Dawn bled across the horizon in shades of grey and amber, each ray of light a dagger in Kael's exhausted eyes. His feet had stopped bleeding somewhere during the third hour of flight, the wounds sealed with dirt and dried blood. Now they throbbed with each heartbeat, a metronomic reminder of his cowardice.
The world shifted between exhaustion and clarity, fragments of the night's horror flickering through his consciousness like dying candle flames. The road back to Millhaven stretched before him like a serpent of packed earth and morning mist. He had run in circles during the night, panic overriding navigation, and now found himself approaching from the eastern mill road. The familiar water wheels stood silent, their usual groaning replaced by an oppressive quiet that pressed against his eardrums.
He had to go back. The thought crystallized with terrible clarity.
Logic demanded it. Whatever had happened in that house, whatever impossible thing had worn his sister's face and spoken with her voice, evidence remained. Bodies remained. His family remained, even if only as hollow shells of what they had been. The analytical part of his mind, the part that had always catalogued patterns and probabilities, insisted on going back.
Millhaven's outlying cottages emerged from the morning fog like tombstones. Smoke should have been rising from chimneys as families prepared morning meals. Instead, the air hung still and lifeless, carrying only the faint scent of dew on grass and something else beneath it. Something metallic and wrong.
His cottage stood at the town's edge, isolated now in ways that had nothing to do with geography. The front door hung open, a dark mouth gaping in the dawn light. No blue radiance painted the windows. No impossible shadows writhed in corners. Just an ordinary house touched by extraordinary horror.
Each step toward the threshold was calculated, and measured. The process helped distance him from the raw wound of memory, transforming trauma into data points to be examined and understood.
Inside, silence reigned absolute.
The kitchen materialized from shadow as his eyes adjusted. His mother lay near the hearth, body positioned with deliberate care. Not sprawled as violence would dictate, but arranged. Arms crossed over her chest. Legs straight. Eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep, except for the dark stains spreading from wounds his mind refused to fully process.
His father rested against the far wall in similar repose. Sitting upright, hands folded in his lap, head tilted back to expose the ruin of his throat. The positioning spoke of intention, of consciousness behind the carnage. Whatever had done this possessed not just the capacity for murder but the inclination for artistry.
The air tasted of copper and something else. Something that made his sinuses ache with cold despite the warming morning. Frost patterns decorated the windows from inside, delicate crystalline formations that belonged to deep winter, not early autumn.
Memory and present blurred as he moved through the space. Here, his mother had stirred the evening stew. There, his father had calculated accounts. Ordinary moments now made sacred by their finality. The table remained set for evening meal, four plates undisturbed. His mother's sewing lay abandoned by her chair, needle still threaded through fabric.
He climbed the stairs, each creak explosively loud. His room door stood open as he had left it, window shattered, glass fragments glittering on the floor like fallen stars. The bed remained disturbed from his desperate escape, sheets tangled, dust disturbed beneath where he had hidden.
Mira's room was next.
The door resisted, ice crackling as he pushed it open. Inside, winter had taken residence. Frost covered every surface in elaborate patterns that hurt to look at directly, geometries that suggested dimensions beyond the three his mind could process. Her bed was empty, covers thrown back as if she had risen normally.
No body. No blood. Just absence and ice.
He searched with increasing desperation, checking corners, peering under furniture. His sister had vanished as completely as smoke in wind. Only the lingering cold suggested she had ever existed at all.
A sound from outside broke through his searching. Footsteps on the path, multiple sets, approaching with purpose. Kael moved to the window, peering through frost-touched glass.
Three figures in dark clothing walked toward his house. Their movements were coordinated, professional. Black coats despite the warming day, hoods drawn up to obscure faces. One carried what might have been a satchel. Another held something that caught the light, metallic and purposeful.
Instinct warred with curiosity. Hide or observe? The coward's response had already been proven, but these people moved with confidence through a scene that should have inspired horror. They knew something.
He slipped out the back door as they entered the front, circling around to observe from behind the woodshed. Through gaps in the slats, he watched them move through his home with practiced efficiency.
"Wandering class," one said, voice carrying despite its low volume. "Recently manifested. The signature is still fresh."
"Origin point?" asked another.
"Upstairs. Child's room. Something triggered rapid evolution."
They spoke of the impossible as if it were merely unusual. One knelt beside his mother's body, producing instruments from the satchel. Another examined the frost patterns, making notes in a small journal. The third stood guard, scanning windows and doorways with vigilant attention.
When they climbed the stairs, he risked moving closer. Their voices drifted down, discussing ice patterns and artistic manifestations. Then searching sounds. Satisfied murmurs.
"Found it. Or what's left of it."
They descended carrying something wrapped in black cloth. Small, easily held in one hand. The way they handled it spoke of both caution and experience, like hunters carrying venomous prey.
Kael pressed himself flat against the cottage wall as they exited. They didn't search for survivors, didn't call for town authorities. Their business was with the dead and what had killed them, nothing more.
As their footsteps faded, understanding dawned cold and clear. These people knew. The impossible was simply another category of normal for those who knew where to look.
Time pressed against him. Soon, real authorities would arrive. Questions would be asked that he couldn't answer.
He worked quickly, gathering essentials. His father's small coin purse. His mother's winter cloak. Food from the pantry. At the door, he paused, looking back at the bodies of those who had raised him. Words should be said. Prayers offered.
Instead, he turned away. Grief was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Outside, Millhaven was stirring. Smoke beginning to rise from chimneys, voices carrying on the wind. As he walked toward the trade road, Farmer Henrik called out.
"Young Kael? Is that you, boy? Your parents were missed at market yesterday evening. Is all well?"
The lie came easily. "Fever in the house. They sent me for medicine."
Henrik's expression shifted to worry, the self-preserving kind. "I'll pray for quick recovery," he said, already stepping back.
Perfect. The lie would buy time.
Kael walked with purpose now, playing the part of concerned son on urgent errand. Others noted his passing with waves and nods. At the town's edge, where cultivated fields gave way to wilder country, he paused.
Behind lay everything he had known. Ahead stretched uncertainty tinged with impossible possibilities.
The road wound on, and he followed it. Each step carried him further from the boy who had hidden beneath his bed. The sun climbed higher, burning away the morning mist. Somewhere behind him, his home stood as testament to the thin veil between normal and paranormal.
Those strangers in black had shown him that knowledge existed. Somewhere, answers waited.
He would find them.