The world does not end with a scream.
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Sometimes, it begins with silence.
The forests near the north ridge have gone quiet. Not in winter’s stillness, nor the hush of reverence, but the kind of silence that crawls beneath the skin, one that listens, waits, and remembers what came before sound.
Birdsong has vanished, giving way to the howls and yips of beasts hunting. The food chain disrupted. With herbivores depredating their fellow herbivores and the occasional unfortunate carnivore.
The rivers no longer move as they should. Fish have grown thin, pale, and sharp-boned. Crops twist as they grow, leaves curling inward, stalks pulsing faintly as if breathing. Even the soil greedily feeds on anything left to rot.
A well in a nearby village now draws black water. Those who drink it forget things: names, traditions, the color of their childhood home. One man no longer recalls his own child. He only blinks blankly when he looks at her.
A feeling has gripped the land.
It does not speak.
But it breathes thoughts into those living here.
And in dreams across the region, people hear it chewing.
The scholars say it may be corruption. The old druids say it is something older, something that feeds without mouth or flame. A thing that devours not just flesh.
What you find may not bleed. It may not fight. But it will consume.
And if you're not careful…
You won’t even remember what you lost.
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