A gray fog, soaked in the smell of rot and damp earth, enveloped the world like a shroud. Lim opened his eyes, and his gaze immediately came across the rotten beams of the roof of his hut. Sky? What kind of sky? He didn't remember a single day when there was something above his head except this sinister veil of fog. It seemed to him that he was born in this darkness, related to him, like another limb, which can neither be torn off nor hidden.
The cold made his way to the bones, even under a layer of dirty rags, which he used instead of a blanket. He felt every breath scratch his lungs, reminding him of the heaviness of this world. He was twelve years old, but he knew neither joy, nor games, nor ordinary childish carelessness. His world is a forest stretching behind the hut, full of rustles and sighs, from which he has learned to isolate the approach of danger.
This is a world where the sun is just a pale echo of forgotten fairy tales, and darkness is a constant guest in his house, in his heart.
From the inside, the hut was even more miserable. A clay floor, on which some poisonous grass sprouted in places, a barely warmed hearth, where he tried to keep the fire that someone once left. On the wall, scratches are not just drawings, but a count of the days left by someone's fingers. Lim didn't know who made them, and he didn't attach importance to them.
Time didn't matter. Every day is just another attempt to survive.
There was a rustle behind the wall. Something big and heavy was moving among the trees, breaking through dry branches. Lim felt a fragment of obsidian in the corner of the hut - his only weapon, his last hope. He knew that they come when the cold especially pierces, and the darkness seems almost tangible.
They are the offspring of darkness, just like this world itself, but unlike it, they are always hungry. Their eyes, when he saw them in the short minutes of the fading light of the bonfire, were burning with unholy thirst, causing even him, a boy who had already seen too much, tremor.
Today he will go in search of food. Small berries, roots, which are getting less and less, and if you're lucky, you may be able to catch some small animal.
He doesn't know how much longer he can last like this, he doesn't know what the next day will bring him, but there is something that makes him not give up.
Maybe it's not hope, but something more ancient, primitive - the instinct of survival.
Lim stood up, and the fog seemed to embrace him, pushing him out of the hut into the world of eternal darkness. The day has begun. And he was doomed to fight for him, as well as for every subsequent one.
Lim made his way through the thickets of thorny bushes, trying not to make a sound. The fog, thickening, became almost tangible, and the trees seemed ghostly silhouettes.
He didn't go at random. The nostrils caught a faint but distinct smell of blood. In this world, where life was often equated to death, blood was not just a sign of a wound, but a promise of prey.
Hope, like a weak light, warmed up in the depths of Lim's soul. He followed this invisible thread, trying not to lose sight of it.
Blood led him deeper into the forest, to the clearing, where a dark silhouette was visible among the withered grass. It was a deer, young, but already wounded. His side was torn, and the blood stained the ground with dark drops. Lim sat down, watching. His gaze tenaciously covered the animal's body, assessing how strong or weak it was.
He remembered how he was taught: never attack blindly, first make sure that you have a chance, and most importantly, make sure that you are not a prey.
But something was wrong. A slight tingling ran down the back of the heek, causing the skin to get goosebumps. An unknown danger was approaching. His instincts shouted, demanding to get out of here immediately.
Lim rushed to the nearest tree, old and giant, with a huge hollow at the base. He dived inside, curled up, trying not to make a sound. The tree was rotten, but it was enough to take cover.
Lim saw him through the cracks in the sluff. It came out of the fog like a product of nightmares. It was impossible to say exactly how many heads and limbs he had.
Black, as if torn out of the darkness itself, covered with coarse wool, and with countless mouths planted with sharp fangs. Each mouth gaped with pale fire, reflecting the dim light of the fog, and many eyes shimmered with white dots, catching every movement.
It wasn't a wolf or a bear, like those Lim occasionally saw in the distance. It was something that had to remain in nightmares.
The monster approached the deer, and one of its many mouths dug into the lifeless body. The crunch of bones and torn flesh sounded in silence like a terrifying symphony.
Lim's immobility was caused not only by fear. It was something more. It was a horror that paralyzes the body, and which makes the breath freeze in the chest.
The monster tormented the deer, not paying any attention to the world around him, as if absorbed by his own devilish meal.
Lim squeezed a fragment of obsidian in his hand. His fingers whitened from tension. He knew that if he hadn't given in to instinct, he would be in the place of a deer now. It's like someone's evil hand, invisible, but always guiding him.
The monster finished the deer, and several mouths were heard with a growl filled with wicked malice, as if feeling something.
Then, this terrible creation of darkness disappeared back into the fog, leaving behind only the smell of death and fear.
Lim sat in his shelter, not moving, until the last echoes of his terrible feast died down. This day showed him not only what he was ready to do for the sake of survival, but also how fragile life in this world is.