Thom
I wasn't supposed to be there.
I was supposed to be bringing home a boar. That's what I told Mama when I left in the morning, gripping the dull hunting knife she let me carry—the one Papa used before he left for the war.
If I could bring back something real, something big, maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would mean I was strong, like him.
But I got lost.
The trees stretched too tall, too wide, swallowing the light as I walked deeper. The farther I went, the quieter it got.
No birds, no wind, just the sound of my own footsteps and my breathing. Papa told me once that the world goes still before something bad happens. Maybe I should have turned back then. Maybe I should have listened.
But then—I saw them.
Elias and a brown haired boy.
I only knew Elias by name. He was one of Papa's old soldier friends, the kind people talked about when they thought no one was listening.
Loyal to the king, but never acted like it. A soldier who didn't stay with the others. Lived out in the woods instead of in the barracks, never came to town unless he had to.
I never cared about him before. But now, I wish I never saw him.
I crouched behind a tree near his cabin, watching. I didn't mean to spy, but something about them felt wrong.
Elias was teaching the boy how to fight, a wooden sword clutched in his hands. It took me a second to recognize him—the quiet one with Karin at the festival. So he was with Elias? His kid? Someone he took in?
He moved awkwardly, his swings too slow, his footing all wrong. I almost laughed, almost called out, but something made me stop.
He wasn't like the other boys who trained in the square, who yelled and boasted and swung wildly. He was too quiet, too focused.
And then—he started getting better.
His stance steadied. His grip tightened. His eyes never left Elias. Like he was memorizing everything. Like he wasn't just learning—he was absorbing it.
Then it happened.
The boy dropped his sword, hands flying to his head. His body seized, his breath coming out in ragged, painful gasps. I thought maybe he was sick, maybe he was dying.
And then—his hair started changing.
White.
Not pale. Not gray like an old man's. White like snow, spreading through the brown in thick streaks, like frost creeping over glass.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, something cold settling in my stomach.
That's not normal. That's not human.
And then I saw the birds.
The dead ones.
They moved.
Not twitched. Not shuddered.
Moved.
----------
The woods are dark, the trees towering and twisted like they're reaching for me. My breath comes in sharp gasps, my chest burning, my legs aching, but I don't stop running.
I can't. The images won't leave me.
His hair turned white, I'm sure of it. And those birds—they were dead. I saw them die.
And then they weren't.
I trip on an exposed root and slam my hands into the dirt. Pain jolts up my arms, but I barely feel it.
My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. My whole body knows I should run the other way, but I force myself to get up. To keep moving. My friends call me, but their voices sound like they're underwater.
I knew it. That boy. The way his eyes looked at me.
Those white devils. The ones that killed Papa.
Before I knew it I burst through the front door of my house so hard that it crashed against the wall.
Mama jumps, nearly dropping the wooden spoon in her hand. The stew pot rattles. She turns, scowling.
"Thom! What in the world—?"
I double over, gripping my knees, struggling to breathe. My hands shake at my sides.
Mama wipes her hands on her apron, already exasperated. "Where have you been? Where's that boar?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
My throat feels tight, dry. I can still see them—the birds, their twisted wings, the way they convulsed like something was puppeteering them from the inside.
No one would believe me.
Mama folds her arms. "Well?"
I swallow hard. "Mama," I whisper. "I saw something bad."
She exhales through her nose. "Thom, I swear, if you're making up another story—"
"I'm not!" I snap, too fast.
She gives me a look. That flat, unimpressed kind of look that means she's already decided I'm lying.
And maybe she has a reason to.
Last winter, I told her I saw a shadow beast in the trees so I could get out of chopping firewood. And last spring, I swore on my own life that I saw a ghost near the baker's shop—just to see if I could make the younger kids scared.
But this isn't like that.
I open my mouth to argue, to make her believe me, but my voice catches in my throat.
What if saying it makes it worse? What if talking about it brings it back?
Mama sighs and turns to the shelf, grabbing a bowl. "Go wash up," she says, scooping a portion of stew. "You're talking nonsense. I'll find some other meat for supper. So much for boar tonight."
I want to argue. I want to scream. But I just stand there, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.
Mama sets the bowl down and looks at me again, softer this time. "Go on, Thom. You're just worked up. A good meal will fix you."
The stew smells warm. Safe.
But my stomach twists.
I step back. Then another.
I saw it. I know I saw it.
Would anyone believe me?
----------
Elias
The room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn't peaceful, but heavy, thick with something unsaid.
The fire has burned low, the last of the embers pulsing weakly in the hearth. Shadows stretch across the walls, flickering with every small shift of the dying flames.
Kael sleeps, curled beneath the blanket, his breath slow but uneven.
Even in rest, he holds himself tight, his hands gripping the fabric like he's afraid it might be ripped away from him. Like he's waiting for something to go wrong.
I exhale and rub a hand over my face. He looks small like this. Fragile.
He shouldn't have to live like this—hiding, unaware of who he is, unsure of where he belongs. But if he knew, if he remembered… what would happen then?
The white is coming back.
