The cold air bit at Kian's cheeks as he stepped out of the barn beside Ellie, the low winter sun barely visible behind a sheet of grey clouds.
The villagers stood like a wall in front of them — eyes sharpened, breaths puffing steam into the frostbitten air.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
Then a voice broke through.
"You didn't tell us," said the same man from yesterday — his tone no longer neutral. "Who you really were."
Ellie's eyes narrowed. "We're just survivors."
"Aren't we all?" another villager spat. "But not all of us come bringing nightmares."
"We don't bring anything but ourselves," Ellie snapped. "And maybe that's the part you hate."
The crowd murmured. It was more than distrust now. Kian could feel it — that creeping, invisible charge in the air, just before something broke loose.
Then it happened.
A sharp whistle rang out from behind the crowd.
Suddenly, arms grabbed Ellie from behind. Another rushed Kian, slamming him to the ground. He struggled, kicked — even landed a blow — but it wasn't enough. The crowd moved like a net. Like a trap waiting to spring.
Ellie screamed his name. "Kian!"
He saw her get pulled back, her blade knocked from her hand, ropes binding her wrists in seconds.
Then his world tilted — a blow to the head sent him reeling.
Through blurry eyes, he saw them tie her. Saw the desperation in her face twist to fury.
Saw the villagers drag them both, like criminals, like monsters.
And through all of it… he saw *him*.
The old man.
The village chief.
Standing at the edge of the road, untouched by the frost, unmoved by the chaos.
Just watching.
His hands folded.
His expression blank.
---
The church stood on a hill above the ruined village, its walls cracked, its windows shattered long ago. What had once been a place of worship was now hollow — a husk repurposed for something else.
Judgement.
Punishment.
Kian and Ellie were tied to thick wooden posts near the altar, the smell of dust and rusted iron filling their lungs. Chains clinked. Someone closed the large oak doors behind them, sealing the crowd inside.
Then silence.
Until it broke again — violently.
"OUTSIDERS LOOKING FOR DEATH!"
The scream echoed through the chamber like thunder. The villagers had gathered in the pews, packed tightly, their voices rising into a frenzy of curses, fury, and fear.
"You brought them here!"
"You'll curse us all!"
"They'll summon the Wraiths again!"
"Execution! Execution!"
Kian's ears rang. His head throbbed. Blood dripped down the side of his face.
Ellie, breathless, stared daggers at them. "You cowards…"
Then a voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Enough."
It was deep. Steady.
And colder than anything Kian had heard before.
The villagers fell silent immediately.
The village chief stepped forward, his cane tapping against the old wooden floor. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if the chaos hadn't touched him.
His name was **Ezekiel Brahn** — a name that still carried weight. He had led the village through the Second Shattering. Had watched entire families fall. And had, somehow, kept this place standing.
But now his eyes — one clouded white, the other sharp as obsidian — showed no kindness.
Only finality.
---
Ezekiel faced the crowd.
"We have lived through two Shatterings," he said. His voice was not loud, but every villager leaned forward, held captive by it. "Two storms of darkness. Two waves of hell. We survived not by kindness, but by *caution*. Not by mercy… but by judgment."
He turned toward Kian and Ellie.
"These two walk in from the forest, wear no village brand, carry no offering, speak of nothing before the fire, and sleep beneath our roof without a sign of faith. And then… the *dreams* return."
Whispers among the villagers. Some nodded. Some cried.
"I saw the Wraiths devour my wife," Ezekiel said, his voice never once breaking. "I buried my son during the First Shattering, and I burned my second child's corpse before the Second. Don't speak to me of pity."
Ellie tried to rise, her arms straining against the ropes. "We didn't bring them. You don't even *know* us!"
"That," Ezekiel replied, "is precisely the point."
He turned his back on them and faced the altar.
"We do not hang them," he said to the crowd. "We do not burn them."
The villagers murmured in surprise.
"No," he continued, "we send them to the *cellar*."
The room went still.
Even the bravest villagers paled.
Ezekiel turned again, his face unreadable.
"You will be taken below," he said softly, "to the place we sealed after the last black moon. There… rests a creature we have not spoken of for months."
Kian's heart dropped.
No. It couldn't be.
"A Wraith?" Ellie said, her voice caught between disbelief and fury.
"A captured Wraith," Ezekiel confirmed. "One we kept. Studied. Dissected when it would allow. Chained with every binding known to man and myth."
The villagers watched in silence, most too afraid to speak.
"But it has grown restless," Ezekiel said."It hungers. It remembers."
He stepped closer to Kian, his breath like ice.
"You two will feed it answers. Or flesh. Whichever it prefers."
Kian's fists clenched even against the ropes.
"Monster," Ellie whispered. "You're no better than the Wraiths."
Ezekiel didn't flinch. He straightened his coat, then turned to leave.
"We decide who we become," he said, as he reached the church doors. "But survival always has a price."
Then he opened the door, letting the grey light spill into the church again.
"Execution begins at dusk."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Kian sat in the shadows of the broken altar, the iron chains cold against his skin.
He could barely move. But his mind spun like fire.
He wasn't afraid for himself.
He was afraid for her.
He looked over at Ellie. Bruised. Breathing hard. Still defiant.
"We'll get out," he whispered.
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "We better. Because I'm going to kill that bastard Ezekiel."
Kian looked up at the shattered stained glass window above them.
Outside, the skies were darkening.
And somewhere, below the floor of that church…
Something was waking up.