It began with a scream.
One sharp cry—cut short mid-breath—followed by silence so complete it made the snow seem louder.
Then another.
And another.
By the time the alarm bell rang, six soldiers were dead.
Some were found torn open like parchment. Others had no wounds at all—just eyes wide, mouths frozen in a final gasp, as if they'd seen something that unmade them.
Panic spread like fire.
The courtyard filled with shouting. Boots thundered over stone. Crossbows were loaded, arrows notched—at nothing. They couldn't see it. They didn't know what they were fighting. And that made it worse.
Zareena stood in the middle of the chaos, the only one not moving.
She didn't shout.
She raised her hand. Steady. Calm. The panic thinned—not gone, but looking at her now. Waiting.
"This isn't a beast," she said. "It doesn't kill for food. It kills to be seen. To be feared."
Her voice carried—not with force, but gravity.
"We will not give it that."
She ordered all mirrors shattered. Salt poured across thresholds. Torches set in iron brackets at every hallway bend. The dead were gathered—not buried, not burned yet—but guarded with flame.
And she gave one final command:
"No one sleeps alone tonight."
By dawn, the deaths had stopped. But no one celebrated. They were holding their breath.
Zareena, sleepless and pale, stared at the map table. Her finger traced the edge of the fortress wall again and again.
"If it comes back tonight," she whispered to herself,
"we make it bleed."