The childlike creature launched itself at Deven like a bullet slicing through the wind. Deven narrowly dodged, shifting slightly to the left as the creature tore past him and crashed into the ground. Without wasting a second, he scrambled to his feet and raised his shield, bracing for the next attack.
But then—silence.
The creature vanished from his line of sight.
Deven scanned the area with sharp eyes, his body tense and cautious.
From the bleachers, laughter erupted. Students jeered at him, calling him weak and fragile. Their voices were venom, but Deven didn't flinch. He blocked them out. He had bigger problems.
A faint breeze brushed against his left side.
He turned just in time to see the creature lunging again, mouth open, shrieking.
Deven raised his shield—
CRACK!
The impact shattered the shield and sent Deven flying back several meters. Pain shot through his arm—it was fractured. The creature landed on top of him, snarling, its jagged rows of teeth diving toward his face.
Deven gritted his teeth and, with a burst of adrenaline, thrust his sword into its side. The creature screeched in agony and tried to flee, but Deven wasn't done. Using the last of his strength, he drove the blade deeper, skewering it completely.
The creature went limp.
Deven shoved its body off him and slowly got to his feet, coughing. He looked exhausted, barely standing. His breath was uneven, eyes dull.
The instructor hurried over and stood before him. "Are you alright?"
Deven gave a weak nod. "I'm good…"
"You sure? You look more tired than when you got here."
Cough "Yes, I'm… good…"
His legs gave out.
The instructor caught him just before he collapsed to the ground.
Minutes Later – Nurse's Office
Deven blinked awake, disoriented. White walls. Soft sheets. A dull ache in his arm. He looked around, confused, just as a calm female voice called from behind the curtain.
"You've got a fever. Best not to move too much."
A blonde woman with kind blue eyes stepped around the curtain, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. Her presence alone seemed to soften the coldness of the day.
"Deven," she said gently, "why do you keep coming to this school knowing the power gap between you and the others?"
Deven sighed. "Abby, do you really think I have a choice? My dad forces me to come here."
Abby—one of the few nurses at the academy—was the only adult who treated him with anything close to kindness. Deven had been to the nurse's office more times than he could count, often after getting beaten by bullies. Over time, she had become the only person he considered a friend, even with the age gap between them.
Not that he had a crush or anything. That kind of thing was for the other guys—guys who couldn't go a day without oversexualizing everything about her. Deven was different. Maybe that's why he was bullied even more.
"Why not ask your father to let you quit?"
Deven narrowed his eyes. "You think I haven't tried? He told me if I quit school, he'd kill me… and I honestly don't think he's joking."
Abby sighed, shaking her head softly. "Well, at least you did try."
Deven coughed again, wincing.
"I'll give your father a call so he can pick you up."
Deven nodded, eyes drifting. That's when he noticed the cast on his arm. The memory of the fight flooded back—the creature, the impact, the pain.
He looked away, exhaling slowly. About an hour later, Deven's father stepped into the nurse's office. Abby led him to Deven, who was still lying in bed. His father glanced down at him and scoffed.
"Get up. We're going home."
Deven carefully sat up and followed him, his arm still wrapped in a cast. His father, Kason, didn't look particularly angry or pleased—just cold, unreadable.
As they stepped outside the school gates, Kason finally spoke.
"I was told you finally killed one of those things."
"Yeah," Deven replied, nodding slightly. "I did. Finally."
"Don't be so proud of yourself," his father muttered.
"There are far worse things than Skelterlings out there."
Deven sighed. "I already know that."
The walk home was quiet after that. When they reached the house, Kason entered first, and Deven followed behind him.
"Go get some rest," Kason said, not bothering to look back.
"You won't be going to school for a few days."
Deven gave a faint nod and climbed the stairs to his room. He dropped his bag by the door and walked over to the desk nestled against the wall. Pulling open a drawer, he retrieved a pencil, a well-worn notebook, and a heavy, aged book.
The book was thick—bound in cracked leather—and filled with accounts of monstrous creatures, some so strange they defied reason.
He flipped it open to a page he'd marked earlier.
The Charnsworns.
Its body is an ever-shifting silhouette, more absence than presence—its outline flickers like a flame in shadow. No surface reflects off it; instead, it absorbs light, swallowing torches whole with its mere proximity. Tentacles of formless void drift from its core like strands of living smoke. Faces occasionally bubble to the surface—human, beast, and otherworldly—only to melt away with silent screams.
It has no eyes, yet its gaze can be felt—a crawling pressure in your thoughts, like something peeling your mind apart layer by layer.
It doesn't produce sound in the traditional sense. Instead, it silences the world around it. As it draws closer, even your own heartbeat feels distant. And when it strikes, it unleashes a gut-wrenching reversal of sound—like a scream being inhaled.
Deven scribbled in his notebook:
Charnsworns – No known weaknesses. Silent but deadly. Prefers to confuse and isolate its prey over brute force.
He kept reading.
It stalks the edges of torchlight, feeding not on flesh but on remembrance. Every kill it makes causes the world to forget the victim ever existed.
It speaks through broken memories and forgotten dreams, luring the weak-minded into shadow.
The longer you're near it, the harder it becomes to remember your own name… your purpose… even the concept of light.
He added more notes:
Lures its prey with the voices of their lost.
Uses fear and confusion as tools.
The closer it gets, the quieter everything becomes.
Just then, there was a knock at his door. His father's voice followed.
"Deven. Food's ready. Come eat."
Deven glanced down at the book, then at his notes, before slowly getting up and leaving the room.
Back on the desk, the book lay open, one final detail still unread:
Everyone who sees the charnsworn—even once—carries a sliver of it forever.
Not a curse. Not a disease. A seed.
It lies dormant for days, months, even years. Fed by fear, loss, despair, or darkness itself. The victim begins to feel it in nightmares… hears their name whispered in empty halls… sees shadows that linger too long in mirrors.
Eventually, a new charnsworn is born—not through transformation, but through duplication.
There is no single charnsworns.
They are spreading.
To be continued...