The events about the sole survivor laid heavily upon all Mistbury’s residents. One full year passed since that incident, and the mists continued to push further into their village. One of the Elders of the village suggested the town residents move into the central hub. After all they didn’t know when the walls would fail them.

The crazed promise, the one that struck fear in all of them, hung over their minds. The gates won’t keep them out forever. Yet some craved for some sense of routine. Some would dive deep into their work, keeping the trade of their family strong and teaching the little ones how to be self-sufficient. Despite the cramped living quarters, the cots, the open communal spaces, everyone lived as best they could. And with what they had.  It was all could do to find something so normal. Such a strange word to describe a routine and every day event.

Yet it was all to normal to see the anxiety shift through the village. How it would morph into dread and fear. How the slightest of sounds could stiffen someone up or make them look over their shoulder for hours. What next would come from this disparaging cycle of life. Silence swallowed the community whole. The constant vigilance of the self-imposed guards warily eyed the gates and the mist that reached the boundary. Occasionally one could hear shouts of terror, as someone spotted something unknown and monstrous test the gates. The constant sizzle as whatever it was would gnash its claws, fangs, or whatever horrifying appendage against the iron to break in.

It seemed true as more strange things continued to happen. Before the roads had been sort of travel-able, where merchant caravans could make the journey through the forests to their home—but unfortunately not many could stand the treacherous conditions as they worsened. Before Mistbury could stock up and hunker down for the winter, they had all but run out of their food supply. And Little Orchid, one of the only traveling merchants who remained faithful to delivering to them, had been delayed to later that week.

What could such a small, tucked away town do at the mercy of some crazed beasts wanting to slaughter them all.

Rousing from her bed, a tired young woman with pale green eyes lifted the covers up. Another dreary day, another nerve-racking morning. Her only remaining family, her uncle Oak, and her lived near the outskirts of the communal center grounds. They had chosen to live apart from the town—and that was do to the farm they owned. They helped prepare the stocks, provide the foods, and shelter the livestock. Unfortunately, the rains had been severe.

That week constant rain had been unleashing torrents and torrents of water from the sky, soaking the ground into mud. Many of the crops were wasted, water-logged from the pressure of mother nature. What came with that rain soon became the constant, dull ache in her leg. As if the thunder that rolled sent shocks of pain through the limb.

Or what should have been her leg. The stump, scarred from an extensive surgery to save her life, laid right next to her fully functional left one. There were several attachments within the flesh of her stump that could attach to her prosthetic leg, but it always was a painful connection. It wasn’t as painful as when she lost her original leg though.

The memory of that day still haunted her. How as a dumb eight-year-old kid she didn’t listen to her elders. How she ran too close to the open gate, how she stepped out into the mist, those glowing red eyes hungrily feasting upon her—and that was that. Her story wasn’t the only morbid event in that village. Countless others suffered similar bouts. The most recent one had been Rayne’s. How half his face, his leg, his entire arm—completely mutilated into thinly cut pieces of skin still barely attached at the muscle. 

She ran a hand though her bangs. The razor cut edges of her front bangs side swept her over part of her face, while the remainder of her right side had been pulled tightly into tiny dreadlocks, sweeping around her neck to braid into a fully flushed side ponytail.

This was normal. For all her time there on that godforsaken land she had lived within these walls of iron, how the mists swelled from the forest for as long as she could remember. Multiple generations had lived like this, unable to leave—unable to gather their courage to find a new means of survival. She didn’t blame them. Far from it, she would rather live out her days in ignorant bliss and hoped that she’d never find the thing that ate her leg as a child. How the sickening crunch of bone, garbled screams, and thickening blood—She slapped her pale cheeks. Snapping herself from the anxiety rising within her, she knew she had to get up and start her daily routine.

She reached over the side of her bed, where her prosthetic leg laid waiting for her to grab. Over the years, the village blacksmith and wood carpenters worked together to make her a functioning one—but growing up she had grown out from them quickly. Which is why Little Orchid’s deliveries were so important, at least to her. Every year or two, the merchant would bring the special order designed specifically for her leg.

Although it cost them quite a bit of money in the process. She paid them back—through physical labor and hunting. For all that she lacked in her lower body, she made up for it in her upper body. She trained hard to become a strong and skilled bowman for her home.

She slid her prosthetic on, her face pale with pain. The door opened. Standing in the space, a tall older male in his forties, dressed in simple trousers and high collared tunic emerged. A monocle rested evenly on his left side of his face. This was none other than her uncle Oak, and he looked ready to lecture her, until he saw her biting back the scream she wanted to let loose.

“Rexi breathe.” He moved closer, grabbing ahold of her hand to help. “We’re away from everyone if you want to scream. It’s fine.” 

Her face showed that she did not want to yield to the notion, and finally her leg snapped back into place. Her eyes, those backstabbing things, betrayed her as water droplets slid down her cheeks. Shakily, she heaved.

“Good job Rexi—I know that must be painful.” He patted her on her shoulder. “I know you don’t want to ask for help in these situations, but I am here. I won’t be mad if you ask.” 

Rexi Oak, a quiet, humble, determined and resilient young adult rubbed her cheeks with her hands. “The storms just make it worse—I’d leave it on if I could.”

“Your new one is coming in later this week. Just hold out until then.” He smiled, but that lasted just a fraction of a second as he remembered why he came up to her room. “That’s right, Rexi! Your owl is making a mess of the kitchen—get control over it before I send it flying out the door!”

