It was raining again today in the village of Blackwater.

  Nothing new — the season had been generous with mud and hopelessness.

  The sky, like a torn bucket, soaked the earth through, turning the streets into a filthy slurry.

  The entire area was drowning in mud — there were no roads here, only the memory of them, long since buried along with hope.

  Alongside the rain came a piercing wind, driving the drops through the air like tiny needles stabbing at the face.

  Every step in this mire was agony. A harsh trial for those already burdened by poverty.

  And yet, the village lived on.

  Here, you could see children, teenagers, adults — in short, all the fantastical creatures you'd never meet in a normal society.

  And all of them had one thing in common.

  They worked.

  Amidst all this silent fever moved two figures.

  Too young at first glance to be mistaken for slaves, and yet too worn-out to be taken for children.

  Hunched over, quiet, they were like shadows — born in chains, raised in the mud, used to the cold like a mother’s breath.

  Both were dressed in ragged, filthy rags. Their shirts hung in shreds, their pants held up by mere rope, and their shoes looked like worn-down boots long past their prime.

  Their clothing looked like roughly patched scraps, stitched together in a hurry, but already losing both shape and meaning.

  — Shit, I hate this fucking season so much! I’m soaked to the bone… Gloomer swore. His face said it all.

  And his face was just like everyone else’s here — oval-shaped, with eternally tangled black hair, so dirty not even the rain could wash it clean. He looked just as pitiful as the rest.

  Next to him walked another boy — just as skinny, with sunken cheeks and a lifeless gaze.

  You could tell right away that even the stick they used to carry water barely helped ease the burden on their shoulders.

  — You know, I’ve never missed your whining, said the second boy, glancing at Gloomer. Still not used to your old puddles?

  His voice was barely audible through the pouring rain. But Gloomer had a sharp ear.

  He paused.

  — And anyway, what are you complaining about? It’s just rain! Okay, more like a downpour… Haven’t you seen this kind of thing in other villages you’ve been to?

  Suddenly, a gust of wind grabbed a branch and hurled it past them — it whooshed over their heads, but they both dodged without flinching. As if it happened every day.

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  Lark didn’t miss a beat:

  — You know why this happens? Because our village honors Mother Nature — and she blesses us in return. Now we’ve got a great water supply! And best of all, you might finally wash that filthy hair of yours. And this rain will take away the stench from your body too.

  His name was Lark — the one who’d been through all this shit with Gloomer since childhood.

  Lark found an excuse for everything. Compared to others, he was obsessed with the “Goddess Mother Nature.” Maybe no one worshipped her like he did.

  The village had all kinds of families — poor folks who worked all day, and some more influential ones who could afford better jobs or even rest.

  But these two were at the very bottom.

  Gloomer and Lark struggled to keep their balance, trying not to fall. Around the wooden houses, one had to be especially careful with a stick like that.

  Gloomer, recently returned to his home village after months of work, fixed his gaze on the familiar road leading through the forest to the main gates.

  There, guards used to be posted — warriors clad in armor, who looked at travelers with smirks. They were an integral part of the village, its shield, without which monsters would’ve long since razed it to the ground.

  But now the gates were empty.

  — Hey, Lark, where did the guards at the gates go? asked Gloomer, not slowing his pace.

  Lark gave him a strange look.

  — What guards? The only one who can protect you here is yourself.

  There was something off, unsettling, in his voice. But Gloomer didn’t immediately realize what it was. His thoughts were elsewhere — on the fact they had almost dropped the damn stick.

  — Hey, hey, careful! Everything’s gonna fall because of you!

  — What, because of me? It’s just the wind over there blowing harder than usual! And don’t forget who found this stupid, crooked stick in the first place.

  They argued all the way to the wooden house they were heading to.

  A boy stood on the porch.

  At first glance, it was obvious — he was a different breed.

