Veyrath stood alone.
The wasteland behind him was silent, empty. The humans who had once filled it—**the would-be conquerors, the hunters, the fools who thought themselves strong—**were nothing but corpses now.
No one remained to bury them.
No one remained to mourn.
The land had returned to what it had always been.
A place of death.
But Veyrath was not content to rule over the dead.
He needed more.
More prey.
More power.
And he would find it.
The wasteland stretched for miles, a shattered ruin of blackened stone and broken ground. It had once been home to something older than humans, something long since erased.
But beyond it, past the jagged cliffs and the deep chasms—there was life.
Veyrath had sensed it before.
The presence of something else. Something living.
He had ignored it at first, focusing his hunt on the invaders who had dared to enter his land. But now, with them all dead, he turned his attention toward it.
Something lay beyond the wastes.
And he would find it.
Veyrath moved through the crumbling remains of the wasteland, his steps slow, methodical. He did not rush. He did not need to.
The world was vast.
The hunt was endless.
By the time he reached the farthest cliffs, the sun had begun to rise. The light was weak, pale—a feeble thing compared to the darkness he had ruled over.
And before him, stretching out beyond the wasteland—
A valley.
Lush. Teeming with life.
A stark contrast to the desolation he had left behind.
Veyrath paused.
For the first time in this world, he felt a strange sensation.
Something he had not felt in a long, long time.
Not hunger.
Not rage.
Something deeper.
Curiosity.
The valley below was alive with movement.
Not just wild beasts—but something more structured.
Veyrath saw stone roads cutting through the land, wooden palisades marking small settlements.
Signs of civilization.
Signs of new prey.
His lips curled into something almost resembling a smile.
He had crushed the invaders in the wastes.
But these were different.
These ones had homes.
These ones had roots.
Which meant they would not run so easily.
Which meant they would fight.
And that was what he wanted.
Veyrath descended into the valley.
The first creatures he encountered were not human.
They were four-legged beasts, thick with muscle, covered in coarse fur. Prey animals, grazing in the tall grass.
They sensed him immediately.
One lifted its head. Its nostrils flared. Its ears twitched.
A moment later, it bolted.
Veyrath let it go.
It was not worth his time.
But it confirmed something important.
He was the only predator here.
These creatures had never seen something like him before.
Which meant neither had the ones who built the settlements.
They would not be prepared.
They would not understand.
Not yet.
By nightfall, he had reached his first target.
A village—small, isolated, lightly guarded.
Humans lived here, but they were different from the ones he had hunted before.
These ones did not wear heavy armor.
These ones did not carry enchanted swords.
They were settlers.
Farmers.
Workers.
The weakest of their kind.
But weak or strong, they all bled the same.
And so, the hunt began again.
Veyrath did not strike immediately.
He watched.
He learned.
The village was defenseless. Its walls were crude wooden logs, its guards few in number. They patrolled lazily, without caution.
They had never been hunted before.
They did not fear the dark.
Not yet.
Veyrath let them live through the first night.
He moved through the village unseen, his presence nothing but a whisper in the wind.
He let them sleep.
Because tomorrow, when the sun rose—
They would wake to find one of their own missing.
And the night after that, another.
And the night after that, another.
Until the only thing left in the village was fear.
And when the time came to finish them, they would already be broken.
Just like the ones before them.
The village had no name. Not one worth remembering.
It was a settlement of simple people—farmers, laborers, and craftsmen who had never known true danger.
They lived without fear.
They slept soundly at night.
They did not huddle by their fires with weapons drawn.
That would change.
Veyrath perched atop a thatched roof, his crimson eyes flickering in the moonlight. No one saw him. No one knew he was there.
Yet.
He did not strike.
Not yet.
He had done this many times before.
The weak were not to be hunted like warriors.
They were to be hunted like prey.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Until they destroyed themselves.
And so, he waited.
Veyrath studied the humans as they went about their meaningless routines.
The village had a rough wooden palisade, but it was barely enough to keep out wild animals.
The guards were few and inexperienced. Most carried rusted spears or old hunting bows.
Their movements were lazy.
Their footsteps were too loud.
They were not trained.
They had never fought a real battle.
They had never known what it meant to be prey.
The village had two entrance gates—one to the east, another to the west.
Both were poorly watched.
Their guards rotated every six hours.
But some—**the younger ones, the tired ones—**were sloppy. They wandered from their posts.
Some even fell asleep.
Veyrath memorized every face. Every mistake.
But he still did not strike.
Because watching was not enough.
They had to feel it.
They had to know—**without understanding how—**that something was wrong.
That was how fear began.
The first night, he stole from them.
Not food. Not weapons.
Something more valuable.
Certainty.
He took small things.
A tool left on a workbench.
A bucket left beside a well.
A wooden doll from a child's bed.
No one noticed at first.
But the next morning, they felt it.
The farmer who had left his hammer outside his home couldn't find it.
The guard who had left his cloak by the watchtower found it missing.
The child who had hugged her doll before sleeping woke to empty arms.
They searched.
But there were no answers.
And by nightfall, they were uneasy.
They did not yet call it fear.
But it had begun.
The second night, he moved things.
A cart was turned on its side.
A ladder was found lying in the middle of the street.
A door that had been locked the night before stood open.
Again, there were no answers.
Again, they searched.
Again, they found nothing.
The first whispers started that night.
"Someone was here."
"Did you hear anything?"
"We should keep a watch."
They did not yet suspect what hunted them.
Not yet.
But they were beginning to understand.
They were not alone.
