Requiem of the Forgotten

I didn’t sleep much that night.

The storehouse where we were staying creaked like it remembered things it didn’t want to. Old beams. Thin walls. No windows. The only light came from the fire Leif had managed to build out of half-dry hay and broken crates.

I lay on my side, arms tucked under my head, staring at the wooden wall just inches from my face. My stomach still ached from the rations earlier. Or maybe from the silence. Or maybe from everything.

Somewhere, far away in the dark, I thought I heard a voice. A child’s voice.

Just a whisper.

But I didn’t move. I just held my breath until it passed.

Morning didn’t change much.

The sun was pale and lifeless through the mist. Grava looked exactly the same as it had the night before—like it had been abandoned by time itself.

We ate in silence. Mira didn’t talk. Toma chewed slowly, eyes on the door. Leif tried to crack a joke about the taste of the bread but no one responded.

Even Brynn was quiet.

I thought maybe we’d just pack up and leave. Keep walking. Pretend this place never happened.

But then she came.

The knock was soft, almost too soft to notice. Mira was the one who opened the door.

The woman who stepped inside looked like she’d walked through hell barefoot.

Her clothes were torn and soaked with morning dew. Her hair, once probably long and black, was a tangled mess. Her face was pale—gray even—but her eyes were what caught me. Not just red from crying. Not just tired.

Empty. Like something inside had already died.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing through her nose, hands clenched into trembling fists.

Then she dropped to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Her voice was cracked, like glass under pressure. “I know I’m not supposed to… I know outsiders shouldn’t—But please. Please, gods, help me.”

We froze.

Brynn stepped forward carefully. “You’re not in trouble, miss. Breathe. Tell us what happened.”

She shook her head. “No. No time. You need to listen—just—please listen.”

And then she told us.

“My name is Elira,” she said. “My son’s name is Deren. He’s seven. Tomorrow... they’re giving him to the Hollow One.”

I didn’t understand at first.

But Mira did. Her shoulders tensed like she’d been struck.

“Wait,” she said. “Giving?”

Elira nodded. “We... we made a pact. A long time ago. Before I was born. Before any of us were born. The Hollow One came when the children began to vanish. One by one. Always at night. Nothing could stop it.”

She looked down. “Then the elders made a deal. One child. Every so often. Just one. If we give one, the others stay safe.”

“That’s insane,” Mira muttered.

“It works,” Elira whispered. “It works.”

I felt cold. My fingers were numb.

“You’re sacrificing your own children?” Leif said, barely believing it.

Elira looked up. Her voice was raw now, like it hurt to speak.

“We have to. You don’t know what it does when it’s angry. What it sounds like when it’s hungry. The last time someone refused—three children died that same night. Not taken. Ripped apart.”

She reached into her coat and pulled out a bundle of fabric, tied with twine. Her hands shook as she laid it on the table in front of us.

“I don’t care anymore,” she said. “Take it. It’s all I have. Everything. Just... save him.”

No one moved.

Even Brynn looked unsure. For the first time, he had no cryptic smile. No wise old line. Just silence.

Elira knelt lower, her forehead pressing to the floorboards. “Please. He’s all I have left. Please.”

I didn’t look at the others.

I didn’t need to.

I already knew what they were thinking.

Not our problem.

Too dangerous.

We’d leave tomorrow, same as always.

But I couldn’t breathe.

I stared at her, this woman shattered in front of us, and something in my chest twisted so hard I thought I might throw up.

What if this was real?

What if this whole fucked-up world was real and this was my chance? My trial?

What if—if I did the right thing—somehow, some way, I’d wake up in my room again? In my bed? Back in a world that made sense?

Or maybe... maybe it didn’t matter.

Maybe doing the right thing was just the right thing.

“I’ll do it,” I said quietly.

The others looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

Toma narrowed his eyes. “You?”

“You don’t even have Essence,” Mira snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m not walking away. Not from this.”

Leif let out a laugh. “You gonna punch it to death with your moral compass?”

“Shut up.”

I stood up. “You don’t have to come. None of you do. But I will. Even if I’m the only one.”

