The morning sun barely reached the valley floor, a pale finger of light brushing over mossy roofs and crooked chimneys. Draven tugged his tunic tighter and led Kaelen along the narrow path to Elder Bran’s longhouse. Smoke from countless fires tangled in the air, carrying the scent of peat and wet straw, and the river beyond whispered over rocks like a soft warning.

The longhouse leaned to one side, timber warped with age, its roof patched with moss and mud. Inside, the air was thick with dust, smoke, and the bitter tang of herbs hung to dry. A dozen children squirmed on benches arranged around a low fire pit. Elder Bran stood at the front, his one sharp eye glinting beneath a furrowed brow, and tapped his staff against the floor.

“Sit,” he said, and the fire’s crackle seemed to snap in answer.

Draven dropped onto a bench, Kaelen beside him, trying to fold himself small. Every lesson here was the same: the fae are beautiful, yes, but cruel. Cunning. Dangerous. They steal children, twist crops, and curse those who displease them. Every story was punctuated with Bran’s sharp voice and the rapping of his staff.

“Remember this,” Bran said, “if a shadow moves where it shouldn’t, if a stranger’s eyes glow too bright… it is a fae. And they do not forgive weakness.”

Draven felt a chill along his spine, Kaelen tugging at his sleeve. He whispered, “Do you think we’ll ever see one?”

Draven didn’t answer. Not here. Not aloud.

Then a small voice piped up from the far bench. “I saw one.”

The room went still, as if the fire itself had stopped burning. All eyes turned toward Merek, a freckled boy with straw in his hair, hands twisting nervously in his lap. “Near the forest edge,” he said, voice trembling but determined. “A little man. Not a man. His ears—like knives. He watched me. Then… he disappeared.”

Bran’s staff slammed the floor. The crack echoed through the hall like a gunshot. “Lies!” he barked, but even his one good eye flickered. “The fae do not come here. Not anymore. Do you hear me?”

“But I saw him!” Merek protested. “I swear!”

A ripple of whispers ran through the children. Some gasped, others shivered. Kaelen pressed against Draven, wide-eyed. “Do you think it’s true?” he murmured.

Draven swallowed hard. He remembered the stories their mother had told, the way her eyes had softened when she spoke of fae, as though she remembered them firsthand. He felt a stirring in his chest — excitement, fear, and the smallest flicker of hope.

“Maybe,” he whispered back, though his voice was too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Elder Bran’s eye narrowed. “Even if you saw something,” he said, voice low now, dangerous, “you will not speak of it again. Outside these walls, such talk invites trouble. Do you understand?”

Merek nodded, but his cheeks burned. Draven could see the fear — the same fear that had lived in his mother’s eyes when she spoke of fae. And somewhere deep inside, Draven felt it too: the sense that the valley’s old stories were not just warnings. They were truths hiding, waiting, just beyond the edge of the forest.

By mid-morning, a small group of children had crept away from the longhouse, their shoes sinking into the damp moss, leaves squishing underfoot. Draven stayed close to Kaelen, keeping a protective hand pressed to his brother’s shoulder. Merek led the way, his freckled face pale and tight with excitement and fear.

“Here,” Merek whispered, pointing toward the treeline, “he was right over—”

A sudden rustle sliced through the silence. All the children froze, hearts hammering. Sunlight filtered through the tall pines, but the shadows pooled unnaturally between gnarled roots, twisting and shifting as if they were alive.

Draven’s pulse quickened. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, though his own voice sounded too loud in the quiet forest.

Then a tiny shape darted across the path — sleek, fur glinting like burnished copper. Its movements were too smooth, too deliberate, like it measured every footfall before committing. The children held their breath.

“A fox!” Kaelen whispered, but his voice trembled.

Draven squinted. The animal’s ears twitched unnaturally, swiveling in impossible angles, and its gaze fixed on the children with a sharp, intelligent awareness that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t just a fox. Not really. Something about it… watched them, calculated them, waiting.

The forest felt alive. Leaves whispered secrets to one another. The wind shifted without reason. Every snap of a twig made Kaelen jump, burying his face against Draven’s chest.

Then it moved again. Faster. Stalking closer in a curious, fluid way. The children froze.

“Don’t… move,” Merek breathed, barely louder than the wind.

The fox crouched, low to the ground, muscles tensing, tail flicking like a metronome of menace. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Then, in a sudden blur of motion, it leapt.

A scream erupted. Kaelen yelped, tripping over his own feet. Merek staggered backward, root catching his ankle. Draven lunged, throwing an arm over Kaelen and pushing him out of the fox’s path. The creature sailed past them like an arrow, landing on the other side of a mossy log with unnerving precision, its copper fur gleaming, eyes glinting almost purple in the dappled light. Then it vanished, swallowed by shadows as if it had never existed.

