day.

  The sky opened up that day, rain p down in endless sheets, drumming against the stone walls outside. The cave was dark, nearly suffog, and though the storm was fierce, it wasn’t the rain that kept us trapped i was the strange, almost supernatural darkhe heavy, oppressive weight of the storm that made every shadow feel alive.

  We were sealed in. The hunters stood guard, their spears within arm’s reach, their eyes fixed warily on the cave entrance as if something might force its way in. Tahya, the shaman, crouched by the entrance, her smoke pot releasing tendrils rant inse that wafted toward the outside world, twisting into the air like a silent ward.

  primitive magic is dangerous its less of man made spell and more of a natural spell magic itself whispers it to you, mana itself wants to be used, I watched tahy do here thing and I was more nervous from watg her then the darkness. if she fucks up something I don't want to be close to her when she explodes or summons something.

  Then she moved to the cave ter with rush-light.

  With nothing to do, we kids gathered close around Tahya, ging to the faint warmth of the rush-light sticks as she leaned in, her face half-shadowed by the flickering fire. She had that look—the ohat meant she was about to tell us a story. We settled in, huddling closer, but a part of me was tense, wary. There was something about this darkness outside, about the silehin, that seemed almost unnatural.

  Then she began.

  “Listen, children. This is a story not of life, but of how we die,” she murmured, her voice low, grave, like an old t. I felt a chill run down my spine, even as the other kids giggled nervously. Her words seemed to settle over us like a b of dread.

  “Something lurks in this world with us,” she tinued. “We don’t know what it is—only that it’s hungry. Evil. Something a, primal, savage. It is as old as fire, but darker… far darker. It’s as big as the night itself, and always, always hungry.”

  She paused, her gaze drifting to the shadows, as if something might reach out from them. I felt my skin prickle, the weight of her words sinking in. It’s as big as the night…

  “Our people once lived freely, uhe sky by day and night,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “But that ged when it came from the night-sky. Our aors saw it rip open the heavens, dark tendrils of shadow pushing it down, until it crashed to earth like a rock of fire.”

  I shivered, staring into the fire, watg the embers pulse with each gust of smoke. My mind raced with images of something huge and dark desding from the sky, something powerful enough to split open the heavens, opening portals between worlds. Could something like that really exist?

  “At first, there were only strange night,” Tahya tinued, her voice steady but distant, as if remembering something she’d seen herself. “And theh followed. Silehs. Children who went missing, never found. Warriors who left for the hunt and never returned.”

  A murmur rippled through the group. I swallowed hard, trying to ighe knot tightening in my stomach. I wao dismiss it as an old story, a tale to keep us scared and quiet. But Tahya’s face was unreadable, her eyes shadowed and solemn.

  “Our bravest fought it,” she said, her voice stronger now. “They broke mountains, diverted rivers, waged war against the darkness itself. But it was too big, too powerful. The rgest tribes, even cities, scattered, retreating to caves just to survive. And so, we have lived with it ever since. Hidden. Hunted.”

  “Is it still alive?” one of the younger children asked, his voice a trembling whisper.

  Tahya looked at him, and for a moment her gaze softened. “Yes,” she replied, her voice barely above a breath. “Do you know that feeling you get when you turn your back to the forest? That cold shiver that crawls up your spine, like eyes are watg from the shadows? That is it. It and its children.”

  She turned her gaze back to us, her expression fierce. “They’re creatures of the dark, figures our aors saw only by moonlight. Shadows with eyes like burning amber. Its eyes. It watches us, children. It always watches, and if we ever fet, we’ll disappear like all the others.”

  “I’m not afraid,” a boy beside me piped up, puffing his chest, though I saw his hands tremble. I almost envied his stupid bravery.

  Tahya’s gaze ierg as she looked at him. “Not afraid?” she echoed, her voice a whisper of pt. “The darkness outside would reduce even our stro huo tears. It is a darkhat drives men mad, a huhat digs intraves to find us again, even ih.”

  The words sank into me like a stohe weight of them dragging down, filling my lungs with ice. I felt myself stiffen, stealing a g the other kids, all of us suddenly looking at the far end of the cave where the old woman y sleeping. Everyone knew her story—how her child vanished in the woods one evening, and how her husband followed, only to disappear too, leaving nothing behind.

  “No screams. No blood. No st. Just goahya’s voice dropped to barely a murmur, but we heard every word, every beat of silehat followed.

  “And that’s why the night is absolute death,” she tinued, her voice calm, steady, as though sharing some unshakable w. “Our fire, our stohey’re feeble shields against the dark. They’re all we have, and we wield them desperately, hoping to see another dawn.”

  The shama her words linger, heavy as the shadows pressing around us. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tear my eyes from her face, couldn’t stop the primal fear curling in my gut. It felt as though something was out there now, watg, waiting for one of us to make a mistake.

  I wao shake it off, to ugh with the others, to preteory was just that—a story. But deep down, I kahya’s words carried a warning, a truth we all felt but rarely spoke aloud.

  “There’s ohing we know for certain,” she finished, her voice like a stone dropping into dark water. “There is something with us in the woods.”

  The story ended, and the silence was almost deafening. The rain outside seemed to have slowed, the patter against the stone quieted to a soft, rhythmic drumming. The hunters’ eyes remained fixed orance, spears poised, ready, even as the storm passed.

  I spent the time making a spear. And as I sat there, staring into the smoke from Tahya’s inse, and studying its primitive spell form I noticed it was only keeping the smoke lingering in the air for loime as barrier against something, a chill washed over me. I didn’t o see it to know—out there, in the shadows, something was waiting.