Rhaine stared at the tapestry titled The Fall of Man. A dark shadow loomed behind a woman who stood over her child’s crib, a knife trembling in her hand. The infant inside reached up, longing to be held. At the bottom of the tapestry, a metal plate bore the inscription:
"Those Who Harm the Innocent."
She whispered a silent prayer.
Her gaze shifted to the next tapestry, Corrupt the Lost. It depicted a beggar, hunched and weary, held down by the same shadow. An empty bottle lay discarded at his feet as he reached out, forced to rely on the fickle mercy of passersby.
The final tapestry, Destruction and Desolation, showed the shadow standing amidst the ruins of a shattered church. Bodies lined the floor, victims of its silent, unseen influence.
“The Room of Calling,” came a voice from behind her.
Rhaine turned to see Father Rowland standing in the doorway.
“I have spent many days contemplating the nature of that shadow,” he said.
Rhaine nodded, her voice thoughtful. “As an orphan, the church was my home. I never knew my parents, aside from the clergy. But sometimes, I wonder—what was that mother thinking? How could she bring herself to harm her own child?”
Father Rowland sank into a nearby chair, folding his hands.
“By all things,” he said, “love.”
Rhaine frowned. “What do you mean?”
Father Rowland took a deep breath. “A mother’s love is often called the Grace of the Creator. But like all things, it can be corrupted—twisted by forces we cannot see. Sometimes, it’s an affliction of the mind. Some mothers become addicted to the attention they receive while mourning a lost child. Others, like the one in this tapestry, let whispers of doubt and despair erode their faith.”
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small pouch, placing it in Rhaine’s hand. “You will lead one hundred troops to River Hallow. This should cover your expenses along the way and upon arrival.”
Rhaine weighed the pouch in her palm, frowning. “Only a hundred?” The number disappointed her. “How can we find the Harbinger with so few?”
Father Rowland chuckled. “Do not let your youth misguide you. Your task is to establish River Hallow as a base of operations in the region. You are to report any findings—no matter how small. But hear me well, Rhaine. You are not to engage Tyler Langston.”
It was as he had told her before. Not an exciting mission, but an important one nonetheless.
“I understand, Father,” she said, though frustration still lingered in her voice. Her gaze drifted back to the tapestry of the broken church. “I just want to put an end to this. I don’t want to become that.”
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Rowland nodded. “Don’t we all, child. But you’d be mistaken to overlook the beggar. That beggar could be any of us—you and me alike. The Darkness has a way of making us believe that what we’re doing is for the greater good, for the people. If you look closer at that tapestry, you’ll see the passersby. Some don’t have shadows behind them. That’s because they are the Shadow.”
He pointed at the image, his finger tracing the figures. “The influence of the Darkness is more insidious than we can ever truly see. Every tapestry here tells the same story: corruption, finding new ways to seep in.”
Father Rowland stood and opened the door leading outside, the cool air filling the room. “You need to get some rest. These Tapestries have been here for as long as I have, child. They’ll remain, just as the Darkness will, waiting to find new forms to take.”
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Sara Woodsen placed Mercy in her crib. The child had finally fallen asleep. Wilkas waited for her in the living room. "I have a surprise for you, love," he said, his hands behind his back. "Close your eyes."
Sara sighed, exhausted but playing along. Wilkas always liked to get her gifts. "Okay, Wilkas, they’re closed," she said, eyes shut.
Wilkas pressed something soft against her cheek. The sensation was gentle at first, like a soft brush, but then it began to purr. Sara opened her eyes, surprised to find her husband holding a black-and-white cat, one with a blue handkerchief tied around its neck.
"Where did you find him?" she asked, taken aback.
"After we got home, I found this little rascal wandering outside. Never seen him before. I figured we could watch over him until the owner shows up," Wilkas explained, a smile tugging at his lips. He had a soft spot for lost causes, especially animals.
"Keep him outside for now. Put him in the barn. If he’s still there in the morning, we’ll see how Marcy responds." There was a playful note in her voice, one that told him they had just adopted a cat without much argument.
"Yes, my love." Wilkas chuckled. He cradled the cat carefully in his arms, bringing it to the barn outside. Sara turned back to the kitchen, where the comforting aroma of cooking began to fill the house.
Once outside, Wilkas placed the cat onto a bale of hay, but before he could turn to leave, something strange happened. The cat leapt gracefully onto his shoulder, purring as it nuzzled against his neck. "Aren’t you just a love bug?" he whispered, smiling at the affection.
As he turned to head back to the house, a sharp, icy chill swept over him. He froze. His breath caught in his chest, a sudden, suffocating pressure building deep within him. Before he could react, a cold hand—human but not—reached out from the shadows. It passed through his back with terrifying ease, slipping like smoke into his body.
A gasp escaped Wilkas as he felt the hand curl around his heart. His breath faltered, his chest constricting as though an invisible weight was crushing him from the inside. The hand tightened, and he staggered forward, knees buckling beneath him. His vision blurred at the edges, the world around him darkening in slow motion.
The hand pulled, and with it, a horrible, pulling sensation twisted deep within him. Pain shot through his chest like fire, but it was more than physical. It was something darker, more primal—an emptiness that clawed at his soul.
