The villagers spoke of him in hushed tones. The name he bore was a lot. A shadow? Death? A curse? They called him a phantom, neither living nor dead, only a presence lurking in the darkness. Some swore he had red eyes that glowed in the night. Others claimed he could disappear into thin air.
However, no one dared to enter the woods.
Especially not since he made it his home.
…
Damaine crouched in the tall grass, watching the boy by the river.
The child had wandered too far from the village, likely chasing after a frog. His small hands splashed in the water as he hummed softly to himself, oblivious.
Damaine tilted his head.
So easy… so unaware…
He could make him disappear right now. Drag him into the woods, cover his mouth and take him to the darkest corner in the forest.
He stepped forward deliberately, his boots crushing dried leaves under his foot. The crunching sound of the leaves made the boy freeze.
Slowly, the little boy turned his head.
And there he was.
A figure standing just beyond the tree line, half-hidden by the shifting shadows of the forest.
Damaine was tall… too tall.
Lanky, yet broad-shouldered, his limbs moved with an unnatural grace, as if he wasn't entirely human. His dark, tattered cloak clung to his frame. Its edges worn like a rope fraying at its last strand. Beneath the fabric, his shirt, once white, was now a stained and faded worn out, stretched over a frame that was lean but surprisingly chiseled.
Then there was his face. Sharp. Hollow.
A face sculpted from hunger and sleepless nights. His cheekbones jutted out, his skin pale from years without sunlight, almost ghostly in the dim light. At the side of his jaw, a little scar peeked out disappearing beneath his collar. His dry and cracked lips stretched into a smile, revealing his straight teeth.
But his eyes? They were the worst of all.
Dark, sunken pools with a gleam that flickered like candlelight on the verge of being snuffed out. The kind of eyes that hide a lot of negative emotions.
The kind that could make a psychic confused.
"Oh? What's wrong?" His voice was sweet yet scary.
The boy whimpered, stepping back.
Damaine followed.
Another step.
The boy stumbled and fell onto his backside. His little hands dug into the dirt, trying to push himself away.
Damaine bent down in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees, studying him like a curious predator.
Then, ever so slowly, he smiled.
However, something about his smile just didn't feel right.
His lips stretched too wide, teeth bared in a grin that was almost painful to hold. His sharp eyes locked onto the boy's, unblinking.
And then
He reached out.
His hand shot forward, fast as a snake. His fingers almost grazed the boy's ankle before the child let out a scream and scrambled to his feet.
Damaine didn't move. He only watched.
The boy ran. His little legs kicked up dirt as he sprinted toward the village, tripping twice, but never daring to look back.
Damaine slowly rose to his feet, tilting his head.
Pathetic.
The villagers called him a monster.
Maybe they were right.