It's slow, gradual, but it's there. I see it when the firelight flickers across his hair, the strands at his temples turning pale again, creeping back like frost reclaiming a thawed river.
I glance down at my palm.
The pill sits there, small, harmless. Deceptively harmless.
I roll it between my fingers, watching how the firelight glints off its surface. He spat it out.
What a smart boy.
But maybe, a little too smart for his own good.
Once his body rejects the disguise, you won't be able to hide him anymore.
Marwen's voice echoes in my mind, clear and certain.
I want to believe that there's still time, that I can keep the truth from him a little longer. But deep down, I know better. The illusion is breaking. The mask won't hold forever.
And when it falls apart, what will be left?
He never should have been alive in that grave. Yet here he is now, this little, frail creature from a world so far from my own, with no one like him left.
I tighten my grip around the pill. I shouldn't do this. I don't want to do this.
But if his hair turns white again—if his eyes lose the last of their brown—someone will see. Someone will know.
And then he's dead.
I close my eyes. I wish there was another way. A way to keep him safe without lying to him. A way to protect him without poisoning him with this damned pill every morning.
But there isn't.
Forgive me for this.
I lean forward and carefully slip the pill between his lips.
Kael stirs slightly, a faint murmur escaping his throat, but he doesn't wake. I watch him, my own breath shallow, waiting for him to resist, to spit it out again.
But after a moment, his throat bobs.
He swallows.
I let out a slow breath, my shoulders sagging.
But there is no relief.
Instead, something ugly twists inside me.
That was a mistake.
I feel it immediately. A deep, cold sickness in my gut.
Because Kael has no idea what I just did to him.
I force myself to my feet, my movements sharp. I can't sit here any longer. The cabin feels too small, too stifling, too full of secrets I don't know how to carry anymore.
I need air. I need to think.
I need to talk to Marwen.
Because if the pills aren't working anymore—if Kael is starting to change despite them—
Then what the hell am I supposed to do?
----------
Kael
I wake up cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from the air outside, but something deeper. Inside. Like the warmth has drained from my bones, leaving only emptiness.
The blanket is still over me, but it feels thin, useless. My limbs are stiff, a slight ache filling it. My head is heavy, fogged over.
There's a strange weight pressing at the back of my skull, like something is clawing its way in.
I push myself up, rubbing at my temples.
The space near the hearth is empty. Elias is gone.
Slowly, I swing my legs over the bed and step outside.
The night air bites at my skin, crisp and sharp. The full moon is only just creeping over the trees, bathing everything in a dull, grayish light.
The world is still. No voices, no footsteps, just the whisper of the wind through the branches.
Then, I see them.
The birds.
Three small bodies lie twisted in the dirt. Their wings bent at unnatural angles, necks limp, claws curled tight. Lifeless.
I freeze.
My stomach knots, something tight and sick twisting inside me. I take a slow step forward. My pulse hammers, a steady, uneasy thrum in my ears.
Something is wrong.
The world around me feels different—too quiet.
And then—a pulse runs through my fingers.
I don't move.
But something inside me does.
It unfurls from my chest, crawling down my arms like ice splintering through my veins. My fingertips tingle—then burn—like they're pressing against something not of this world.
And then, I see it.
A light—black and violet, twisting like smoke—leaks from beneath my fingernails. It shifts and writhes, curling along my skin, bleeding into the air in slow, eerie tendrils.
I jerk back, sucking in a sharp breath, but it doesn't stop.
The darkness clings to me, stretching, reaching—before latching onto the birds.
The glow slithers from my fingers like ink spilled into water, tendrils curling around the lifeless bodies.
A slow, faint shudder.
A wing twitches.
A tiny claw jerks.
I stumble back so fast my breath snags in my throat. My hands are trembling. My heart is pounding against my ribs.
No. No, that's not—I didn't—
The birds move again. One of them jerks violently, its black, glassy eyes snapping open.
It looks at me.
I choke on a breath.
My foot lands on something thin and fragile. Ice.
A sharp crack splinters through the silence. A pool of water ripples beneath me, its surface distorting before settling.
I see my reflection, and my breath stops.
My hair.
A streak of white threads through the brown, pale as snow, crawling past the strands that should have been darker.
My eyes—they're not brown anymore. The gray is spreading, swallowing the warm color that had once been there.
No, no, no—
I reach up with shaking fingers, grabbing at my hair, yanking the strands down as if I can pull the color back.
The birds rustle against the dead leaves.
I suck in a ragged breath, my chest tight, panic closing around my throat like a noose.
I did this.
I made them move.
I made them breathe again.
The glow at my fingertips flickers, then fades.
My pulse is a deafening roar in my ears. The ground feels unsteady, the world tilting too fast.
What am I?
A shadow falls over me.
I whirl around.
Elias stands there.
His face is pale, his eyes wide, flicking between me and the bird—the one that should be dead.
But it isn't.
The bird stands, ruffling its feathers as if waking from a deep sleep. As if it never died at all.
Elias doesn't move.
I can't breathe.
My voice cracks, breaking apart as I whisper, "Am I a devil?"
Then everything goes black.