The snow had fallen in silence for two days straight.
But on the third night, the screams came back.
Not from the town.
From the forest.
The guards on the eastern wall saw the light first—a flickering torch, swaying like bait in the dark. Then it vanished. Then came the sound. Wet. Low. A growl that did not belong to any known beast.
Zareena didn't wait.
She gathered five of her best. The scout twins, the silent axe-wielding hunter, old Doren the bitter mage, and Erenya, the girl who could track a ghost by the way it bent tree branches.
"We finish it," she said, strapping a flask of oil to her belt. "No more waiting. No more running."
They entered the pine woods before dawn.
Frost bit their lashes. The trees stood still, but not quiet. Somewhere deep, the unnatural hum buzzed like a swarm under flesh.
Then they saw it.
A shallow grave, torn open. The missing stableboy. Pale. Eyes wide. No blood. No wounds.
And beside him… a mark, seared into the snow. The thorned rose.
"It's watching," Doren muttered.
Zareena didn't blink. She stepped forward, dropped the oil across the snow, and lit it with a flick of flame.
The creature screamed.
It lunged from the shadows—taller than a man, cloaked in tangled fur and bone, with a skull that twisted midair as if sensing heat. But it didn't expect the trap.
They moved as one.
Erenya's arrow struck first. The twins flanked it. Doren's spell pinned its shadow to the ground. Zareena, without hesitation, shattered a lantern across its back.
It caught fire—and the scream it gave this time was not just pain.
It was memory. Rage. A dying curse in a language no one knew.
"Don't speak to it!" Zareena yelled.
It lunged at her.
She stood her ground.
But before it could reach her, the hunter's axe split its spine.
And with a final hiss, it turned to ash.
The forest fell silent.
They returned to Fort Vireloch at dawn. No celebration. Just exhausted faces. But this time, no one was missing.
Zareena washed the ash from her hands and went to write a report.