  Taller than them, around 170 centimeters. Lanky, with neat, clean hair that had clearly been washed recently. He wasn’t smiling, didn’t even look pleased.

  Compared to Gloomer, he was already a teenager.

  — What the hell took you idiots so long? While I was waiting, even Ars managed to take a dump! he shouted.

  His name was Vale, and he looked like a zombie. Honestly, if Gloomer didn’t know him personally, he would’ve thought this guy was a zombie.

  The irony was — this zombie never shut up.

  Ignoring his yelling, they carefully lowered the wooden pole with the water bucket to the ground, and immediately collapsed from exhaustion.

  — Goddamn it, one more trip and I’m dead! Gloomer groaned.

  — if anyone’s to blame for how long it took, it’s Gloomer,” Lark muttered.

  Gloomer just let it slide.

  — Ars, it’s our turn now! Vale shouted.

  He immediately came out and didn’t even look at the two of them.

  — What, they came back already? Damn, I could’ve used another minute to lie down.

  Vale looked at him and replied:

  — Hey, if you three idiots keep going like this, we won’t be done even by tomorrow. Just fill it up and move!

  Without waiting for a response, he darted off.

  Ars lazily picked up the remaining buckets, filled them, and followed after him, yawning.

  Lark cracked one eye open, watching them leave.

  — Sigh... I wish I had his energy. I wonder why, out of all of us, I’m always the one who ends up the most exhausted — mentally and physically?

  — Hmm. I think I know the reason. That idiot Gloomer drains all my mental energy to the point I’m not even sure I have any left. He can rant and whine nonstop, in any weather and under any circumstances. There’s no doubt — he’s the one to blame for my condition.

  After the two of them left, a damp silence settled in.

  Their clothes were completely soaked through and looked more like scraps of cloth than actual garments.

  So by evening, they always had to dry them by the fire.

  Their clothes also couldn’t hide the countless wounds scattered across their bodies.

  All the worst things that could happen on earth were commonplace here. Gloomer and Lark didn’t even know how old they were.

  The only thing they did know — was that they were still just children, with no real understanding of what they even wanted from life.

  Every single day, since childhood, had been the same.

  Work.

  Luckily, they had people to spend what little free time they had with.

  Maybe that was the only thing keeping them from completely losing hope in life.

  Right now, their task was simple — refill the water supply. Water was considered valuable in the village, and workers willing to carry it were in dangerously short supply.

  And then—

  From beside Gloomer, singing could be heard.

  — The river sings, the dream it brings, sorrow fades, and sunlight springs —

  Lark began to sing, suddenly sounding almost happy.

  Lark loved music. He didn’t just go to church to pray — he also loved joining the church choir.

  Gloomer grimaced, swore under his breath, but in the end, he joined in too.

  Even if his voice trembled from exhaustion.

  It was just another ordinary day in Blackwater. Same as hundreds before it — grey, monotonous, buried in routine.

  The village, one of many colonies that fed the kingdom with resources, followed its usual rhythm. But from the moment Gloomer returned to his homeland, he had sensed something was wrong.

  The rain poured down, washing away the dirt, streaming down rooftops, turning the streets into a slushy mess. Everything looked the same as always, yet the feeling of unease wouldn’t leave. The smell.

  In the rainy season, the air was usually thick with dampness, wet fur, and rotting wood. But now, there was something else. Something faint, but wrong.

  Blood? Rot? Or...

  And then Gloomer realized.

  The animals. The birds. They were gone.

  During the rainy season, they usually hid — but they never vanished. The creatures in this region were adapted to the climate.

  Usually loud, filled with the cawing of crows and barking of strays, the village now felt... empty. Not deserted — people were still working, arguing, hauling water. But the usual chaotic background noise was gone.

  No buzzing insects. No howling dogs. No flapping wings.

  The only sound tearing through the thick silence was the rain.

  But even that felt...

  Unnatural. Oppressive. Off.

  Like before a storm.

  Like before something terrible.