A thick fog curled through the village, swallowing the narrow dirt paths and clinging to the timber walls of the cottages. The damp air carried the scent of wet earth and the faint trace of decay, though no one dared to acknowledge it aloud. Somewhere in the distance, the church bell tolled—a slow, deliberate chime that echoed through the mist.
Salvatore Vernoux stood at the threshold of the old church, his dark robes blending into the shadows of the doorway. His presence was an anomaly, an unwavering figure against the shifting fog. The villagers, for all their whispered suspicions, sought his guidance, their trembling hands clinging to the cross that hung around his neck.
He had lived in this village for decades, yet the people still regarded him with unease. Some claimed he was a blessing, a devoted shepherd guarding his flock. Others, in hushed voices over flickering candlelight, feared him. The old woman who lived on the edge of the village—the one who rarely left her crumbling home—had been the most devout among them. He had taken care of her, or rather, ensured that she remained useful in ways she did not fully understand.
A knock sounded against the heavy wooden doors of the church, hesitant and uneven. Salvatore turned his head slightly, listening.
"Father Salvatore," came a voice, breathless and anxious.
He stepped forward, unbolting the door to reveal a young man—one of the many laborers from the village square. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted as if he had run a great distance.
"It's the traveler," the young man gasped. "The one who arrived yesterday. He's dead."
Salvatore's expression remained impassive. "Where?"
"Near the old well. His body—there's something wrong with it. We—we don't know what to do."
The priest placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, his grip firm, reassuring. "I will take care of it."
The boy swallowed hard, nodding before stepping aside. Salvatore shut the church door behind him and moved through the fog with unhurried steps. The villagers had gathered at the well, their murmurs a nervous hum beneath the ever-present mist. The body lay sprawled across the damp ground, twisted unnaturally. His face, what remained of it, was frozen in a grotesque expression of terror.
A woman clutched a rosary, muttering prayers under her breath. "The devil's work," she whispered.
Salvatore knelt beside the corpse, examining the marks on the traveler's throat—deep, precise. There was no struggle, only the evidence of a swift, practiced hand. This was not the work of beasts, nor of wandering thieves. He knew this intimately.
He turned to the villagers, his voice calm yet commanding. "We must not let fear take hold. This man's fate is tragic, but we will lay him to rest as we have done before."
The people hesitated, but Salvatore's presence was a balm to their uncertainty. They obeyed, as they always did.
As the body was discreetly moved, the old woman watched from her doorway. Salvatore met her gaze, offering the smallest nod. She would do as she was told, just as she had done before.
But something was different this time. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against him, lurking beyond the mist. Someone was watching. Someone who did not belong.
---
Days passed, and the village returned to its uneasy rhythm. The old woman had done her part, the grave hidden beneath her overgrown backyard, just as the others before it. But rumors festered like rot in the wooden beams of the homes.
A stranger had been seen at the edge of the village, lingering near the church at dusk. He spoke to no one, his face obscured beneath a hood. When approached, he simply vanished into the mist.
Salvatore stood at the pulpit that evening, his voice steady as he addressed the gathered souls. "There are those who seek to bring doubt into our hearts. We must remain steadfast in our faith."
The villagers nodded, but unease had already taken root.
Later that night, beneath the cold glow of the moon, Salvatore moved through the empty streets. His steps were silent, his senses sharp. He had lived too long not to recognize the signs.
He was being hunted.
---
The conclusion of the first episode draws near, and the unseen threads of conflict tighten. Salvatore Vernoux, ancient and calculating, now finds himself in the crosshairs of something more persistent than wandering travelers or fearful villagers.
A force, unseen but undeniably present, lurks just beyond his reach.
And for the first time in centuries, he wonders:
Has the hunter become the hunted?