Nobody said anything.

The fire popped.

And then Brynn chuckled softly. “Maybe the boy’s right. Maybe this is one of those moments the road remembers.”

He turned to Elira. “Tell us everything.”

Elira’s hands trembled as she pulled something from her satchel.

It was wrapped in cloth. Thick, off-white, stained around the edges like it had soaked in blood or oil decades ago. She placed it on the table with the same reverence a priest might offer a relic.

“This,” she whispered, “is the vessel.”

She unwrapped it slowly.

Inside was a lantern—unlike any I’d ever seen.

It was made of dark brass, scorched black in places, with runes carved deep into the metal frame. The glass sides were tinted red—not painted, but like the color was inside the glass itself. It looked old. Not ancient like something buried in a tomb, but old like a curse that had been passed down too long.

“This is what binds it,” Elira said. “If you speak the words while its form is weak, the Hollow One will be sealed. For a time.”

Mira folded her arms. “You knew how to trap it and you still let your son be taken?”

Elira didn’t flinch. “I didn’t know. My husband died trying to fight it. My brother too. The elder keeps the words locked away—he says no one’s worthy.”

She looked at me.

“But I remembered. I watched him once. When he didn’t know.”

I leaned in.

“What do I have to say?”

Elira hesitated, then reached into her coat again and pulled out a torn scrap of parchment. She slid it toward me.

The letters were jagged, like they’d been scratched by a dull blade. They curved in strange directions, some of them looping into each other like vines or tendons. I didn’t recognize the script—but something about it felt wrong. Like it wasn’t meant for living mouths.

“You’ll have to memorize it,” she said. “The lantern won’t respond if you read. You have to speak it like you mean it.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She didn’t answer.

We spent the rest of the day preparing.

Leif cleaned his daggers and tried to joke like everything was normal. Toma sharpened his sword in silence. Mira paced like a caged wolf, muttering to herself. Brynn just stared at the forest, tapping his staff rhythmically against the stone.

And I practiced.

Over and over.

The words didn’t make sense. They felt like they stuck in my throat, like they didn’t want to come out clean. I wasn’t sure if I was saying them right. But I kept going.

Because I had to.

At dusk, the village gathered.

The ceremony was short.

No one cried.

Deren, the boy, wore a white linen robe with a black sash tied around his waist. His dark hair was brushed. His feet were bare. He held a single candle in both hands as he walked down the center path of the village, and all the others—men, women, even children—stood in silence on either side, heads bowed.

He didn’t look scared.

He didn’t look anything.

The Hollow One had already taken that from him.

They brought him to the barn.

Not a sacred temple. Not a chamber of ancient stone.

Just a fucking barn.

Half-collapsed. Smelled like piss and old hay. One of the roof beams was snapped in half. There was a pit in the back where water had gathered over the years, now thick and black.

They laid him in the straw like he was going to sleep.

Then they left.

The group stayed silent as we waited outside.

Mira broke the silence. “This feels like suicide.”

“It is,” Toma said flatly.

Leif leaned against the doorframe. “If I see one more nightmare beast this year, I’m retiring.”

“You don’t have a job,” Mira muttered.

Brynn chuckled. “We all retire. Eventually.”

I didn’t laugh.

I stared at the barn.

I could still see the flicker of Deren’s candle through a crack in the boards.

And I kept repeating the words in my head.

We took our positions.

Mira hid behind the crates of dried grain, blade drawn. Toma crouched in the shadows near the back door. Leif was in the loft above the hay. Brynn stood near the altar they’d made of stones and salt, his staff already humming softly with the Essence he’d stored.

And I… I held the lantern.

Its glass felt warm against my palm.

Almost alive.

I crouched behind a broken bale of straw and waited.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Wait for it to come.

Wait for it to want.

The moment it arrived, I stopped breathing.

It didn’t walk in.

It bled into the barn through the cracks in the wood—slow at first, like smoke rising from rotten soil. The light in Deren’s candle twisted, pulling sideways, then flickered out completely. The barn went black.

Something scraped across the roof.

