Why did sleep overcome him so easily?

The question dissolved before it found an answer.

Beyond the village, where the heavy, cloying air did not reach, Stefano stood alone in the open. He remained upright, his back to the trees, eyes fixed on the village gates. He neither entered nor retreated. He only… watched.

The quiet granted him time to regain clarity of mind. And that was not a good thing. For with clarity came the stark realisation of his solitude. Weak and wounded, powerless to flee from any danger that might assail him. 

Whatever emerged from the trees behind, he could not escape. 

Whatever came from the village ahead, he could not fight. 

Trapped between two choices.

He glanced right and left—nothing illuminated the place save the moon and the silent trees encircling him. Yet he had seen what came from them hours ago: breathing corpses, bodies moving without reason. 

He would believe nothing else.

And those fools who followed him? They entered the village as if it were safe. They would die tonight. Or in the morning… it made no difference. 

But he would not be among them. He would stay here.

He tightened his grip on the axe’s handle. The hard earth beneath him, the cold air around him. Every branch that stirred, every shadow that neared—he noticed.

He thought of fire. If he lit one, it might push back the darkness, might quell the beasts, as the old tales promised. Corpses, ghosts, dragons—monsters all. 

No. Fire would draw their attention, and their attention brought death. He banished the thought.

He was not mad, whatever they called him.

Far off, the village houses glimmered quietly. Familiar. He had lived among them for six years. The village had never attacked him, even when he saw what he saw. 

It only struck when he tried to flee. 

So… if he didn’t run, would they not pursue him? Whatever they were.

A foolish thought, but…

He shifted his wound nervously, the pain still sharp. An unknown fate awaited him here in the open. Suicide, if he tried to light a fire. A gamble, if he entered the village. He might die. He might not. 

But he would lose his freedom.

He clenched his teeth. Prison. The word left a bitter taste on his tongue. Not the first time. He had survived it. Escaped it. If he must… he would do it again.

He looked at the village once more. His life for his freedom. 

Not a good wager, but the only one available.

He pushed himself forward. Each step towards the gate heavier than the last. Not from the wound.

He stopped at the gate, hands trembling. Just one night. 

That’s what he whispered to himself. Survive tonight, think of escape tomorrow. 

A foolish plan. But a plan.

He entered. He walked among the silent houses with caution. No one in the streets, no sound, no movement. Only him and his shadow, and a cold moon watching from above.

He stopped before his house, eyeing the door, slightly ajar, as he had left it when he fled. He entered slowly. It was as he knew it—dark and cold. But safe. Relatively.

He closed the door behind him and sat in the corner, back against the wall, eyes on the door. He gripped the axe until his knuckles ached. 

He would not sleep. At least… he would not try.

Tomorrow. He would escape tomorrow. 

A lie he had told himself hundreds of times before. But it helped. 

It always helped.

In the morning, Matteo awoke weighed down. He did not try to rise quickly, but lay still, eyes half-closed, waiting for sensation to return to his heavy limbs. The previous day’s fatigue had overcome him, and it seemed one night would not suffice to restore his strength.

His gaze settled on a corner of the ceiling where a spider’s web hung, and he passed the time tracing its maker’s path. A hunter caught unawares by another in his own lair, above his very bed! He abandoned the inner jest when he realised he would not find the creature, shook off the lethargy of sleep, and began donning his gear piece by piece before leaving the room.

Outside, Labi was preparing the table. Matteo glanced through the window; the sun had risen long ago, and he marvelled at his prolonged slumber. He was unaccustomed to such tardiness, nor was slight fatigue an excuse he accepted.

But he shook off his misgivings and approached Labi, who greeted him, “Good morning, Sir Matteo. I hope you found rest?”

Matteo replied courteously, “I slept in bliss, thanks to you.”

His words brought a smile to the host’s face. “That’s all I could wish for,” Labi said, beaming.

Matteo glanced at the table. “Breakfast?”

Labi nodded. “Just some wild berries and sparrows.” He placed the final piece on the plate. “I wasn’t expecting a guest, so forgive the humble fare.”

Matteo replied swiftly, pulling a chair, “On the contrary, it piques my curiosity. I’ve never tasted sparrows or wild berries.” He said it, ignoring the charred edges.

“Then I hope it pleases you.”

Matteo tasted a berry and found it delightful. The flavour reminded him of grapes, though sharper with a slight tartness. Emboldened, he tore a piece of sparrow meat and was surprised by its texture—reminiscent of young chicken, but tougher, with a stronger savour. The idea charmed him; he fancied he might try hunting upon his return. He was certain his wife and child would delight in a new dish at their table.

A smile curved his lips, then faltered as he noticed Labi still standing beside him. He considered inviting him to eat but held back, reminding himself the man was not one of his soldiers, nor was he Labi’s commander. Two worlds that rarely met. Here he was, missing his rank before he had even relinquished it.

He sighed, finished his meal hastily as his appetite waned, then thanked Labi for his hospitality and departed, leaving the hunter to sate his hunger and rest in the solitude of his home.

At the door, Matteo paused, casting a scrutinising glance at the muddy ground. Had it rained last night? Even the roar of rain hadn’t woken him. 

He was truly ageing.

