The cabin still stood where it had been, unmoving, untouched by the forest that surrounded it.

  Alex didn’t like that.

  Up close, it felt less like shelter and more like a scar, dark and hunched beneath the thinning mist, its warped wooden walls twisted as if they had grown that way. The stained, cathedral-style windows caught what little light remained, breaking it apart into faint, shifting colors that never quite settled.

  Alex’s sword still hummed softly in his hand, a low vibration that echoed the unease crawling up his spine. He counted every way this could go wrong: the creature could return, something could be waiting inside, or the forest itself might turn against them the moment they crossed the threshold.

  A part of him hated that he even had to think like this. Another part knew it was necessary.

  Roric’s eyes scanned the treeline, every muscle tense. “We don’t have a choice,” he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the mist.

  Alex swallowed hard. He let his hand brush the rough wood of the door, feeling the chill seep into his bones. The hinges groaned as he pushed it open, a sound far too loud in the quiet clearing.

  The smell hit him first, earth, smoke, and something faintly sweet he couldn’t place. The cabin was empty. Or at least, it looked empty.

  Alex studied the cabin, taking in the details with utmost caution.

  The cabin was smaller than it had seemed from outside. It had a single main room that opened before them, a hearth set against the far wall, unlit but neatly stacked with firewood. A narrow doorway branched off to the side, leading into what looked like a modest sleeping room, just wide enough for a cot and a small table.

  Alex stepped inside slowly, the wood creaking beneath his boots. He held his breath instantly, as if quieting himself might keep the cabin from noticing him, or whatever else might be inside.

  After a careful sweep of the room, nothing stirred. No movement. No immediate threat. Safe enough, for now.

  “You take the room,” Roric said quietly to Iris, never taking his eyes off the windows.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Wake me if anything changes.”

  Alex watched her disappear into the side room, the door closing with a soft click that sounded far louder than it should have. The cabin settled again, the silence thickening, as if the walls themselves were absorbing every sound.

  Roric remained by the door, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other lightly braced against the wood.

  Lowering himself near the hearth, Alex chose to sit rather than lie down, his sword laid across his knees. The hum had faded to a faint murmur, present, but restrained. His body begged for sleep, but his mind refused to follow.

  As if mocking him, half-remembered scenes from old horror movies surfaced uninvited. He shook them off and forced his attention elsewhere, letting his gaze drift to the intricate designs of the cathedral-style windows.

  Straining his eyes, Alex focused on what appeared to be angelic figures etched into the wide window near the door. The light was too dim to make out the finer details, but one thing stood out.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  They had no wings.

  Alex shifted his attention to the hearth, and a sudden chill crept up his spine.

  The firewood was stacked neatly… too neatly. Each log was cut to nearly the same length, their ends smooth and pale, as if they had been prepared recently. There was no ash in the hearth. No soot on the stone. It hadn’t been used in a long time… or it had been cleaned obsessively.

  He swallowed.

  And then glanced toward the windows again, his gaze lingering on the faint patterns etched into the stained glass. The shapes became clearer the longer he stared, elongated figures, robed and faceless, their arms extended downward. Not quite angels. Not quite men.

  ‘No wings...’ the thought lingered.

  A faint pressure settled behind his eyes, like a memory trying to surface. He tore his gaze away and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe. Whatever this place was, it offered shelter. That had to count for something.

  Eventually, exhaustion won.

  Alex’s grip on his sword loosened as sleep dragged him under, not gently, but insistently like sinking into cold water.

  *****

  “It never ends,” the figure said softly, its voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the dream itself. “The nightmares. They never end.”

  He stood beneath a sky littered with stars, yet his long black cloak swallowed their light, as if the darkness clung to him by choice. The fabric shifted without wind, heavy and endless, trailing across the pale ground at his feet.

  Alex tried to move. Tried to speak.

  Nothing.

  The figure turned just enough for Alex to glimpse where a face should have been. There was only a cloak of true blackness, deeper than shadow, and somehow watching him back. Despite the absence of features, the presence felt ancient, older than the dream, older than memory.

  “You’ve seen how it ends,” the figure's voice continued. “That’s the curse of remembering.”

  A faint pressure built behind Alex’s eyes, sharper now, like a truth pressing to be acknowledged. The stars above flickered, dimming, as if the sky itself were listening.

  “Rest,” the figure said. “While you still can.”

  The ground fell away.

  Alex woke with a sharp breath, heart hammering. For a moment, all he could hear was the quiet hum of his sword. Then something scraped against the cabin.

  Slow. Wet. Deliberate.

  Roric was already at the door.

  He stood rigid, sword raised, its silver edge catching the faint glow spilling from Iris’s blades. She had emerged from the side room without a sound, posture low, weapons in hand, eyes sharp and wary despite the lingering haze of sleep.

  Alex forced his breathing to steady and closed his fingers around his sword’s hilt. The familiar weight grounded him, the hum answering softly, alert, but not screaming.

  A shadow moved beyond the door.

  Not fast. Not hesitant. Measured.

  The silhouette pressed against the thin wood, tall and broad, its outline warped by the uneven planks and the stained glass windows beside it. Something heavy shifted outside, and Alex caught the faint scent of iron, sharp and fresh, cutting through the cabin’s still air.

  Roric raised his blade a fraction higher.

  The scraping sound came again, closer now, followed by a pause so deliberate it felt intentional.

  Then the door burst inward. Wood slammed against the wall as Roric swung, steel flashing through the dim light…

  And stopped.