Something long.

The air turned wet. Thick. Breathing felt like swallowing cold syrup.

Then it stepped through the darkness.

Not smoke.

Not shadow.

It had shape.

It stood nearly twice the height of a man, with limbs too thin to hold weight, bending at angles no bones should. Its torso pulsed like a sack full of worms. Where its face should’ve been was a porcelain mask—cracked down the center, with no eyes, no mouth, only a single black slit running vertically where a nose might have been. From that slit, something dripped.

Its arms dragged the ground.

Its skin—if it was skin—looked like parchment soaked in ink. Translucent in places. You could almost see things writhing underneath it, like something else was trying to break out.

It didn’t speak.

It didn’t have to.

We felt it.

Something inside our heads twisted. Memory. Grief. Guilt. It wore our fears like a cloak, and it knew we were watching.

It looked at Deren.

And bent down.

My whole body screamed to move, to do something—but I was frozen. The lantern in my hand buzzed with barely-contained energy, pulsing against my skin like a heartbeat.

Toma moved first.

He charged with a low grunt, sword slicing sideways.

It cut into the creature’s shoulder—and stuck. The Hollow One didn’t react. It turned, fluid and snapping like broken wood, and smashed him aside with a single blow. Toma hit the beam behind him and dropped, unmoving.

Mira let out a wordless scream and lunged. Her twin daggers flashed with Essence—cutting, burning. She carved across its chest. It staggered.

Leif dropped from the rafters, stabbing down.

The creature shrieked.

Not with a voice. With every sound at once—children crying, women begging, wood cracking, blood boiling, all in one broken chord that filled the barn like fire.

“NOW, ALEKS!” Brynn shouted. “THE WORDS!”

I raised the lantern. My heart slammed against my ribs.

The chant was a blur in my head. I tried to recall the syllables—

Thalan... eth veshl... doran—

The light inside the lantern flared—

But then it looked at me.

And it moved.

I didn’t see it cross the space. One breath it was across the barn, the next—

It was on me.

A hand like black branches slammed into my chest, tossing me back like I weighed nothing. I hit the wall. The lantern slipped from my hand—time slowed—
it struck the ground—

Shattered.

“No—” I choked, trying to rise.

Too late.

The Hollow One screamed, the sound warping the walls.

Then it turned and reached for Deren.

And there was nothing we could do.

It grabbed him like a puppet and—

Tore him in half.

Blood splattered across the straw. His head hit the ground with a soft, final thud.

Mira screamed. Leif shouted something. Brynn cursed in a language I didn’t know.

I couldn’t move.

I was bleeding.

I was—

Useless.

Then the creature turned back to me.

It didn’t run.

It flowed.

Like a nightmare dragging itself toward a familiar dream.

It raised a claw.

I raised a hand.

No words. No chant. Just—

No.

A flash.

White.

Gold.

Shattered glass.

The barn exploded in light.

The creature stopped mid-motion. Its mask split in half. Essence—real, raw, divine—sliced through its body like lightning through paper.

It let out one final shriek, a sound like a dozen children screaming in reverse—

And it crumbled.

Dust.

Silence.

Gone.

I stood there, hand raised, bleeding from the stomach, still shaking.

Then Leif stepped forward.

He didn’t look amazed.

He looked pissed.

“You lied,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“You said you couldn’t use Essence.”

“I didn’t know—”

“That wasn’t just Essence,” Mira whispered, stepping closer. “That was Holy Essence.”

Everyone went quiet.

Even Brynn.

I turned, staggered to Deren’s body.

He was cold.

Still.

I looked at Mira. “Can you heal—”

She shook her head slowly.

“His soul’s gone.”

And then—

Dust.

Movement.

Tiny bodies began to form in the barn, like ash reversing time.

Children.

Dozens of them.

All still. All pale. Their eyes open. Vacant.

No souls.

No breath.

Just... bodies.

The ash hadn’t even settled when the barn door creaked open.

A silhouette stood there, frozen in the frame.

Then a scream—high, sharp, human.

The figure stumbled back, calling out in panic.

