Aira knew fear.
She had known it when she first saw a woman burned alive.
She had known it when the village sold its daughters to the nobles.
She had known it when the sick were left to die.
But this was different.
This fear was cold. Silent. Crawling under her skin like worms in a corpse.
The merchant sat across from her, his smile never fading. It was the kind of smile that made her stomach twist—too polite, too knowing. His rings glinted in the firelight as he tapped his fingers against the wooden table in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You look tense,” he said, pouring himself a cup of wine. “Relax. I’m not asking for anything… improper.”
That didn’t comfort her.
She had seen men like him before—those who never asked outright, who spoke in pretty words while hiding sharp knives behind their backs.
Still, she had no choice but to listen.
“You need money for a doctor,” the merchant continued, swirling the wine in his cup. “And I need something in return.”
Aira forced herself to meet his gaze. “What do you want?”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Information.”
Aira blinked. That was not what she expected.
“There is a man in the city,” the merchant said. “A powerful noble with a great deal of influence. He has something that belongs to me, and I want it back.”
She frowned. “You want me to steal from a noble?”
He chuckled. “Oh no, nothing so dangerous. I just need you to get close to him. Listen. Watch. Find out where he keeps his most valuable possessions.”
Aira’s skin prickled.
She wasn’t a thief. She wasn’t a spy.
But she was desperate.
She turned to look at her sister, still unconscious on the cot. Her breathing was steadier, but her skin had taken on an unnatural pallor. Dark veins curled beneath the surface of her arms, like roots seeking something deeper. Aira reached out and pressed her fingers against them.
The veins moved.
Aira swallowed hard.
She clenched her fists.
This wasn’t a choice.
It was survival.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered.
The merchant smiled.
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And behind him, in the fire’s reflection, his shadow did not move.
That night, as Aira dozed beside the fire, she heard murmuring.
At first, she thought it was the wind slipping through the cracks of the cabin, whispering in hushed voices. But no—the sound came from beside her.
Her sister.
Aira sat up, her body stiff with exhaustion.
Her sister’s lips moved rapidly, but the words made no sense.
“The pale man is waiting.”
“He’s smiling.”
“He knows your name.”
Aira felt her skin crawl.
She leaned closer.
Her sister’s breathing hitched, her small body trembling beneath the blankets.
“Aira,” she whimpered. “Don’t—”
Her eyes snapped open.
For a moment, they were black.
Completely black.
Like an abyss where something lurked just beyond sight.
Aira’s breath caught. She reached for her sister, shaking her gently.
“Aira…” her sister murmured again. But this time, she was awake. Her eyes had returned to normal, cloudy and feverish. She blinked up at Aira in confusion.
“...What?” she croaked.
“You were talking in your sleep,” Aira whispered. “Do you remember what you said?”
Her sister shook her head, eyes already drifting closed again.
Aira’s stomach churned.
She hesitated—then slowly pulled back the blankets.
The black veins had spread.
They curled like twisting vines, slithering beneath her sister’s pale skin.
They moved when Aira touched them.
Aira yanked her hand away.
Aira couldn’t sleep after that.
Instead, she watched the merchant.
He sat across the fire, his hands folded in his lap.
For hours, he didn’t move. Not even to drink. Not even to blink.
The fire cast long shadows against the walls, but something was wrong with his. It flickered unnaturally, stretching in ways it shouldn’t.
And his breath—
Aira shivered.
His breath did not fog in the cold.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Then, suddenly—
His head snapped toward her.
Aira froze.
His eyes gleamed in the firelight, dark and bottomless. She had never seen him move, but now he was staring directly at her.
His lips curled into a slow smile.
Aira turned away quickly.
She didn’t sleep that night.
The merchant’s cabin seemed safe.
But when Aira peered out the window before dawn, she saw it.
A figure.
Standing just beyond the fire’s glow.
Faceless. Pale. Waiting.
Aira’s breath hitched.
The figure tilted its head.
She turned away for half a second—
When she looked back, it was closer.
Aira stumbled backward, heart hammering in her chest.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
When she opened them again—
The figure was gone.
But the next morning, when she stepped outside, the snow told a different story.
Long, dragging handprints led from the woods to the cabin door.
That night, Aira placed the book the merchant had given her on the small table beside her cot.
She closed her eyes, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
Then—
Rustling.
Aira’s eyes snapped open.
The book’s pages were turning.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Whispers slithered through the room, too soft to make out.
Aira didn’t move.
She pretended to sleep.
The whispering stopped.
Aira swallowed hard and turned her head slightly.
The book was open to a new page.
And on it—
Aira wakes to the sound of pages turning. She is pretending to be asleep. But she is awake. Right now.
Her stomach dropped.
She slammed the book shut.
Before Aira left the next morning, the merchant grabbed her wrist.
His fingers were ice-cold.
"Whatever you do," he whispered, "never read it aloud."
Aira glanced down at his hand.
His fingernails were too long.
Too sharp.
They dug into her skin without him noticing.
She yanked her arm free.
The merchant smiled.
But his shadow still wasn’t moving.
As Aira walked away from the cabin, the unease in her gut only deepened.
The sun was rising, casting long shadows across the snow.
She glanced down at her own shadow—
And her blood turned to ice.
It wasn’t following her movements.
It lagged behind.
Then—
It raised a hand.
And waved.