The amber glow of the lantern outside the timber cabin flickered, then abruptly ceased. A shiver, colder than the damp night air, traced its way down Gerey Wysalt's spine. Nothing stirred outside, no sound broke the oppressive silence save for the frantic beat of his own heart.

He strained his eyes against the encroaching darkness, searching for any sign of movement, but found none. Then, with a soft rattle, the lantern toppled, plunging him into a blackness thick with his own rising fears. He heard the mournful howls of metal, like swing chairs clanging in an empty park, but there was no park, no chairs, only the memory of fresh blood dripping from them the night before.

He retreated deeper into the suffocating darkness of his room, an unseen presence pressing in from all sides. A guttural snarl, sizzling like lava, grew louder, closer. The air thickened with a loathsome stench. He instinctively scrambled back, his foot sinking into something soft, something wet—a memory of infant tears. A rough, whiskered touch grazed his lips, and a low rumble echoed in the confined space, promising ruthlessness. His time was up. They had come for him.

A large, hairy creature, twice the ferocity of a lion, lunged from the shadows. He fought reflexively, falling backward into a drum filled with limbs and skulls. Its fangs pierced his neck, a searing pain, then numbness. His vision blurred, the world fading to black as his spirit seemed to ebb away. Just as oblivion beckoned, a blinding orange light erupted, the lantern, now blazing. And on it, he saw…