His body was going numb, but the pressure—the agony—kept growing. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight back as the shadowy figure behind him fed on his life.
The last thought he could muster, before everything went black, was a silent plea—one that died in his throat before he could ever voice it.
Wilkas was dead.
Tyler changed his form to match Wilkas, his body shifting seamlessly until he resembled the man in every detail. After hiding Wilkas’ lifeless body in the barn, Tyler carefully removed the blue handkerchief from around the cat’s neck and tucked it into his pocket. He then straightened up and returned to the house.
He opened the door, stepping inside with a casualness that felt unnatural. "Ok, love, what do you have cooking for us?" he said, his voice perfectly imitating Wilkas' tone.
Sara looked up, her face lighting up briefly with a smile before a sigh escaped her lips. "I have some pig meat cooking in a pot. I figured a nice stew would do us both some good." She turned back to stir the pot, the warmth of the kitchen comforting, yet her eyes seemed distant, tired.
Just as she added a pinch of seasoning, the sound of Mercy crying in the crib reached her ears. Her smile faltered. "Can you watch this so it doesn’t boil over?" she asked. "I’ll check on Mercy."
Tyler nodded, though his gaze lingered on her. He stood there in the doorway for a moment, allowing her to walk past him, before turning his attention to the pot on the stove. The scent of the stew, rich and savory, filled the room—but Tyler's mind was elsewhere, calculating, waiting.
Sara disappeared down the hallway to check on Mercy. The house was quiet, save for the gentle crackling of the fire and the soft bubbling of the stew. Tyler’s eyes flicked around the kitchen, landing on the wooden table where they had shared meals, the chairs that once held moments of warmth. It felt all so... familiar. Yet, beneath that familiarity, there was a dark undercurrent, a presence that wasn’t quite right.
His hand reached out, hovering over the pot. He paused, just for a moment. The shadows around him seemed to shift, pulling closer.
The air grew colder, as if something unseen was watching. Tyler's lips curled into a smile, but it was a smile full of malice. A cruel smile.
Sara had left Tyler standing by the cooking fire, her thoughts momentarily distracted by the duties of a mother. The stew simmered, the thickening contents bubbling in the heat, but Tyler’s mind was focused on something far darker. He wasn’t hungry, not in the slightest, but he knew of a couple of girls who were.
His movements were quiet, almost silent, as he lifted the pot off the fire with unsettling calm. He made his way down the hall, his footsteps muffled, blending into the quiet rhythm of the house. When he reached the bedroom door, he paused and peered inside.
There, Sara leaned over the crib, softly blowing on the cheek of their sleeping child. The gentle sound of Mercy’s quiet giggles filled the air, creating an almost serene atmosphere.
"Do you know you make Mommy and Daddy the happiest people in the world?" Sara whispered, her voice filled with love. "Your father has a surprise for you." She playfully pinched her daughter's cheek, the warmth of the moment settling in her heart. "Don't tell him I told you, but it’s a—"
But Tyler’s voice, now hollow and cold, cut through the sweetness of the moment. "I think it's done."
The words were far from the tenderness of Wilkas. They were laced with something far more sinister, dripping with venom.
Sara froze, her blood running cold as she turned toward him. The room seemed to lose its warmth in an instant. The soft laughter of Mercy was swallowed by the sickening, shrill scream that tore from Sara's throat.
Before she could react, Tyler threw the boiling contents of the pot straight into her face. The hot liquid sizzled against her skin, and she fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Her skin bubbled and blistered under the intense heat, and her screams mixed with the horrible scent of burning flesh.
Tyler’s voice, still void of emotion, drifted in the air. "I’m sorry, Sara, but your husband is dead." His words were a quiet mockery of the love that had once lived in this home. "I wonder if you care at this moment. Why don't you tell me?"
The boiling stew sprayed onto Sara’s body, the sizzling sound merging with her screams. The hot liquid splashed violently across her skin, searing through her clothing, the pain unbearable. Some of the scalding contents splattered onto Mercy, causing the child to cry out in distress, her innocent wails adding to the chaotic symphony of agony in the room.
Tyler stood over the crib, his cold eyes locked on the child. A twisted thought crossed his mind, and he muttered, "Married life is worse than this, trust me, kid."
Sara's body spasmed and crumpled to the floor, her once-beautiful face now a grotesque, unrecognizable mass of burned flesh. Her hands clawed at her face, desperately trying to extinguish the fire of pain, but it was hopeless. She reached out toward the crib, trying to push it away from Tyler, but the searing agony left her weak. With a cruel laugh, Tyler kicked her aside.
"Don't worry," he sneered, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "I won't hurt the baby." His voice softened, full of sick amusement. "Imagine the pain she'll feel living through this... that’s the real suffering."
The cries of the child in the crib were the only sound that remained—loud, desperate, and unyielding. Her tiny fists pounded against the sides of the crib, a futile attempt to make sense of the hell surrounding her.
The night stretched on in torment.
When dawn finally broke, the house was eerily still. Tyler was gone, leaving behind nothing but the aftermath of his violence. The blood of the parents stained the floors, and their mutilated bodies were strewn across the house, grotesque reminders of the horrors that had unfolded within these walls.
And in the crib, Mercy cried—a piercing sound that echoed through the empty house, the only living thing left in this house of death.
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