The First Strike

The night air, usually a balm of cool earth and pine, was now a thick, suffocating blanket of dread. It tasted of metallic fear and something else, something ancient and hungry. A primal shriek tore through the stillness, followed by the tearing of flesh and the panicked bleating of sheep. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I’d been tending to a poultice for old Master Hemlock’s cough, the scent of chamomile and lavender usually so grounding, but tonight, it did nothing to soothe the tremor in my hands.

The sounds of chaos were drawing closer, a wave of terror washing over the quiet village of Oakhaven. Farmsteads on the outskirts, usually dark and peaceful, were now illuminated by the flickering, unnatural glow of… something. It wasn’t the warm, steady light of lanterns. This was wild, predatory. Another scream, this one a man’s choked cry, spurred me to action.

I snatched my heavy woolen cloak from its peg, the rough fabric a meager comfort against the rising chill. The front door creaked open, and I peered out into the moon-drenched night. The crimson moon, a celestial omen I’d grown to associate with Valerius, hung swollen and blood-red in the sky, casting an eerie, distorted glow that made familiar shapes seem monstrous.