The village moved on, as it always did.

  Suffering was a part of life, so deeply woven into existence that no one questioned it anymore. The cries of the beaten, the silence of the dead, the absence of those stolen away—these were the rhythms of everyday life.

  The people did not rebel. They did not resist.

  They endured.

  Except Aira.

  She had spent her days working alongside her mother, gathering whatever food they could, but her mind was restless. She had lived in this world for over a year now, long enough to understand its rules. And yet, every new horror, every new cruelty, filled her with a gnawing, festering hatred.

  She had crafted this world, designed its grand cities and vast forests, its dungeons and castles, but she had never thought about the commoners—the forgotten ones, the ones who lived and died like insects beneath the boots of kings.

  And she hated it.

  The noble’s visit had been a wake-up call. The power of the ruling class was absolute. The commoners were cattle—beaten, bought, and sold. She had never written about this village, and yet it existed, birthed by the world’s expansion. It was a terrifying thought.

  If there were other places beyond her knowledge, how much worse could things be?

  That was why she needed information.

  Books. A library. Anything.

  But this world followed medieval rules. Books were a luxury hoarded by nobles and priests, kept out of reach from the hands of those who needed them most. The only ones with knowledge were the corrupt church, the nobles' scholars, and the mages locked away in their ivory towers.

  Aira clenched her fists. If knowledge was power, then she would find it.

  But she had no idea something had already started watching her.

  The night after her father was taken, the village changed.

  It started with the silence.

  Aira awoke to the absence of sound. No wind. No insects. No distant murmurs of the villagers. Even the firepit in their home, though long burned out, gave off no embers, no warmth.

  It was as if the world had… paused.

  Then she heard it.

  A wailing.

  Low, distant, like the cries of the dead carried by the wind. But there was no wind.

  Aira crept to the door, pushing it open with trembling fingers.

  The village was wrong.

  A thick, unnatural fog had crept in, swallowing the road where the knights had taken her father. It slithered across the dirt against the wind, as if it had a will of its own. Shadows swam within it—things with too many limbs, too many fingers. She could not see them, only their outlines shifting like half-formed nightmares.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  And then she saw them.

  The crows.

  Dozens of them perched along the rooftops. Unmoving. Watching.

  One hopped forward, landing right in front of her. Its black beady eyes reflected no light, its feathers ruffled and diseased. It opened its beak—

  And choked.

  Not a caw. Not a cry. A wet, gurgling, choking sound, like something trying to scream through blood-filled lungs.

  Aira stumbled back, her breath caught in her throat.

  The shadows in the fog moved faster.

  Then she saw it.

  Where her father had last stood, where his blood had mixed with the dirt—a single blackened flower had bloomed.

  Its petals were wilted and rotting, curling inward like withered flesh. It smelled of burnt meat, of decay, of something that should not exist.

  Aira stared at it, her body frozen. Something was watching her. Not the crows. Not the fog. Something bigger.

  And she had the awful, sinking feeling that it had always been watching.

  A few days later, the merchant arrived.

  The villagers flocked to him like starving dogs, desperate to barter whatever scraps they had left. But Aira only had eyes for one thing.

  A book.

  It sat among the merchant’s wares, old and faded, but intact. The moment she saw it, something deep in her chest stirred.

  She needed it.

  "Sir, that book—what is it?"

  The merchant raised a brow. "This? Just an old collection of stories. Not much use to a peasant girl. Can you even read?"

  Aira swallowed. If she admitted she could, it could put her in danger.

  "My father—he knew a little," she lied. "He used to teach me."

  The merchant studied her before chuckling. "A smart one, huh? Still, books aren’t cheap. Got anything worth trading?"

  Aira’s heart sank. She had nothing.

  But she needed that book.

  "Wait!" she blurted. "What if I work for it? I can help carry your goods, clean your wagon—anything!"

  The merchant smirked. "Hmph. Hardworking little thing, aren’t you? Fine. You help me unload my goods, and I’ll consider it."

  The work was brutal.

  The crates were heavy, and Aira—small, malnourished, weak—struggled with every load. Her arms screamed. Her back burned. Her fingers bled. But she refused to stop.

  Villagers watched with mild curiosity. Some even laughed at her.

  "Look at her," one sneered. "Breaking her back for a pile of useless paper."

  Aira ignored them.

  By the time the merchant finished setting up, she was drenched in sweat, her body shaking with exhaustion. But she stood firm, eyes burning.

  The merchant studied her for a long moment, then shrugged. "Alright, girl. A deal’s a deal. The book is yours."

  Aira’s hands trembled as she took it. The cover was cracked, the pages yellowed, but it didn’t matter. It was knowledge. A step toward something greater.

  And then the world shifted.

  As she clutched the book to her chest, the air grew colder.

  Aira turned. The villagers were gone. The market square, empty. It had cleared too fast—too silent.

  And then she saw it.

  A figure.

  Standing at the edge of the fog.

  Its shape was wrong. Too tall. Too thin. Its limbs twitched and shuddered, as if held together by something barely keeping it stable. It had no face.

  Only a gaping, bleeding mouth.

  Aira couldn’t breathe.

  The figure tilted its head, as if listening.

  Then, in a voice that did not belong in this world, it spoke.

  "You are not supposed to be here."

  Aira’s vision blurred. The fog coiled around her ankles, rising.

  Then—a blink.

  And it was gone.

  The villagers were back. The market was bustling again, as if nothing had happened.

  Aira’s nails dug into the book’s cover.

  She had seen it. She knew it was real.

  That night, she lay awake, tracing the book’s cover with shaking fingers.

  She would learn. She would grow.

  And one day…

  She would make this world tremble.