Emberfall was quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
Not peaceful.
Not asleep.
Watching.
Seraphina noticed it the moment she stepped outside just before dusk. The air had cooled too quickly, as if the sun had abandoned the town ahead of schedule. Fog crept along the streets in thin, restless tendrils, curling around streetlamps and swallowing the lower halves of buildings. The sky bruised itself purple and gray, clouds pressing low like a lid slowly sealing shut.
She paused on the porch, keys still in her hand.
The forest loomed at the edge of town, dark and dense, its tree line unnaturally sharp—as if it had been carved into the land rather than grown. No birds called from its depths. No wind stirred its branches.
It felt wrong.
She'd lived here long enough now to recognize the pattern: Emberfall always went silent before something happened.
She pulled her jacket tighter and stepped off the porch, the wooden boards creaking louder than they should have. Every sound seemed amplified lately. Her footsteps echoed down the street, the fog parting reluctantly as she moved through it.
Missing posters flapped weakly on telephone poles.
She tried not to look at the faces anymore.
They blurred together now—different names, different ages, all vanished without explanation. No police sirens. No search parties. Just quiet acceptance, as if Emberfall had decided these people were no longer worth looking for.
That was the worst part.
The way everyone pretended nothing was wrong.
As she headed toward the town center, the sensation returned.
That crawling awareness.
Like something had turned its attention on her.
Seraphina stopped.
Her breath fogged in front of her as she turned slowly, scanning the road behind her. The street was empty, swallowed by mist. Houses sat dark and sealed, windows shuttered like closed eyes.
Nothing moved.
Still, the feeling remained—persistent and sharp, pricking at the base of her spine.
You're imagining it, she told herself.
But Emberfall had a way of making imagination feel dangerously close to memory.
Kaelen was already waiting by the old clock tower.
He leaned against the iron railing, hood pulled low, hands tucked into his pockets. At first glance, he looked relaxed—casual, even. But Seraphina had begun to notice the cracks in that illusion.
The way his shoulders stayed squared.
The way his gaze tracked movement through fog that hid nothing from her eyes.
The way he always positioned himself where he could see the forest.
His eyes lifted the instant she stepped into the square.
"You shouldn't be out this late," he said.
She frowned. "It's barely evening."
"In Emberfall," Kaelen replied calmly, "that's late enough."
She didn't like how natural it sounded. Not like a warning—like a rule.
"I don't believe in curfews set by vibes," she said, crossing her arms.
For half a second, something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe. Or resignation.
"You will," he said.
That tightened something in her chest.
"You keep saying things like that," she pressed. "Like you know something you're not telling me."
Kaelen straightened, pushing off the railing. The easy posture slipped, just slightly. His eyes darted toward the forest, then back to her.
"Some knowledge isn't given," he said quietly. "It's survived."
The word echoed in her mind.
"Survived what?"
For a moment, she thought he might answer. His jaw tensed, lips parting as if weighing the cost of honesty.
Instead, he stepped closer.
Close enough that she noticed the scars.
They traced his knuckles and wrists—thin, pale lines that looked old. Not the kind earned from accidents. The kind earned from fights you didn't walk away from unmarked.
"Emberfall doesn't like questions," he said. "It especially doesn't like outsiders asking them."
"I'm not an outsider anymore," Seraphina said, her voice firmer than she felt.
Kaelen studied her for a long moment.
"That," he said quietly, "is exactly the problem."
The sound came from the forest.
A sharp crack.
Not the snap of a branch under careless weight—but something deliberate. Heavy.
Kaelen froze.
"Did you hear that?" Seraphina whispered.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"Go home," he said immediately.
"What?"
"Now."
The urgency in his voice sent a spike of adrenaline through her veins. This wasn't paranoia. This wasn't mystery.
This was fear.
Before she could argue, a second sound followed.
A low, guttural growl.
It rolled out of the forest, vibrating through the fog and into her bones. It wasn't animal. She knew that instinctively.
Animals didn't sound like hunger given voice.
The fog thickened, swallowing the tree line until the forest looked endless. Shadows shifted within it—fast, blurred movement that bent darkness around itself.
Her breath caught.
Kaelen stepped in front of her without hesitation, his body angling protectively, shoulders tense. His hands clenched into fists, scars whitening.
"Whatever you do," he said under his breath, "do not run."
Her pulse thundered. "Why?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because it likes that."
The growl came again—closer now. Heavier.
Something moved just beyond the fog. Tall. Too tall.
The clock tower chimed.
Once.
Twice.
The sound echoed through Emberfall like a warning bell.
Seraphina's legs trembled as the realization hit her fully, painfully clear.
The town wasn't quiet because it was asleep.
It was holding its breath.
And whatever was in the forest had just found her.