Abel blinked, his mind a haze. He found himself standing in the middle of a dense forest, the air thick with the smell of earth and damp leaves. His head spun, unsure of how he’d arrived there. A flicker of light in the distance caught his attention—a fire.

  As he crept closer, the light revealed a gathering of people. They were dressed in strange, indigenous garments—feathered skirts, their bodies painted with intricate symbols. They moved in a slow circle around the fire, each person holding two spears, their chants growing louder and more intense with each step. The rhythm of their voices was hypnotic, eerie, like some forgotten song from an ancient world.

  Abel’s heartbeat quickened. Something about this felt wrong. He stepped back, his foot brushing against a fallen branch. The crack echoed unnaturally loud in the silent night, and his stomach lurched with panic. He whipped around, preparing to dash away, when—his foot went through the ground.

  A startled gasp escaped him. His legs, half-sunken into the forest floor, made his breath catch in his throat. Abel quickly lifted his leg, expecting to feel the earth solid beneath him again—but nothing. His foot slipped straight through the ground as though it was air.

  He staggered backward, wide-eyed, until his back hit a tree. But it didn’t stop him. His body slid through the trunk as if it wasn’t even there.

  What’s happening to me? He twisted his arms, watching in horror as they passed through the bark like a ghost. His heart hammered in his chest, fear pressing down on him from every side. But before he could comprehend his strange new state, something else caught his attention—a voice.

  A deep voice, firm yet gentle, rising above the chants.

  Abel’s gaze snapped back to the circle of people. There, near the fire, stood a man unlike the others. His presence was commanding, his crown woven from sticks and feathers, marking him as the leader. He lifted a hand, and the chanting momentarily softened. Abel watched as the man’s serious gaze shifted to someone beside him: a girl, perhaps no older than Abel himself.

  His daughter.

  The man placed a hand on her shoulder, and though his expression remained stern, there was a tenderness in the way his fingers gripped her arm, as if she were all that mattered in this terrifying ritual. She smiled at him—an innocent, reassuring smile—but there was a glint of fear in her eyes, as if she knew what was coming but was trying to hide it from him.

  The leader leaned down, whispering something in her ear. She nodded, taking a step back as he turned to face the fire once more. His voice joined the chant, louder now, more desperate, as the moon began to rise higher in the sky.

  Abel watched helplessly, his body half-phased through the tree. He wanted to run, to scream, but the scene before him held him captive. The chanting swelled with a fevered intensity, the villagers raising their spears high, their voices growing wild as the moon reached its zenith.

  The leader raised his arm. The chanting suddenly stopped. For a moment, everything was still. Abel’s breath caught, the silence more terrifying than the chanting had ever been.

  Then, they hurled their spears toward the moon.

  Abel watched, frozen in place, as the spears soared impossibly high, cutting through the night sky as if they could pierce the very stars. He felt a strange energy pass through him, the rush of their collective power making him feel dizzy, like the air itself had become electric.

  But as the spears reached the peak of their arc, something went wrong. Gravity pulled them back down, faster and deadlier than before. Abel’s eyes widened as they began to fall—not away from the villagers, but back toward them.

  "No... no, no!" Abel whispered, his voice catching in his throat as he reached out instinctively. His hand passed through the air, powerless to stop what was coming.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The first spear struck with a sickening thud, piercing a man through the chest. Blood sprayed into the air, and chaos erupted. The villagers screamed, trying to run, but the spears rained down with merciless precision, slicing through flesh and bone. Bodies crumpled, their blood soaking into the earth, mixing with the flickering firelight.

  Abel stepped forward, his intangible body moving through the chaos like a shadow. One spear whizzed toward him, straight for his chest. He flinched—but it passed clean through him. His heart pounded in his ears, but the spear left him untouched, as if he were no more solid than smoke.

  But the others weren’t so lucky.

  Abel’s eyes locked onto the leader, who now stood frozen, staring in horror at his daughter. She was standing still, too shocked to move as a spear fell toward her, faster and faster. The man lunged forward, screaming her name, but he was too slow.

  The spear found its mark, piercing her heart.

  The girl collapsed, her lifeless body crumpling to the ground, her blood seeping into the soil. The leader fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he cradled her head. His mouth moved in silent agony, the weight of his grief pressing into the night.

  And then, through the haze of death and despair, his eyes found Abel. This time, they really met Abel's.

  The man’s lips moved, forming words that Abel could barely hear over the sound of his pounding heart. But they reached him, just barely.