The third night, he took someone.
A young man—a woodcutter who had wandered too far from the village.
He was strong. Young. But alone.
He never saw Veyrath coming.
A swift strike—silent. Quick.
No struggle.
No blood left behind.
Just emptiness where he had once been.
When morning came, the villagers noticed immediately.
By noon, they were searching.
By evening, they had torches.
By nightfall, they knew.
Something was hunting them.
That night, the villagers gathered together.
They lit more torches than usual.
Some of the guards stayed awake longer.
The elders spoke in hushed voices.
Fear was setting in.
One of the older men spoke first.
"Maybe he got lost."
A woman—**his wife, perhaps—**shook her head.
"No. He wouldn't have wandered off. Something happened."
A younger man, his voice shaking, spoke next.
"…The things moving. The missing items. The doors. The lights."
The fire crackled.
No one spoke.
Then—Bran, the village's oldest hunter, the only man among them who had seen real battle, took a deep breath.
And spoke the words none of them wanted to say.
"We're not alone."
Silence.
Someone shifted nervously.
A branch snapped in the distance.
They all turned.
But the darkness was empty.
Wasn't it?
Veyrath watched them.
Listened.
Waited.
The villagers did not leave their homes that night.
The guards stood closer to the fires, hands gripping their weapons tighter.
One of them—**young, inexperienced—**kept glancing over his shoulder.
He heard something that wasn't there.
He saw shapes in the dark that didn't move.
Then, he dropped his spear.
It clattered against the stone.
He jumped.
His breath was too fast.
His hands trembled.
He did not know it yet.
But Veyrath had already killed him.
The next morning, they found another door open.
They found a goat missing from the pens.
They found footsteps where no one had walked.
And by midday, another villager was gone.
Now, they did not call it an accident.
Now, they did not call it a coincidence.
Now, they called it what it was.
Something was here.
Something was watching them.
Something was hunting them.
And it was not stopping.
The fear was spreading.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the villagers had stopped speaking in full sentences. Conversations were hushed, fragmented—whispers exchanged between uncertain glances.
They did not know what hunted them.
They did not know why people were disappearing.
But they knew this: something was here.
And it was watching them.
That night, no one slept.
More torches were lit. More guards were posted.
The people huddled in their homes, their doors locked, their windows shuttered.
Some stayed near the central fire, clutching their weapons, speaking in nervous tones.
The village elder, a man named Joren, gathered the remaining adults together.
He was old, but not weak.
His voice carried an authority that had not yet been broken.
"We don't know what we're dealing with," he said slowly, his voice measured. "But fear will kill us faster than any blade."
No one argued.
But no one believed him, either.
Veyrath watched from the rooftops.
Unseen. Unheard.
Below, the guards stood closer together than before.
They had abandoned their usual posts, now gathering in clusters of three or four.
Their hands were tight around rusty spears and chipped swords.
They were afraid to stand alone.
Good.
Veyrath's gaze shifted toward one in particular.
A young guard—barely a man, no more than seventeen winters old.
He had not spoken much during the meeting.
But he had been watching the darkness.
Not like the others.
Not with fear.
With understanding.
He knew.
Or at least, he suspected.
That made him dangerous.
Not yet.
Veyrath would deal with him soon.
Inside the homes, families whispered among themselves.
Some called for a scouting party to search the outskirts of the village.
Others wanted to send for help.
But no one dared to step beyond the wooden walls.
They didn't need to.
Because by morning, someone else would be gone.
They just didn't know who.
The young guard, Edran, stood at the eastern gate, his spear trembling in his grip.
He was trying not to listen to the wind.
Because it was whispering.
He was trying not to look at the shadows.
Because they were moving.
He was trying not to think about what had happened to the others.
Because he already knew.
He was next.
A cold sweat ran down his back.
He could feel it.
Something was here.
It wasn't just a feeling. It wasn't just paranoia.
It was real.
He turned, slowly, to glance at the other guards.
They were all watching the fire, their backs turned to the darkness.
Fools.
He swallowed hard.
He wanted to speak.
To warn them.
But if he did—they would call him mad.
Just like they had called Bran mad last night.
And Bran was gone now.
Edran clenched his jaw.
He would say nothing.
But he would not let it take him.
Not without a fight.
Veyrath moved through the village without a sound.
The fires burned too weakly to reach the farthest edges of the settlement.
That was where he moved.
Where the darkness still ruled.
He passed sleeping livestock, wooden carts, empty barrels.
And then, he struck.
Not at a human.
Not yet.
At a goat, tethered to a fencepost.
A single clawed hand.
A single silent cut.
The animal dropped, throat split.
Blood pooled beneath it.
And then, he left.
At dawn, the screams began.
A woman, fetching water from the well, found the body first.
A dead goat.
Its throat torn open.
No tracks. No sign of struggle.
Just blood on the dirt.
And a single set of claw marks on the fence.
The villagers gathered quickly.
Some were angry.
Some were afraid.
But no one spoke.
Because no one knew what to say.
It was just an animal.
But they all knew it was not just an animal.
Something had been here.
Something had killed it.
And something had left it for them to find.
Elder Joren stepped forward, his expression grim.
"Whatever this is, it is testing us."
The others listened in silence.
He did not tell them to stay calm.
He did not tell them to be brave.
Because bravery did not stop the missing men.
Bravery did not stop what hunted them.
He spoke only the truth.
"We are being watched."
A shudder passed through the gathered villagers.
Edran, the young guard, finally spoke.
His voice was steady. Firm.
"…We need to leave."