The girl listened, pulling herself off her bed, and stretched her aching muscles. She watched her uncle walk out from the room, the sound of his footsteps on the hard wood of the stairs alerted her to when he arrived below. 

Taking a moment to gather her own clothes to change into, she looked to the window, where the iron bars protectively stood just outside the glass. The mist, thicker than usual, swirled in clumps, and at the center of it stood gleaming red eyes that loomed within.

She rushed to the shutters, slamming them closed with a fervent movement. Her chest rising fast from how much air she was inhaling and exhaling.

“If only this could be chalked up as a trick of the eyes.” She murmured and dressed herself.

“Rexi!” The shout from her uncle below her room, caused her to jump.

“Coming!”

She jumped into her boots, her metal leg slid easily into the open slot. The other she had to maneuver a bit. She quickly tied the laces, before running down the stairs to see what havoc her loving Great Horned Owl created. She would have laughed, at the bags of flours being pecked at, the white powder decorating numerous footprints of talons in the substance. Uncle Oak had his arms crossed, a bowl of porridge almost ruined thanks to the bird’s devious calls for attention.

“Harper.” Rexi sighed, she lifted her arm. Flying over from its mess, the owl nuzzled against her head.  “You’re such a good girl, what’s gotten you so spooked?” The girl felt the owl move, and she was directed to the window. The mist still swirled ominously.

“I saw it too girl.” Was all she said and looked for her pack. She found it sitting on the counter by the water basin. She reached inside her pouch for a treat and lifted it up to Harper’s beak. The soft nibble of her point, she gobbled it before Rexi could get another. The owl made several incessant noises for more food. “I get it, I get it—wait a moment while I fill your feeder.”

She moved easily within the space, the owl following closely by. Sometimes it would hop by her feet, other times it would perch on the counter, or even her shoulders. Their home was large enough for it to move wherever it pleased. She filled the empty food basin with bird pellets, and then walked over to the cooling box. Inside, she pulled out a slab of meat.

“Cut two thick slices. I have the stove already lit.” She heard her uncle ask from the table, still finishing his food. She did as was told, pulling the butcher knife from the rack. She cut several tiny bite sized bits for Harper and fed her periodically by hand until she was ready to cook. The owl, once her bits of meat were gone, cried willfully for some more. Rexi pointed to the pounds of pellets in the bowl. “Eat that first, and then you’ll get some more.”

Harper cried in delight—soaring over to the dish to devour her food.

Rexi was done making her own breakfast, grabbing herself a plate to place the cooked meat. She pulled a chair by her uncle. “Did you want some Guncle Oak?”

He smiled at her endearing nickname for him. “Please.” She placed the plate between the two of them and passed out the utensils. Harper was munching away at her pellet station. They sat in silence, closed their eyes for a simple prayer, and began to dig in. The food was as good as it always was—a bit tough, but flavorful. The cow that had been butchered for this slab of meat had been well taken care of. 

By the time breakfast was done and over with, the girl cleaned up around the kitchen. The flour had been the hardest since it was everywhere. Despite that hiccup, the day had been quite normal. Had been.

Their front door, one that never really got much visitors because of how far away they were from the center of town, had been pounded on relentlessly. As if someone was trying to get inside quickly. Uncle Oak and Rexi stopped in their routine to look at the wooden door.

“Who’s there?” Her uncle yelled, approaching with caution.

“It’s me, Zondreah! My father sent me to deliver you something.”

Rexi sighed in relief. Zondreah Grecig, a young woman with loosely curled black hair over her shoulders, and fierce blue eyes had been Rexi’s best friend. Alongside a few others their same age. 

Uncle Oak opened the door, and Zondreah invited herself in. She was shaking off the morning mist off her black tunic as she held up a missive. The scroll was rolled up neatly and holding it in place was a wax seal of the elders.

Rexi watched as her uncle’s expression darkened. “Did he say anything about it?”

Zondreah cupped her cheek with her hand. Rexi had always wondered how the girl was able to redden her lips as brightly as she did. “No, but he seemed more quiet than usual. Is something the matter Guncle Oak?”

He shook his head, staring at the scroll. “It’s nothing you two need to worry about—Rexi, why don’t you go back with Zondreah and hang out with your friends. The morning gathering will commence soon.”

Feeling like she was being kicked out, Rexi grabbed her dark green hooded mantle off the wall. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she whistled for Harper to come along. Zondreah gave the owl a quick ruffle of his feathers before they departed from the home.

With the morning chill creeping upon the two girls, they walked with a purpose. Harper soared above, keeping a constant eye out as they went down the path. For the time being, if they stayed within the gates, they were safe—but one could never be too careful.

Zondreah looked to Rexi. She was a head taller than the girl. “Still having nightmares?”

“Yup. And you?” Rexi said simply. She didn’t need to go into detail about their morning visitor.

“Always.” 

“Something feels wrong—like something big is about to happen.” Rexi could tell from the air a sort of tension. “I haven’t felt something like this in a while.”

Zondreah nodded. She too was preoccupied by the sudden charge of atmosphere. “Your Guncle wasn’t the only one who received that type of scroll Rex. I delivered one to Aggy at the infirmary hut, and then to Annalise who oversees the central mainstay where everyone is at. They gave me similarly dark looks and told me to be on my way. It’s strange.”

“Alright, nothing better to do—let’s go talk with Annalise. She might be easier to get information from.” Rexi was determined to get to the bottom of it.