The mist that night was not merely a veil over the forest; it was a living entity, breathing cold over the bare skin of gnarled trees. It slid across the leaf-strewn ground, climbed up trunks like a famished ghost, and its icy fingers tapped on the crudely built windows of the hidden village. To the inhabitants of that forgotten refuge, the mist served as both shield and prison. It concealed them from the curious eyes of the human world, but it also smothered their cries, swallowed their secrets, and at times seemed to carry with it the laments of spirits who had perished there long ago.
Inside the main cabin, warmed by a hearth struggling against the invading dampness, the old chief watched the dancing flames. His eyes, amber like a wolf's under a full moon, reflected an ancient worry, a weight that not even the hearth's heat could lift. His daughter, Seraphina, seated nearby, sharpened an obsidian dagger with precise, silent strokes. There was a tension in the air, denser than the very mist outside. Rumors had arrived, borne on the wind and by the crows that served as their sentinels: a hunter was drawing near. Not an ordinary hunter, one in furs and traps, but one of those who carried silver and hatred in their hearts, whose life was dedicated to eradicating their kind from the face of the earth.
The scent of impending rain mingled with the earthy odor of wet wood and the metallic tang of fear beginning to seep through the cracks. Seraphina felt a shiver run down her spine, not from cold, but from foreboding. A distant wolf's howl cut through the night's silence—not a call to hunt, but a warning. The mist seemed to thicken in response, its whispers becoming a low murmur, almost a funeral prayer. The danger was not only approaching; it already breathed alongside the mist, waiting for the right moment to tear aside the veil and bathe the clearing in blood and pale moonlight.