Chapter 10: The Dogs
They called it the Village of Veilmoor, but few dared to speak the name aloud once the sun began to set—even knowing that the sun there never fully rose.
Veilmoor was the kind of place that seemed perpetually suspended between a cloudy afternoon and an early night.
During the day, the sky was a low ceiling of heavy clouds, stained with gray and purple, and the light filtered through weakly, as if it didn’t want to disturb. The trees surrounding the village were tall and skeletal, intertwining with thick vines like snakes, creating tunnels of shadow that whispered with the wind.
The very earth seemed to absorb sound. No birds sang there. Even the roosters seemed confused, crowing timidly at the wrong times.
The buildings were all made of thick, roughly cut wood, with heavy thatched roofs that were already darkening from moisture. The windows had reinforced shutters, kept closed with thick locks even during the day. It was common to see candles lit even at noon, spreading a faint, flickering glow to ward off whatever the darkness might bring.
People walked with their eyes downcast, always in a hurry. They went in and out of their homes as little as possible, exchanging brief, curt glances. They spoke in whispers, as if even sound might attract unwanted attention.
They were all like that—except him.
Darin.
Darin pushed the creaking cabin door with his shoulder, feeling the rough wood scratch against his calloused palm. A cold draft entered, bringing the damp smell of soaked mud and extinguished fires. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight in his throat.
Behind him, his wife Mara shrank back, clutching a worn shawl to her chest. Her black hair was tied in a loose knot, with stray strands sticking to her sweaty forehead. Her eyes, deep-set and red at the edges, followed him with silent concern.
"Are you really going?" she whispered, her voice rough from so many sleepless nights.
Darin didn’t answer immediately. He closed the door slowly so as not to wake Linn, who slept in a corner, clutching a rag doll. The girl’s face was smeared with dry dirt—traces of her dashing around the house when the last thunder echoed through the trees. She trembled even in her sleep.