Running from the war trolls while adhering to the many rules of the mountains was exhausting. At tis, they were forced to stop and leave offerings at shrines—macabre structures of skulls and bones draped in tattered red fabric. The air around them was thick with the scent of decay and sothing more—sothing wrong.
Scattered throughout the mountain paths were cryptic warnings, ssages scrawled in a language long forgotten. Yet, the hardest challenge wasn't deciphering these signs.
It was stopping.
Stopping when sothing noticed them.
They didn't have a full picture of their surroundings, but they could hear. The rustling movents in the trees. The faint, eerie cries in the distance. And worst of all—the voices.
Familiar voices.
Damon clenched his fists as he ran, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
He had heard his mother call his na. Six tis.
He had seen his little sister standing in the woods. Five tis.
And then—Lilith Astranova.
Bleeding, broken, whispering his na, pleading for his help.
But none of them were real.
The horrors of the Duhu Mountains were ancient things, twisting illusions into cruel invitations. A trick. A ga they played, hoping their prey would answer.
If they did… they would be taken.
Damon could feel the others reaching their limits. And then—pushing past them.
Sothing in the air shifted. His ears rang.
Mana surged through his body, twisting, evolving. Becoming more potent.
But so was his shadow's hunger.
His jaw tightened. He was nearly out of magic crystals. Soon enough, his Sacrifice skill would start pulling from his own mana to sustain it. His hunger.
The sun was setting.
Damon exhaled through his nose, unfolding the map in his hands. If his calculations were correct, they were approaching a shrine—one of the few ritual grounds.
If they made an offering, they could camp there for the night.
His shadow stirred behind him, watching the war trolls in the distance. They had slowed their pursuit, settling into the darkness.
Even they didn't want to provoke the horrors of these mountains at night.
Damon stopped as they reached the ritual ground. A massive, gnarled tree stood before them, its bark twisted, its branches stretched like skeletal fingers. Human skulls hung from its limbs, swaying gently in the wind.
He turned to his party.
"We rest here for the night," he said, his voice firm. "We can't move in the dark safely."
The others collapsed to their knees, gasping for breath. Damon, still steady, walked toward the ritual ground. His steps slowed as his eyes locked onto a figure already waiting for them.
A humanoid creature covered in thick white fur sat cross-legged near the shrine, grinning at them with a mouth that wasn't where it should be.
Its legs were folded—but they were on its head. Its true mouth was embedded in its stomach, hidden beneath tufts of fur.
It giggled. A light, almost cheerful sound.
The others stole wary glances but did not acknowledge it. That was the rule.
This place belonged to it.
Damon walked past, his party trailing behind in cautious silence. After a full day in the Duhu Mountains, they had grown accustod to the unnatural. The creatures with shrines were different. As long as you left an offering, they granted safe passage.
Matlock spared it a brief look before quickly turning away. The entity twitched, seemingly entertained by sothing only it could see.
Damon knelt and placed a small piece of his rations before the shrine.
One by one, the others followed, leaving behind whatever they could spare. The offerings didn't need to be extravagant—just sothing.
Slowly, they backed away.
Only when they were a fair distance from the shrine did they stop.
Dropping their supply bags, they worked wordlessly, setting up a single tent.
The sounds of the mountains were growing louder.
The rustling of unseen things.
The wet, guttural breathing.
The cries of infants, echoing where no children should be.
And—voices.
Voices talking about them.
Malicious whispers.
Different-colored eyes flickered in the darkness beyond the firelight.
But they pretended not to hear. That was the rule.
If you hear sothing—no, you didn't.
If you see sothing—no, you didn't.
Yet, the voices persisted, so amused, others hungry.
"Hehehe… my, my, visitors tonight."
"I wonder if they would be tasty…"
"Sylvia, my dear child… I'm your mother. Look at . Let in. Let us play together…"
Sylvia's hands trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Don't be sad, Damon. You aren't alone. Co with your mother. You must be tired of this painful life…"
Damon clenched his jaw.
"Hehehe… I need a new bride. My old one died. That golden-haired one would do just fine…"
Evangeline shivered her face ashen.
Matlock shuddered violently.
They ignored it all, forcing their trembling hands to work faster.
The fire was built, its light flickering weakly against the endless void of the trees. As soon as it was stable, they hurried into the tent, zipping it shut.
The space was too small for them to lie down. They sat, knees pressed together, barely able to move.
Outside, the voices grew. The ground shook.
Shadows flitted across the trees, slipping between the gaps of the campfire's glow.
But no one looked. No one acknowledged.
The tent's fabric trembled as a breathy voice rasped just beyond it.
"Co in, children. It's Granny… Granny won't hurt you… I only want your organs. Just a little liver and kidney…"
Two glowing eyes hovered just beyond the tent flap. But it could not enter—unless invited.
Matlock clung to Damon, burying his face in his chest. His delicate hands trembled, his entire body stiff with fear.
Damon leaned his head against Matlock's, feeling the unnatural softness of the fairy's form pressed against him.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Get so sleep. There's no one outside. It's just the wind."
The others looked at him. Slowly, they nodded. Pale-faced, exhausted, they turned their backs to each other, forming a circle.
Despite the fear—despite the horror whispering just outside—they fell asleep.
As the night stretched on, the creatures lost interest. One by one, their voices faded.
Slowly sothing let out a low puff of wind.
The fire flickered weakly.
Slowly, the fire burned low… then died out completely.
In the pitch-black silence, the tent zipper slowly—silently—slid open.
A long, deford hand reached inside.
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