The oppressive skies above Brindlemark mirrored the growing tension within the village. It had been two weeks since the shard's glow had intensified, and its hum had not quieted since. The villagers, already burdened by the daily struggle to survive, now worked under a constant sense of unease.
Eryndor sat outside his home, watching the village square as people went about their tasks with weary determination. Supplies were running low. The last hunt had yielded little, and the crops in the twilight gardens were withering despite the shard's energy. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at the edges of their resilience.
He heard his father's voice before he saw him. "We'll have to go farther this time," Calder said, his tone heavy with worry. Eryndor turned to see him standing near the central square, speaking with Arin and a few other hunters.
"The beasts are getting bolder," Arin replied, his face grim. "The last group we saw was coordinated, almost like they were herding us away from the best game."
Calder sighed, his broad shoulders sagging. "We don't have a choice. If we don't bring back more food soon, people will start starving. We'll take the risk."
Eryndor's chest tightened as he watched his father walk away to prepare for the hunt. Calder had always been a pillar of strength in the village, but even he was beginning to show the strain.
That evening, the hunters gathered at the village gate, their weapons sharpened and their faces set with grim determination. Eryndor stood at a distance, clutching his notebook. He had spent the day sketching crude traps and snares, ideas that might help the hunters in their task.
He approached his father hesitantly, holding out the notebook. "Father, I... I've been thinking about ways to make the hunts safer. These are just ideas, but maybe—"
Calder glanced at the notebook, then back at Eryndor, his expression softening. "I appreciate it, son," he said, placing a hand on Eryndor's shoulder. "But out there, things rarely go as planned. We'll manage, like we always do."
Eryndor's heart sank, but he nodded. He watched as the hunters disappeared into the gloom beyond the village, their forms swallowed by the toxic mists.
The next few days passed in a haze of quiet anxiety. The hunters hadn't returned, and the villagers' murmurs grew louder with each passing hour. The shard's hum seemed to mirror their unease, its vibrations growing sharper, more erratic.
On the morning of the fourth day, Eryndor woke to shouting. He threw on his cloak and ran outside, joining a growing crowd near the village gate. Two hunters had returned, their faces pale and their clothes torn, but Calder was not among them.
"What happened?" Elder Thorne demanded, his voice cutting through the noise.
The taller of the two hunters, a man named Garen, shook his head. "We were ambushed. A pack of Abyssal Beasts—too many to fight. They came out of nowhere, like they were waiting for us."
"And the others?" Thorne asked, though his tone betrayed that he already knew the answer.
"Gone," Garen said, his voice trembling. "Calder stayed behind to buy us time. He told us to run, and... we did."
The crowd fell silent, the weight of the news settling over them like a heavy fog. Lyra, Eryndor's mother, stepped forward, her face pale but composed. "Did you see him fall?" she asked quietly.
Garen hesitated, then shook his head. "No. But there were too many. He wouldn't have made it."
Lyra closed her eyes, her hands trembling. Eryndor watched her, his heart breaking. He wanted to run to her, to say something—anything—but no words came.
That night, the village was eerily quiet. Most of the villagers had retreated to their homes, their grief mingling with the ever-present fear of what lay beyond the shard's glow.
Eryndor sat alone in his room, staring at his notebook. His sketches of traps and defenses blurred before his eyes as tears welled up. His father was gone, and he had been powerless to stop it.
But the ember in his chest flared again, a spark of determination cutting through the haze of grief. He couldn't let his father's sacrifice be in vain. The shard was reacting for a reason. The beasts were changing for a reason.
Somehow, it all connected to the visions, the whispers, and the shard's power. Eryndor didn't have the answers yet, but he would find them.
As he closed his notebook, a single thought burned in his mind: This world is broken. But maybe I can fix it.
He didn't know how, or even where to start, but he knew one thing for certain. He would not let the darkness consume them.