. "But you'll tell me in your own time, lad. No need to rush it."
The blacksmith straightened, setting down his tools and leaning casually against the anvil. "Wisp, how about a story to chase away whatever's gnawing at your mind, eh?" The nickname, one born from Ezekiel's ability to slip through the streets like a shadow, was always spoken with an affection only Garrett seemed capable of in this city.
Ezekiel's eyes brightened despite himself, his curiosity taking hold. "Oh, yes, of course!" he replied quickly, almost stumbling over his words.
Garrett chuckled, a dry sound that turned into a cough. "I should've known. I don't even need to ask anymore, do I?" He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned closer, his grin turning sly. "But this one isn't just a tale, lad. It's about something real. Something that stalks the night beyond these walls. Ever heard of carrion stalkers?"
Ezekiel shook his head, already leaning in as the blacksmith's voice dropped lower, his tone turning grave.
"They're not just creatures," Garrett began, the warmth of the forge casting flickering shadows across his face. "They're a curse. A punishment. Beasts that haunt graveyards and burial grounds, sniffing out the dead. They're said to be..." He paused, as if weighing the impact of his next words. "Morticians who damned themselves."
The boy furrowed his brow, puzzled. "What's a mortician?"
Garrett gave a small, humorless laugh, the lines on his face deepening. "Ah, a special kind of evil, that. In a perfect world, they're folk who prepare the dead, clean them up, and make them fit for burial. But here? In a world like ours? Morticians become something far worse..."
The blacksmith let his words hang in the air, his expression darkening as he prepared to delve deeper into the story.
Garrett paused, his expression darkening as the light of the forge flickered across his face. He leaned forward, resting his hammer on the edge of the anvil, and spoke in a lower, graver tone.
"But in this world, a mortician is something far more sinister. Many of them turned from preparing the dead for rest to... experimenting. They'd carve open bodies, looking for secrets, searching for answers only the dead could give. Some believed they could speak with the souls trapped in the corpses, others thought they could bring them back. Madness, all of it."
Ezekiel's eyes widened, the eerie imagery filling his young mind. He couldn't help but shudder as Garrett continued.
"They say the carrion stalkers were once morticians who went too far. Men and women who delved into the darkness so deep, the darkness consumed them. Twisted their bodies. Turned them into beasts. Now they roam the land, long limbs like spider's legs, eyes hollow and glowing faintly in the night. And the stench, lad... they say you can smell a carrion stalker long before you see it. The rot clings to them like a second skin."
Ezekiel shifted uneasily, glancing toward the shadows of the forge. "Do they... do they eat people?"
Garrett gave a dry laugh, though it was devoid of humor. "Oh, aye, lad. Fresh or rotting, makes no difference to them. But their favorite is a fresh grave, just filled. They dig like feral hounds, dragging bodies out before the soil has even settled. Some say they keep trophies, bits of bone or trinkets buried with the dead."
"Have you ever seen one?" Ezekiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Garrett's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Ezekiel thought the old man wouldn't answer. But then Garrett leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"Once. Many years ago. Outside the south gate, near the old cemetery. It was dusk, and I was walking home when I saw it—a figure, hunched over, digging into the earth with bare hands, like an animal. Its limbs were wrong, too long, too thin, and its back was bent in a way that no man's should be. I didn't stick around to get a closer look. Ran all the way home and barred the doors. Didn't sleep a wink that night."
The boy felt a chill creep up his spine, and he instinctively drew closer to the warmth of the forge. "Do you think they're still out there?"
Garrett straightened up, his grin returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lad, in a place like Ashmoor, there's always something out there. Question is, how close is it willing to get?"
Ezekiel swallowed hard, his mind racing with images of the carrion stalkers. Yet, despite the fear, he couldn't shake a growing curiosity. Something about the tale lingered in his thoughts, as if it were more than just a story.
~~~
As Ezekiel walked home, he stayed to the edges of the streets, avoiding people and bleeding into the shadows where the dim glow of the streetlights couldn't reach. The city's whispers of rusted metal and distant screams wrapped around him, familiar yet unnerving.
But as he passed the same alleyway he had hurried by earlier, something pulled at his attention—a heaviness in the air, like the aftermath of a held breath. He paused, his body tense, as a figure began to emerge from the fog.
A lone figure, shrouded in a dark, tattered cloak, moved like a wraith through the mist. The cloak clung to them, its edges frayed and torn, trailing behind as though consumed by the void. From beneath the hood, a grotesque sunflower mask stared out, its warped petals jutting like broken glass blackened by flame. Thin veins of crimson pulsed faintly, feeding a hollow, smoldering center alive with an unnatural, dim light. The void where eyes should be seemed to devour the faint glow, pulling Ezekiel's breath from his chest.
The figure carried something limp—a body. Ezekiel's stomach churned as he realized the person was dragging it deeper into the shadows, to a place that no one would ever find. The sound of the body scraping against the ground filled the alleyway, deafening in the silence of Ashmoor's night.
He froze, staring down the alley, unable to move. And then, without warning, the figure stopped. Slowly, unnervingly, its head turned, the grotesque mask tilting as if it were studying him.
The voice that followed wasn't just deep—it was suffocating, an ancient weight that coiled around Ezekiel like smoke, curling into his mind and spreading dread with each syllable.
"Do you hear it?" the figure said, its voice a rasped whisper layered with echoes, as if a thousand voices spoke in unison. "The roots... They whisper your name."
The figure took a single step forward, the motion deliberate and unnatural, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
"Turn away, little shadow. Before you see what cannot be unseen."
The words slithered through the air, leaving behind a chill that sank into Ezekiel's bones. The weight of the figure's presence pressed harder, a silent demand that crushed his breath.
And then the mask tilted slightly, as if in amusement—or warning.
"Leave... while the soil is still yours to walk."
Ezekiel's chest tightened, his legs trembling. He didn't need to be told twice. Without a second thought, he turned and ran, his footsteps echoing like thunder against the hollow walls of the alley.
He didn't look back, didn't dare to. His mind raced with questions, but fear drowned them out. He couldn't shake the image of the mask, the voice, the body being dragged.
When he finally reached the derelict building he called home, his chest was tight, his breath ragged. He slipped inside, securing the door behind him with shaking hands. The quiet of his refuge pressed against him, but it offered no comfort. Not tonight.
As he slumped onto his makeshift bed, the memory of that voice and the smoldering eyes lingered in his mind, refusing to fade.
In the stillness of the night, Ezekiel realized something unsettling. Whatever that figure was, it had seen him—and worse, it had let him go.
For now.