  “Come… save us,” the leader whispered, his voice filled with a hopeless, broken plea.

  And before Abel could process what was happening, a spear struck the man, ending his suffering. Abel’s vision blurred as darkness closed in around him, the forest and the fire fading into nothingness.

  Abel tossed and turned in his small bed, his sheets tangled around him, soaked with sweat. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as his dreams haunted him—the chanting, the spears, the deaths. His heart pounded in his chest, and the images of the forest lingered behind his closed eyelids like an unshakable shadow.

  Suddenly, a loud BOOM echoed through the small room, jolting him awake. Abel gasped, sitting up, his hand flying to his head as a sharp pain throbbed through his skull. He gripped his temples, trying to steady his breathing, but the pain was relentless, like something pressing against the inside of his brain.

  The door to his room burst open, and a figure rushed inside. Abel blinked through the haze of pain, struggling to recognize the man standing in the doorway. Blond hair, wild and windswept, framed his face—the same color as Abel’s own. The man’s eyes, wide with concern, softened with relief when he saw Abel awake.

  “Oh, thank God, you're okay,” the man breathed, his voice tight with emotion.

  Abel stared at him, disoriented. His mind felt sluggish, clouded by confusion. Who is he? The man’s face was familiar, but the connection was buried somewhere deep, lost beneath the fog of the dream. The man’s expression faltered, a flicker of heartbreak crossing his features before he stepped forward and pulled Abel into a hug.

  The warmth of the embrace stirred something in Abel, a memory awakening in the back of his mind. His heart skipped a beat, and slowly, recognition dawned on him.

  Dad.

  “When will these dreams stop, Dad?” Abel asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the question heavy in his young heart.

  His father pulled back, resting a hand on Abel’s head, gently ruffling his hair. “Soon, very soon,” he replied softly, though his eyes betrayed the uncertainty in his voice.

  Another BOOM shook the ceiling, causing the tiny light bulb hanging from the middle of the room to sway back and forth, casting shadows that danced across the walls. Abel’s father clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he glanced up at the ceiling.

  “It’s here,” he muttered under his breath.

  Abel’s small hand reached out, gripping his father’s sleeve. “What’s here?” he asked, his voice quivering with fear. He could feel the tension in the air, thick and unsettling.

  His father looked down at him, and for a moment, his serious expression softened. Without warning, he scooped Abel up into his arms, spinning him around. Abel’s giggles filled the room, breaking through the tension for just a brief moment. After all, he was only six years old, and his father always knew how to cheer him up.

  “Don’t worry, your dad is going to destroy those mutants and cook them for dinner, okay?” his father said with a grin, trying to make light of the danger that loomed outside.

  “Ewww!” Abel wrinkled his nose in disgust, making a face at the thought of eating mutants.

  His father chuckled, setting him back down on the bed before walking toward the door. He swung his coat around his shoulders, the insignia of a hawk clutching a rat stitched into the fabric—a symbol he knew nothing about.

  Just as he reached the door, he paused and turned back to Abel, his eyes softening. “Mom’s cooking curry tonight, your favorite,” he said, his voice lighter, trying to keep things normal. Abel’s eyes lit up, his earlier fear momentarily forgotten at the mention of his favorite dish.

  “When I get back, we’ll eat it all together, okay? Then we’ll help your mom with the dishes,” his father added, smiling warmly.

  Abel nodded eagerly, excitement filling his small body. The thought of a family dinner—his dad, his mom, and him—warmed his heart.

  His father’s hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment. Then, in a voice that carried more weight than Abel could understand, he said, “Goodbye, Abel.”

  The word caught Abel off guard, confusing him. He tilted his head, unsure why his dad would say goodbye when he was just going outside for a while. But before he could ask, his father smiled and waved, closing the door behind him.

  Abel sat on the bed, still trying to shake off the strange feeling that lingered after his father’s departure. The room felt quieter, heavier somehow. But the thought of curry and a family dinner kept his spirits up, and he waited patiently for his father to return.

  He waited.

  But as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the curry faded, and the food grew cold.

  His mother sat beside him at the table that night, her eyes distant as they both stared at the untouched plate where his father should have been. Abel kept glancing at the door, hoping—expecting—his father to walk back in with a grin on his face, victorious over whatever threat had loomed outside.

  But he never came home.

  And from that night on, two people sat at the dinner table.

  Soon, even that became one.