A Frustrating Mystery

  Aira nearly tore the book apart in frustration.

  She had worked tirelessly for that merchant, pushing herself beyond exhaustion, swallowing her pride, forcing a smile that felt like a mask just to get her hands on this one thing—a book that, in her desperation, had seemed like a key to something greater.

  But now, as she stared at the pages, all she saw were symbols and letters that meant nothing. The ink had not faded with time, the pages were still intact, yet the meaning of the words was locked away, just beyond her reach.

  Her heart pounded with rage.

  All that effort… for nothing.

  The candle beside her flickered, the dim light making the ink shimmer strangely. For a moment, the symbols seemed to move—twisting, shifting like something alive. She blinked. They were normal again.

  Her hands trembled.

  She had thought this book would contain knowledge, something that could help her, something that could make her strong. But now, it was just another reminder of how powerless she truly was.

  With a choked growl, Aira grabbed the book and hurled it across the room.

  It hit the wall with a dull thud before falling to the floor, pages flipping wildly. The sight of it, discarded like trash, only deepened the frustration twisting inside her.

  Then—

  The pages stopped flipping.

  Not because of the wind.

  Not because of movement.

  They simply stopped.

  Aira’s breath caught in her throat.

  She took slow, careful steps forward, swallowing back the unease crawling up her spine.

  The open pages no longer looked meaningless.

  New words had appeared.

  She reached down, trembling fingers tracing the ink.

  It was still wet.

  As if someone had written it just now.

  She inhaled sharply, her pulse hammering in her ears. That was impossible. She had just thrown the book. No one else was here.

  And yet, the words were there.

  "You will burn. You will drown. You will break. But you will never die. And when you rise again, they will wish you had."

  Aira did not know why, but her name was written at the bottom.

  The ink seemed to darken as she stared.

  The candlelight dimmed.

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  And from the corner of the room—

  Something laughed.

  It was a dry, brittle sound. Like leaves scraping against stone.

  Aira whirled around, heart seizing in her chest.

  There was nothing there.

  Only shadows.

  Only silence.

  She slammed the book shut, hands shaking, breath unsteady.

  Outside, the wind howled, and the fog crept in.

  The disease had already started to spread, but there was something worse lurking within the village.

  Something older than sickness.

  Aira noticed it first in the way people avoided the fog.

  The mist had always been there, rolling in from the forest every so often, but no one ever spoke of it. The moment it came, the villagers locked their doors. Mothers clutched their children close, priests whispered prayers, and even the drunkards in the square went silent.

  It was fear. Old fear.

  One evening, as Aira wandered near the well, she saw an old woman hunched in the shadows. The woman’s eyes were cloudy with age, her hands thin and shaking.

  "When the fog comes, do not look," the crone whispered. "Do not listen. And never, ever speak to it."

  Aira frowned. “Why?”

  The woman’s breath hitched. She grasped Aira’s wrist with surprising strength, nails digging into her skin.

  "Because it will answer you."

  Aira yanked herself free, stepping back.

  She wanted to dismiss the woman’s words as delusions of the elderly. But that night, the fog came.

  And something moved inside it.

  It wasn’t a person.

  It wasn’t an animal.

  It was taller than the houses, its shape blurred and shifting.

  Aira stood frozen at the edge of the village, staring into the mist. She felt something stare back.

  Then—

  A whisper, soft as a breath against her ear.

  "Little girl."

  Aira ran.

  She did not stop until she reached the safety of her home, locking the door behind her.

  Winter came early that year, and with it, death.

  The first to fall ill was a young boy. It started with a fever, then chills, then a deep, wet cough that rattled his tiny frame. His mother prayed. His father begged the priest for a blessing. They paid what little they had for holy water, for divine protection.

  But nothing stopped the sickness.

  By the second week, his skin had turned gray. Sores covered his body. His breath came in ragged, gasping wheezes.

  By the third week, he was dead.

  And he was only the first.

  The priest called it a curse, punishment for sin. He told the villagers that only faith would save them, that the church’s blessings would protect those who were truly devout.

  And yet, he never entered the homes of the sick.

  He never touched the dying.

  No one did.

  The moment a family member showed even the slightest sign of illness, they were locked inside their home—abandoned to die alone.

  The silence that followed was worse than the wailing.

  Then—

  Aira’s sister started coughing.

  At first, it was just a small, breathless cough. Then it grew worse. Deep. Wet. Rattling.

  Their mother knew what it meant.

  That night, while the village was asleep, she wrapped Aira’s sister in blankets and carried her out of the house.

  Aira followed silently, dread curling inside her stomach.

  They walked beyond the village, through the snow-covered fields, past the broken fences and into the woods.

  Her sister whimpered weakly, her tiny hands gripping their mother’s clothes.

  Aira knew what was about to happen.

  Her mother was abandoning her.

  Her own daughter.

  Her mother turned to Aira, her face pale, her eyes hollow. "Go back home," she whispered. "Forget this."

  Aira couldn't move.

  Then, she watched as her mother knelt in the snow, whispering one last prayer.

  Then, she stood.

  And walked away.

  Aira’s sister cried weakly, reaching out with trembling fingers.

  But their mother never looked back.

  And in the fog beyond the trees—

  Something watched.

  Aira sat before the book once more.

  It had been waiting for her.

  The ink had changed.

  New words had appeared.

  She reached out, tracing the letters.

  "Read, little girl. Learn. And when the time comes..."

  Aira’s fingers tightened over the cover.

  "Do not hesitate."

  She was weak now.

  But one day—

  They would all regret this.

  "I have no sword. No army. No magic. But I have something far worse: a reason to hate."