Kalenor stood before the Briarhouse, the night air thick with tension. The torches held by the elders flickered in the dark, casting eerie shadows over the building. The sealed doors loomed before him, silent yet heavy with the unease of what lay beyond.

  He reached for the sword strapped to his side—a weapon imbued with the essence of decay, crafted to channel his bond with Morbitral. The blade gleamed faintly in the torchlight, its edge dark and sharp. This was the weapon of a Scalesworn, a blade meant for fighting, unlike the ceremonial sword on his back, which bore the memory of his homeland.

  With measured precision, Kalenor swung the blade, slicing through the boards nailed to the frame. Each cut was deliberate, the sound of splintering wood echoing in the still night. Once the last board fell away, he sheathed his sword and placed his hand on the door, pushing it open.

  The inside of the Briarhouse was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the cracks. The stench of decay hit him immediately, thick and oppressive. But it wasn’t the smell that made his breath catch—it was the sight before him.

  The husks were standing perfectly still, their twisted, corrupted forms turned toward the entrance. They did not thrash or groan. They simply stood in utter silence, their blackened, branch-like limbs eerily motionless. Even the afflicted who had broken free of their restraints showed no signs of aggression. It was as though they were waiting.

  Kalenor’s instincts screamed at him to stay alert. He turned to one of the guards stationed outside. “Hand me a torch,” he ordered.

  The guard quickly obeyed, passing him a burning torch. Kalenor stepped into the Briarhouse, holding the torch high to illuminate the room. Every step he took was slow, calculated, his gaze never leaving the husks. Their stillness unnerved him more than any frenzied attack ever could.

  As he moved deeper into the room, his eyes fell upon the elder he had spoken to days earlier—the wiry man who had been infected while harvesting. The elder lay on his cot, his skin pale and glistening with sweat. Though his veins pulsed with corruption, he had not yet succumbed to it fully. He turned his head weakly as Kalenor approached.

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  “Elder,” Kalenor said, his voice calm but firm. “What’s happening here?”

  The elder coughed violently, his breaths labored. “I… I don’t know,” he rasped. “They’ve been like this for hours. Still. Watching. I keep hearing a voice… a voice calling me to return to the forest. It’s been with me since I was infected. But… it went silent just before you came in.”

  Kalenor’s jaw tightened. A voice calling the elder to the forest? This wasn’t a mere plague—it was something far darker, far more sinister. He knelt beside the elder. “Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

  The elder’s lips twitched into a weak smile, but his eyes were heavy with sorrow. “Yes,” he whispered. “Kill me.”

  Kalenor’s chest tightened, but he shook his head. “No. I will not let more people die under my watch. I need the villagers to trust that I can defend them. You are not beyond hope, and I won’t give up on you.”

  The elder’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before closing his eyes. “You’re stubborn… but thank you.”

  Kalenor stood, his sharp amber eyes scanning the room. Something about the husks’ behavior didn’t sit right with him. As his gaze swept the floor, he noticed something odd—a faint dent in the ground near the center of the room. He moved closer, crouching to inspect it. The boards were warped, as though something had been pressing against them from below.

  Kalenor tapped the floor with the hilt of his sword, confirming his suspicion. The boards were sturdy, and beneath them was nothing but dirt and stone. Still, the dent unsettled him. It wasn’t natural. He glanced around the room, his mind racing, then grabbed a nearby cabinet and tipped it over, placing it atop the dent to obscure it.

  Satisfied, Kalenor rose to his feet and turned toward the door. Just as he reached the threshold, one of the husks lunged at him, its twisted limbs reaching out with unnatural speed. Kalenor reacted instantly, his sword flashing as he swung in a clean arc. The blade sliced through the husk’s shoulder, head, and part of its chest in a single motion.

  The husk crumpled to the floor, lifeless, but the act did not go unnoticed. Every remaining husk in the room turned its head toward Kalenor, their darkened, hollow eyes fixed on him.

  Kalenor held his ground, his grip on the sword steady. He slowly backed out of the Briarhouse, his gaze never leaving the husks. Once outside, he closed the doors and instructed the guards to seal them again.

  As the doors were secured, Kalenor turned to the elders. “We need someone stationed at the back of the building,” he said firmly. “If the husks are trying to break through the floor, we need to make sure they don’t succeed.”

  The elders exchanged uneasy glances but ultimately nodded in agreement. “We’ll assign someone immediately,” one of them said.

  Kalenor gave a sharp nod, then addressed the patrols that had gathered nearby. “Return to your efforts. Keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. We don’t know what else this plague has in store for us.”

  As the patrols dispersed, Kalenor turned to the two guards stationed at the Briarhouse. “You are to keep pacing the building,” he instructed. “If there’s any sign of them trying to escape, sound the alarm immediately.”

  “Yes, Scalesworn,” the guards replied in unison.

  With the Briarhouse sealed and the patrols back in motion, Kalenor allowed himself a brief moment to breathe. The events of the night weighed heavily on him, but there was no time to dwell. The fight for Hallowglen’s survival was far from over.