Draven’s chest heaved. “It… it’s just a fox,” he said, trying to steady his voice, but even he felt his teeth chatter.

Kaelen didn’t respond. His wide eyes were fixed on the empty space where the fox had been. “It… it wasn’t normal,” he whispered. “It—It watched us. I think it… knew us.”

Merek’s freckled face was pale, lips trembling. “I told you! I saw him! He—he wasn’t a man. It wasn’t—” He stopped abruptly, glancing around as though the forest itself might hear him and strike.

The other children muttered in agreement, shoving themselves closer together, their wide eyes flicking to the trees as if the shadows might spring forward at any second. Even the wind seemed heavier here, pressing against their skin, whispering something they couldn’t quite hear.

Draven swallowed hard. The forest was familiar. He had run its paths countless times. But now… the trees leaned closer, the roots rose like fingers from the ground, and the shadows slithered just beyond the corner of his vision.

Kaelen tugged at Draven’s sleeve. “Let’s go. Please, let’s go back.”

Draven hesitated. Part of him wanted to linger, to see if the fox—or whatever it was—would appear again. Part of him felt a thrill, the same curiosity that had driven him to explore every hollow and creek in this valley. But another part — the part that remembered the stories their mother had told — whispered, this is how they take children.

Finally, he nodded and grabbed Kaelen’s hand. “Back,” he said, voice firm. But even as they turned, he couldn’t shake the sensation that the fox’s eyes were still on them, glowing faintly in the corner of his vision.

Over his shoulder, Draven thought he glimpsed a flash of white in the underbrush. Not fur, not light — something unnatural. His stomach twisted, and a low shiver ran down his spine.

The forest exhaled behind them, quieting once more. But the memory lingered, heavy and alive, and Draven knew that whatever had been out there wasn’t just a fox. Not quite.

Something old. Something watching.

The children ran, feet pounding through moss and mud, hearts still hammering from the fox’s leap. Kaelen stumbled over a root, but Draven grabbed his arm, steadying him. Ahead, the longhouse loomed — Elder Bran’s domain of lessons and warnings.

But before they reached it, a shout split the morning air.

“Idiot! Always wandering! I swear, I’ll—”

Draven froze. His father, Harlan, stood in the path, his face red and twisting with rage. Beside him, their mother lingered, hands clutched tightly in front of her, shoulders hunched like a bird trying to make herself small.

“Mama!” Kaelen called, but the other children didn’t stop. They scattered toward the longhouse, laughing and chattering, oblivious to the scene unfolding.

Draven’s stomach knotted. He watched as Harlan’s voice thundered again. “Do you have any idea what I’ve had to put up with because of your wandering ways?!”

Their mother didn’t answer. She shrank further into herself, shoulders folding, head lowering, as though the world itself might crush her. Draven noticed the subtle tremor in her hands, the way her fingers twisted around one another.

Harlan’s eyes narrowed at Draven and Kaelen. “And you two!” he barked, though he seemed more concerned with their mother than them. “Stay close. Don’t go gallivanting like idiots.”

Draven felt heat rise to his ears. He wanted to argue, to defend her — but the words stuck in his throat. Kaelen clung to his side, quiet and frightened.

Before he could respond, Elder Bran emerged from the longhouse doorway, staff in hand. His one eye glimmered, furious. “You children!” he snapped. “Do you realize what you’ve been doing? Running to the forest, wandering where you have no right?”

The children flinched and shrank back, their curiosity dampened by fear. Draven noticed Kaelen trembling, hiding his face against Draven’s chest.

Bran’s voice thundered again. “No one is to set foot near that forest ever again! Do you hear me? Ever! That place is cursed — dangerous to children, to livestock, to anyone who values their life!”

Harlan stepped closer, his voice low and grim. “Bran is right. That forest hides things that do not belong here. I will go myself — we will hunt anything strange that dares to linger. And I will not hesitate.”

The children’s mouths opened and closed, none daring to speak. Draven could feel Kaelen trembling against him. Their mother stayed silent, folding into herself, her presence small and fragile.

Harlan and Bran bent their heads together, speaking in low, urgent tones. Draven caught fragments: investigate, kill, protect the valley. It was clear — the valley’s safety, their father’s authority, and the village’s “laws” were all wrapped into a single, iron-clad obsession.

Finally, the children were dismissed. Draven and Kaelen followed their mother silently down the path, the forest behind them seeming to thrum with quiet, hidden life.