In the bleak realm of Ravdale, death comes quietly.
It does not thunder through the sky or howl through the marsh. It does not wear iron armor nor carry a blade.
Eight-year-old Thessa had known this for as long as she could remember.
She first saw it in spring, when lambs were still being born in the fields beyond Black Hollow and the mill wheel turned steady and strong in the thawed river. Old Brenner had been leaning against the fence, telling her she ought not wander so far from home. The sun had been bright. The air had smelled of wet earth.
It hovered just behind his right shoulder, stretching upward in a thin column that seemed to drink the light around it.
She tilted her head.
The world looked unchanged. Brenner grumbled about splintered wood. The mill wheel turned steadily behind her. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys in pale threads.
Only that one patch of darkness felt wrong.
She took a step closer.
"Brenner," she said carefully, "there's something behind you."
He did not turn. "Is there now? A sheep, perhaps?"
"No," she said. "It's taller and looks almost like smoke."
He chuckled, the sound dry as straw. "Then I hope it's come to fix this cursed fence."
As the days passed Thessa watched as the black shadow grew larger, however still hovering behind Brenner.
Thessa swallowed. "You should go inside."
He paused then, turning just enough to squint at her. "Why?"
Because it's thickening, she wanted to say.
Because it's closer than it was yesterday.
Instead, she shook her head. "Just because."
He laughed again and returned to his work thinking this was nothing but a child's fantasy.
He did not wake the next morning.
When Thessa returned home that night she decided to tell her mother about the shadows.
Thessa entered the kitchen as the last light of dusk filtered through the window. The room smelled faintly of bread and yeast.
"Mother…" she whispered, her voice small.
Her mother looked up from kneading the dough, wiping her hands on her apron. "What is it, little crow?"
"There's… there's something behind dad." Thessa pointed toward the doorway, though her father already gone outside "A shadow. It's… it's not supposed to be there."
Her mother's brow furrowed, and her hands paused in the dough. "What do you mean, a shadow? Shadows are always there. The sun goes down, candles flicker…"
"No!" Thessa shook her head, "It's not like a normal shadow. It… it follows him. And it's dark. Not like the night, but… darker. And it doesn't move right. It waits. I think… I think it means something."
Her mother set the rolling pin down slowly, eyes widening, a tremor in her fingers. She crouched so that she was eye-level with Thessa. "Listen to me, little one. You must not speak of these things. Not to anyone. Not even me."
"But why?" Thessa's eyes glimmered with tears. "Why can't I tell anyone? It's real! It's—"
"Because, child," her mother said, her voice lower now, trembling with fear as she gently held Thessa's face, "this world is not kind to those who see what shouldn't be seen. Folk whisper, fear what they cannot understand. If they knew… if they knew, they might burn you, or worse."
Her mother hugged her tightly, pressing her face against Thessa's hair. "Then promise me, little crow. No one must know. Not the baker, not the priest, not even the children. You hear?"
Thessa stared at her mother, swallowing the lump in her throat. She wanted to argue, to cry, to scream that it wasn't fair. But something in her mother's eyes made the words stick in her throat.
"I… I promise," Thessa said, though her gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, the sky was dimming, and the wind carried a faint rustle from the trees.
Her mother kissed the top of her head. "Good. That's my brave girl."
As the days passed Thessa tried her best not to think of the shadows however they were always present while she had just seen the shadow around some sheep, Brenner, and her father now all the villagers had that inky darkness following in their steps.
The night pressed close against the mill house, thick and cold. Candle flames trembled and gave way to the night casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. Thessa lay awake on the straw-stuffed mattress, listening. Every crack of wood, every whisper of wind through the shutters made her heart jump.
Her mother moved silently in the kitchen, washing dishes with hands pale and shaking. Even in the dim candlelight, Thessa could see the worry etched into the lines of her face. Her father's deep, even breathing came from the room beyond, but tonight even he seemed restless.
Thessa pressed her small hands to her ears, trying to shut out the faint creaking of the mill wheel outside. And then she heard it something she shouldn't be able to: the distant beat of hooves on frozen earth. Slow at first, like the pulse of a giant heart in the night.
She bolted upright, hair tangling in her fingers. "Mother!" her voice was tight with fear.
Her mother's hands stilled in the water. She lifted her head slowly to look at Thessa.
"Something is coming," Thessa said
Her mother's jaw tightened. She took Thessa's hands in hers. "Stay calm," she said, but her voice wavered.
Thessa's eyes darted toward the window. A lone crow sat on the window it tilted its head, its red eyes glinting in the light.
"You must hide, little one. Do you hear me? Hide. No matter what happens."
Her mother quickly moves toward the corner where a worn wooden panel concealed the space beneath the mill floor. "Quickly, now. Make sure to make no noise no matter what you see or hear."
Thessa scrambled to her feet, following her mother as she pulled open the panel. Dust and the faint smell of old grain rose from the darkness below. It was a cramped, suffocating space
Her mother pressed her hands over Thessa's small shoulders. "Stay down there. Do not move. Do not peek."
"I promise," Thessa whispered
Her mother hesitated, then kissed the top of Thessa's head. "I love you my sweet little crow."
The trapdoor shut. Darkness swallowed her.
Thessa's small hands fumbled along the rough boards beneath her. She pressed herself against the cold, dust-smeared wall, listening.
The first horse bells rang out as the soldiers entered the village. They moved in formation, torches held high, cloaks dark against the fading sky. Their voices were low but carried authority as they called out, demanding doors and windows be opened.
From beneath the floor, she could hear the first screams. A door kicked in. Wood splintered. Footsteps stamped on the straw-strewn paths outside.
The soldiers were systematic. Every house was searched. Every corner turned. Thessa's father shouted something of a challenge, perhaps a plea and a heavy thud followed. Silence. Then another.
Smoke began to seep through the boards above. The smell was acrid and sharp, biting at Thessa's lungs. The shadows overhead seemed to thicken as the torches spread across the village, flame licking at the roof, smoke curling towards the sky like living tendrils.
Thessa pressed her face to the floor, holding her breath as the heat grew, the smell of burning wood and thatch filling the tiny space. The village she had known the cottages, the mill, the chapel with its cracked bell was being consumed. As she lay their sounds began to stop. First it was the screams then it was the hooves of the soldiers' horses beating against the ground once more.