Mourning Twilight

Each head bowed, chins striking chests, and soft, muffled cries echoed around me. But I had no tears to shed. My chin remained high, fixed on the monster disguised in human clothing and flesh. He stood there like a shadowed demon, engulfed in a void that seemed to swallow anyone who dared step into it. And those caught in his snare became one with the cruxes.

Planted among the lined, chained girls, I stood unmoving. My heart thudded violently against my ribs, my mind full of white rage. The mud oozed and sloshed beneath us, sucking our thin, worn shoes deeper into the ground. It might have kept our toes warm—the sensation barely noticeable, almost frostbitten to the point of no return. We were no better than cattle awaiting slaughter.

A vibrant orange-red fire stormed before us, the flames reaching toward the darkening sky. The sun was setting, and soon twilight would be upon us—the hour of the damned. The all-too-familiar stench of burnt, decayed flesh squeezed and choked the base of our throats, as if the vile demon strangled us all at once. He smirked at his masterpiece.

Beady, soulless eyes—where not even the faintest hue reflected—stared ahead, filled with something deep and sinister. It made my stomach lurch and twist.

The heat hit our faces, seeping into our stiff bones. I looked down. My fingers had turned from a bitter blue—the winter’s cruelest yet—to a bright, inflamed red, accentuating the old burn scars. The flesh was darker now, grotesque and jagged, and when I rubbed my fingers together, the smooth skin that should have been there was gone. It was rough and bumpy, each finger warped by unseen torture—twisted and turned beyond recognition.

There was a time when warmth was so scarce we yearned for it. But this—this was not the warmth we had once hoped and begged for.

Six months ago, tragedy struck. The trees had sunk, crumbling to the touch—rotten to the core and reeking of an illness unknown to us. Any reserve for winter had long been used, leaving us without firewood. Fear settled over us. How many would manage to survive?

A small group volunteered to travel beyond the meadows and through the valley to gather healthy wood. But just as our hopes had lifted, four days later only one returned—battered, bruised, and driven by blind survival. He collapsed in the center of town, the crowd circling him in silence. His voice broke as he croaked the words, “We’ve failed... there is no one else... I’m sorry.”

As we stared at the corpse before us, dread brewed deep in our cores. Winter was mere days away, and the frost’s ghastly hands would soon come knocking on our doors.

The sobs rang loud, vibrating through the night. We had no one else. Only a handful of men remained capable, while most of the people were weak and frail.

Then came the hunts. Strong, young men departed each week—from early spring until the first frost—in search of meat. But the carcasses were no good. Their lungs were filled with fibrous, web-like growths. The coats were patchy and matted; maggots had claimed them, leaving us blistered by cold and gnawed by hunger. Our old furs were worn thin, and the pantries once filled with dried meat stood bare.

But that all changed when he arrived.

In the middle of winter, when our breath hung visible in the air, our homes creaked louder than before—bare to their hinges—and all that remained were dead embers. The world had gone silent for many months. Death moved in slowly, silently. And when all hope was lost, life stirred.

The crunching of snow echoed. At first, it was thought to be delirium, but as it grew louder, the numbness and bitter cold began to fade. Our hearts pounded hard in excitement.

Who knew that, on that twilight, we were forsaken for our greed—for the frost’s pale clutches proved far more forgiving than the warmth we had once yearned for in flame. Sir Michael Gray arrived then, in a cream-colored carriage made of the finest birchwood, and we stirred from our homes. None of us slept, too afraid we’d succumb to the frost.

He stepped out dressed in the finest leather, thickly and meticulously stitched to keep out the cold, and layered in furs so heavy he resembled an undomesticated beast more than a man. No—something bird-like. When he lifted his hat, his ebony hair slicked back, damp with sweat. Teardrops slid down clean-shaven skin, tracing the hooked bridge of his nose, gliding over lips so thin they vanished unless one tilted their head, and pooling in the cleft of his arched chin. I stared at him, wide-eyed—a vulture.

His voice rang through the eerie, windless night as we huddled together, no more than skin and bone, withered and hollow. He spoke of his wealth, his title, and his travels through towns and cities, displaying his merchant’s status with practiced grace.

The timing of his arrival was strange. We were at our lowest, and yet he met our needs without payment. His kindness was disarming, drawing us from death’s doorstep. Like rodents scurrying for scraps, we followed him—desperate. But behind that façade lay something sinister, patient, and waiting to reveal itself.

I blinked out of the past. The image fizzled away, and my eyes scanned the line of cruxes. Most were made of blackthorn—a dense, hard wood with dark bark and sharp thorns. Its gnarled points had been sanded smooth, yet its color remained as black and eerie as a starless night. No matter how many were bound to them and set aflame, they stood sturdy, unyielding, and intact.

The cold began to seep in again, forcing my gaze upon the smoldering remains. The flames had long died, the embers now a low glow—ash piles barely concealing lumps of ivory bone.

His voice broke the still air, and a shudder rippled through every spine around me. We all knew what would come next—another name. Another victim.

“Rashel Brook!”

My name. Spat with venom, as all the others had been.

With slow, deliberate steps, my back straight and chin lifted, I walked forward—eyes locked on those beady, black, marbled eyes. His hooked nose seemed to grow larger as I drew closer, consuming the space where his mouth should have been. The slick strands of midnight hair began to come loose, the heat turning them wild, feather-like.

And then I stopped, just a foot away from Sir Michael.

A creature that spoke, yet hid in shadow. Patient. Calculating. Wings meant for flight—but used to circle the dying.

Yes. A vulture he was.