He saw the house where Rami and the others had spent the night, standing a few buildings to his right. The path between stretched wide and straight from the village entrance, lined with scattered houses separated by open spaces. This evenness of the road made it easy for him to discern the buildings aligned along it, before they dissolved into the chaos of construction—structures overlapping, their outlines blurring into indistinct shapes.

He had always thought villagers were more attuned to the expanse of space.

The walls of the house he watched suggested solidity, though built of clay and wood. Its single window, glimpsed last night, was narrow as a wary eye, ill-suited to the building’s grandeur, yet common in villages. But what truly troubled him was that he saw none of his men.

Could the entire group have overslept?

He scanned the place, seeking a shadow of a comrade or a trace of his company, heedless of the villagers’ stares or the whispers swirling around him. His scrutiny yielded no familiar faces.

Then a familiar voice reached his ears. He turned towards its source and saw the woodcutter seated on a doorstep, a ring of children gathered around him. A vague unease pricked his heart, as if something in this scene was amiss, though he couldn’t place it.

Suspicion gripped him. He approached slowly, wary of the slick ground, his eyes fixed on the group. He passed a young couple sitting silently before their door, until he neared the cluster around the woodcutter. There, he heard Stefano speak: “In a world where daylight stretches an age and night falls but a little shorter, where seeking the moon’s mercy is folly and chasing the sun in the darkness of night is suicide, there they dwell… a people without names, unbound by form, unmoored by memory of the past or hope for the future. They are children of the moment, blessed with oblivion, denied repetition. As for other creatures, they whisper to the world in its tongue, and it listens with its ears, answering with its breezes. But the forgotten ones—it neither hears nor knows them, though they call out, nor heeds them, though they speak its language. They became mirages, robbed of the grace of whispers, wandering as ghosts beseeching the wind…”

Matteo stopped listening to the tale. He had heard it hundreds of times in his youth, and he doubted anyone hadn’t. Not wishing to interrupt Stefano or spoil the children’s delight, he turned back the way he came. As he passed the elderly couple…

Something halted him mid-step.

He adjusted his stance and approached the couple, who abruptly ceased their conversation, watching him with veiled caution. He stopped at a respectful distance. “Good day, sir… madam.”

Tension and fear seized the couple for a silent moment before the husband rose, his wife partially hiding behind him. His voice was polite but laced with evident unease. “Good sir, how may we honour your presence?”

Matteo smiled at the man’s courtesy, ignoring his tension, and gestured to the half-woven fabric in the woman’s hands. “Pardon me, I wished to ask about this.”

The couple’s eyes darted to the fabric, then exchanged a fleeting glance. A look of understanding, one he had shared with his wife many times.

The wife spoke, her voice softer than a whisper. “It’s a decoration we’re preparing for the festival, sir.”

Matteo knew what festival decorations looked like. That wasn’t his question. “I mean… why now? Hasn’t the festival long passed?”

Another glance between them, deeper this time, brimming with hidden understanding, before the husband replied slowly, “It’s the fifth of Dihoras, sir… the festival is eleven days hence.”

No. Impossible.

He had seen the moon last night with his own eyes, every night of their journey. They were on the twenty-second, not the fifth. More than that, he had celebrated the festival with his family mere days ago.

Since waking, he had felt something awry, twisted, out of place. He had tried to dismiss it. hoping it was mere illusion. 

He could no longer.

Strange. Hadn’t he wished, hours ago, to find something unnatural here? And now, faced with strange signs, he tried to ignore them?

His head. No time for this.

He bid farewell to the rattled couple, their minds preoccupied, and strode towards the large house, his steps quicker than befitted him. He knocked once, twice, thrice—no answer. He pounded harder, his fist striking the wood until he thought his voice would reach every corner of the small village.

Silence.

Impossible that this hadn’t roused them.

He struck the door one final, violent time. Then he moved to the small window left of the entrance. He pushed the wooden frame—it didn’t budge. He struck it with his palm—it wouldn’t open, as if fused to the wall, part of the stone itself.

He pressed his eye to a narrow slit meant for air. The interior was dark, save for a candle in a holder between the window and door, casting a corner of light in a sea of shadow. Why light a candle in the morning when sunlight flooded outside? Why not open the shutters?

He forced his eyes to adjust to the gloom, searching for any sign of life within. Any movement.

Then, at the far right, beyond the door and candle, his gaze fell on a wooden staircase without a railing, hugging the right wall, ascending to the second floor. And upon it, in near-darkness, two shadows.

The first was tall, thin, gaunt—taller than any man in his team—sitting on a step, back straight as a pillar, head tilted. The second was shorter, smaller, a boy not yet a man, standing on a lower step. The distance between them made the first seem a giant, the second a dwarf.

Neither moved.

“You men!” he shouted, his fist pounding the window. “Open the door! Do you hear me?”

The shadows didn’t flinch, didn’t turn their heads, didn’t show the slightest sign they heard him. As if they were statues. 

As if they were…

No. He wouldn’t think it.

He could no longer bear this unsettling mystery. He was about to strike the window harder, perhaps shatter it, when the air erupted… then froze.

Screams. Multiple, horrific screams tore through the air from the left.