Night fell quickly over the village, shrouding the twisted woods in darkness thick enough to swallow whole. Elias clutched the silver ring tightly, its cold pulse steady against his skin. Every shadow in the cabin stretched long, flickering with the candlelight—some seemed to watch, waiting.
Old Mara sat across from him, her eyes clouded with the weight of years and secrets too dark to speak aloud. "You were born on the seventh son's night, Elias. That night bridges the world of the living and the dead. It marks you—and curses you."
Elias swallowed, heart pounding. "Why me?"
"Because the seventh son carries the bloodline of the ancient hunters—the only ones who can hold the curse at bay." She leaned closer, whispering, "But that power comes with a price. The curse seeks to claim your soul, and every night it grows stronger."
A sudden crash echoed from outside, a harsh rattle against the cabin walls.
Elias jumped to his feet. Old Mara's eyes narrowed. "It's begun. The Shadow Wraiths come to claim what is theirs."
He stepped toward the window, peering into the ink-black woods. Between gnarled branches, pale figures slipped like smoke—twisting shadows without form or mercy.
"We must leave," Mara urged, grabbing his arm. "Before the moon rises full, you must journey to the altar on the hill. There, the first son of your line awaits. He will teach you to fight… or you'll fall."
Fear battled with determination in Elias's chest. Could he face what lurked in the darkness? Was the ancient blood enough?
Outside, the wind carried a haunting lullaby, sung by voices long dead.
Elias knew the night was only beginning.
—