Aira stood in the snow, her breath ragged and uneven. Her lungs ached, the freezing air biting at her insides with every gasp. The wind howled through the trees, hollow and cruel, carrying voices that were not her own.
The tiny bundle in her arms barely moved now.
Her sister’s cries had faded to weak whimpers, barely audible beneath the suffocating silence of the forest. The fever had stolen her strength, leaving her small body limp. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked and dry.
She was dying.
Aira should have turned back.
She should have obeyed her mother, walked away, let the sickness take its course.
But she couldn’t.
Her feet wouldn’t move—not away from her sister. Not away from the only family she had left.
Her nails dug into her frozen palms, pain barely registering through the numbness creeping up her arms.
No.
She wouldn’t let this happen.
She fell to her knees, gripping her sister tighter. The feverish warmth seeped through the layers of cloth, but it was faint. Weak.
Her time was running out.
Aira had no medicine. No food. No help.
But there was one place she could go.
One chance left.
She turned toward the darkened woods, toward the fork in the path. The road to the village was safe. Familiar. But it held only death.
The other road—the one that led to the city—was dangerous. Filled with monsters, both human and otherwise.
But there were doctors there.
And Aira didn’t care what she had to do to reach them.
She would find help.
Or she would die trying.
The journey was a waking nightmare.
Aira trudged through the knee-deep snow, each step an agonizing struggle. The cold gnawed at her fingers, her feet, her face—any part of her that wasn’t already numb.
She whispered to her sister as she walked, trying to keep her awake.
“Stay with me,” she pleaded. “We’re almost there.”
A lie.
The city was miles away.
The trees stretched endlessly in all directions, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. The snow muffled every sound, turning the world into a suffocating void of white and black.
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And then—
Crunch.
Aira’s breath caught in her throat.
She had heard it.
A second set of footsteps.
She turned, scanning the trees.
Nothing.
Only the fog, thick and curling, swallowing the ground beneath her.
She forced herself forward.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The footsteps followed.
Aira’s heart pounded against her ribs. She refused to look back.
It’s just the wind.
Crunch.
Crunch.
No.
Something was behind her.
She stole a glance over her shoulder.
Something shifted in the fog.
Something tall.
Something thin.
It stood in the distance, half-hidden by the mist.
It had no face.
No eyes. No mouth. No features at all. Just smooth, pale skin stretched over a too-long head.
It did not move.
It did not speak.
It only watched.
Even though it had no eyes.
Aira’s breath came out in short, frantic gasps.
She turned back.
She walked faster.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The sound followed.
Faster.
Faster.
She didn’t stop. Not until she saw lights in the distance.
Not until the figure disappeared.
Not until she collapsed.
Aira awoke to warmth.
The heat of a fire bathed her skin, chasing away the cold embedded in her bones. The scent of something rich and savory filled the air.
Her body ached. Her fingers were stiff with cold, her legs burning with exhaustion.
But she was alive.
And she wasn’t alone.
A man sat across from her, dressed in fine clothes, his boots polished, his rings gleaming in the firelight. He wasn’t noble-born—his hands bore the calluses of labor—but he was well off. A merchant, perhaps.
“You’re lucky we found you,” he said, watching her with sharp, calculating eyes. “Another hour, and you’d have frozen to death.”
Aira sat up too fast. Pain shot through her limbs, but she ignored it.
Her sister.
She turned, searching the room desperately—then found her.
The small girl lay on a cot near the fire, wrapped in thick blankets, her face still pale but no longer shivering.
She was breathing.
Aira nearly collapsed with relief.
“I assume you were heading to the city,” the man continued, pouring a cup of something warm and handing it to her. “Why?”
Aira hesitated.
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone.
But she had no choice.
“My sister,” she rasped. “She’s sick. She needs a doctor.”
The merchant sighed, leaning back.
“That won’t be easy,” he said. “The city isn’t kind to the poor. If you want a doctor’s help, you’ll need money.”
Aira swallowed hard.
She had nothing.
“I can work,” she said quickly. “I’ll do anything.”
The merchant studied her for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.
Then, he smiled.
“There is something you can do for me,” he said. “Something… valuable.”
Aira’s stomach twisted.
She knew that tone.
She had heard it before, when nobles came to buy the daughters of desperate families.
The price of survival was never fair.
But what choice did she have?
“What do you want?” she whispered.
The merchant’s smile widened.
“We’ll talk after you’ve rested.”
But Aira already knew.
She had just traded one nightmare for another.
That night, as Aira lay awake on the cot, something shifted in her satchel.
The book.
She had forgotten about it.
Slowly, she pulled it out.
The leather cover was cool against her fingers. The gold-etched title was gone.
As if it had never been there.
Her stomach twisted.
She opened it.
The pages were different.
The words had changed.
At the top of the page, written in fresh, dark ink, was a sentence that had not been there before.
"You left her to die, and yet you read. Good."
Aira’s blood ran cold.
Her hands trembled as she turned the page.
A drawing.
A girl.
The girl looked exactly like her.
But her eyes were missing.
The candle flickered.
Somewhere outside, footsteps crunched in the snow.
Slow.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Aira did not move.
She did not breathe.
She only clutched the book tighter, feeling something shift in the ink.
Something waiting.
Something watching.
And in that moment, she knew—
The real horror had not even begun.