More followed.

Boots slammed into mud. Voices collided. Then came the torches.

Villagers.

Dozens.

They poured in like a wave of insects—men, women, elders, all clutching whatever tools they could find. Their faces weren’t confused. They weren’t scared.

They were betrayed.

Their eyes locked on the ash still floating in the air.

The broken lantern.

The unmoving bodies of the children laid out like discarded dolls.

And the corpse of Deren, torn and twisted in the straw.

Then Elira entered.

The moment she saw her son, she froze.

Her legs gave out and she fell to her knees, hands trembling.

She didn’t scream at first. She didn’t cry.

She crawled.

Over straw and blood, dragging herself with clawed fingers until she reached his side.

“Deren…” she whispered.

She touched his face. Brushed the blood from his cheek with her sleeve. Her breath caught in her throat.

Then she broke.

The scream that came out of her didn’t sound like it came from lungs.

It was deep. Ripping. A sound made of all the things that don’t have words.

She clutched his body against her chest and wailed like the world had ended.

And for her—it had.

"You promised..." she gasped. "You promised..."

Each word was a punch to my chest.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

She wasn’t looking at me, but I knew she meant me.

Her fingers curled into her son’s robes. Her head bowed. Her screams turned into gasps. Then sobs. Then just shaking.

The elder entered last.

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared at the scene.

His eyes swept across the barn—from the dead children to the shattered lantern, to me standing with blood on my hands and that strange fading light still flickering faintly around my fingers.

He closed his eyes for a long moment.

Then opened them again.

“You killed our god,” he said softly.

A murmur went through the crowd.

Then a voice—sharp, angry—from the side.

“You brought this!”

“You cursed us!”

“Monsters!”

“Heretics!”

Someone grabbed a pitchfork.

Another raised a hammer.

And then the first stone flew.

It hit my shoulder. I stumbled back, more in shock than pain.

Another hit my side.

A third bounced off the side of my head.

I tasted blood.

My vision blurred.

They weren’t just angry.

They hated us.

They hated me.

“You need to leave,” the elder said, his voice calm like a judge. “Now. Before we do worse.”

Brynn stepped between me and the crowd, his staff raised—not to attack, just to shield.

“We’re going,” he said.

Mira grabbed my arm.

Leif took the rear.

We backed toward the door, step by step, as the villagers screamed and cursed.

One woman—maybe Deren’s aunt—tried to hit me with a shovel. Toma blocked it with his arm, grunting.

“Move!” he barked.

We broke into a run.

The last thing I saw before the door slammed behind us—

Was Elira, rocking her son’s body back and forth, eyes empty, blood soaking into her dress like ink into paper.

The road out of Grava stretched ahead like a wound through the forest.

No one spoke.

No one had the right words.

The wind picked up as we walked—cold, sharp, biting through our clothes like guilt through skin. Even Leif kept his jokes buried.

Mira walked ahead, alone.

Brynn hummed softly, the same three notes, over and over.

Toma’s sword was still red.

I didn’t know if it was from the Hollow One or from Deren.

By nightfall, we found a slope off the path and set up camp beside an old, twisted tree. Its roots rose from the dirt like black fingers.

We didn’t make a fire.

No one wanted to see their own faces in the light.

I lay on my side, trying to ignore the sting in my ribs. The bandage Mira had wrapped around me was already soaked through.

But I didn’t complain.

None of us did.

When the moon rose, we kept moving.

No one suggested it. We just stood and started walking.

Like something behind us might catch up if we stayed too long.

The woods thickened. Shadows twisted around the trees.

And just when I thought maybe the worst of the night had passed—

I heard something.

Ahead of us.

A crunch.

Slow. Heavy.

Mira raised a hand to halt.

We all stopped.

Another crunch.

And then a wet, dragging sound.

Closer.

A shape moved between the trees.

Huge.

Lumbering.

Wrong.

I reached for my dagger.

The others did the same.

No words.

Just breath and heartbeat.

And then—

A pair of eyes opened in the dark.

Not glowing.

Not red.

Just there.

Watching.

Waiting.