The forest that once sheltered the village had become a mausoleum.
Twisted trunks, their bark blackened by flame, cast jagged shadows over houses reduced to charred husks. A choking haze of smoke swirled around every collapsed roof, and the air tasted metallic with blood. The living dead shuffled through the wrecked streets like slow‑moving specters, while corpses—stiff and still—lay half‑buried in ash. In the center of this ruin stood a single, crumbling hut, its thatch shredded by fire.
Inside, Anna—the black‑haired woman—sat on a splintered chair at the far end of the room. Her hair fell in raven‑black waves over her shoulders, and the faint glow from the dying fire painted sharp shadows across her face. In front of her floated three swirling mists, each a translucent mirror that reflected scenes beyond: Paulio's battle against the forest spirits, the last survivors of the village clutching their wounded, and Elise's father—his eyes wide with terror—as he hunted for his daughter through the twisted wreckage.
Her voice cut across the room like thunder. "O? Two awakeners… in one place?" It was a low, resonant tone that seemed to echo from somewhere deep within the woods. Shock laced her words at first, then excitement took hold. Her smile widened—an expression akin to a ravenous wolf staring at a den of plump rabbits ready for devouring. She licked her lips, eyes glittering with gluttonous hunger.
"Mine… they are all mine," she whispered, each syllable dripping with salivation. The words hung in the air like bitter perfume.
Anna was no ordinary fairy. Unlike the gentle sprites that could summon dreams into reality, she had turned her back on the light. She fed not on joy or hope but on the raw, corrosive power of negative emotions—regret, hatred, grief. Her existence was a paradox: a fairy who never killed directly yet still wove nightmares into living flesh. The forbidden mages offered her a pact—to keep her fairy essence while granting her the ability to drain the very darkness that swelled within mortals and monsters alike. She could now taste despair like a fine wine, savoring it until she was satiated.
A fae, an entity with the ability to bring dreams to life of course with a tint of mischief and a gluttonous hunger for negative emotions for sustenance. Well She would still argue that she was a fairy since she hadn't killed anyone directly. So she was now an abnormality among the fairies. Fairies could bring anything to reality as long as it isn't created from scratch. All these are possible by feeding on positive clusters of emotions and beliefs even hopes and forms of faiths, like prayers to the gods. But fae, fallen fairies that have devoured the negative karma, emotions, or life sources of anything living or dead. They had the power of nightmares, like fairies they can cause dreams to come true but because of their constant need for negative sources of power and the nature of these sources, the dreams brought to pass always begin to manifest a negative trait that succeeds the original dream. This is obviously done to their enjoyment. The more the negative energy like negative emotions the more delicious the treat.
The black haired fairy was approached by the organization of forbidden mages that had given her the ability to retain her nature of a fairy whilst keeping the abilities of a fae. Only she also needed to feed on negative emotions not out of necessity or survival but because of the innate desire to devour them. From what she procured from the headless forbidden mage on a horse they seemed to have wanted to corrupt the earth mother goddess Gaia. For what reason she didn't know, and she didn't care, All she cared about was to savor as many delicious delicacies as possible. She licked her lips "The techniques of the forbidden mages are really exceptional" She thought laughing hysterically. There was also the matter of why she had willingly accepted the beguilement of the forbidden mages and why she wasn't having the fervent loyalty to Gaia a fairy should. Her eyes chilling.
She turned toward the yellow‑haired boy—Theo—who lay bound by black tendrils that clung to his limbs as if he were an unwilling host to an invisible beast. Beside him, Elise, her eyes closed in unconscious terror, was wrapped in the same dark cords. Tears ran down Theo's cheeks, dripping onto the tendrils and staining them a deeper shade of midnight.
Theo's sobs filled the room—a quiet, desperate wail that seemed to seep into the very walls. Anna's ears perked up; the sound of sorrow flowed like a river into her own marrow, filling her with an intoxicating, vile delight. Her face flushed rosy with ecstasy as she watched him.
"Theo," she murmured, softening her voice as if speaking to a lost child. "Still crying about Grandma? Don't worry—you'll be together again soon." She pressed her fingers lightly against his thighs, rubbing them together in an almost comforting rhythm that made the tendrils shiver.
Her smile widened further—soft, cruel, and oddly tender. With a snap of her fingers she shattered the black cords binding Theo. He opened his eyes wide as if struck by a thunderbolt, his mind scrambling to make sense of the sudden freedom. The bed creaked beneath him, its boards groaning in protest.
He staggered toward the bed where his grandmother lay—a skeletal figure, skin scorched and charred, her ribs barely visible through a thin layer of ash. Theo stopped abruptly before her, inhaling sharply enough to create a small gust of wind that made the room shudder.
"You know, Theo," she whispered, her voice a seductive lure, "if you want to understand what your grandmother feels, why don't you look into her heart." The suggestion seeped into his consciousness like a tidal wave, and he felt a rush of darkness surge toward her.
Theo's fingers trembled as he formed a knife with them. He hummed, unable to speak—his words trapped in the black‑haired woman's influence—yet his eyes widened as if he finally grasped what she demanded. Tears welled up again, but this time they fell like rain upon the charred skin that shielded her ribs.
He pierced through the thin layer of ash with a blade of living blood, slipping the knife's edge beneath the charred flesh. The needle slid like butter over bone; his grandmother's lungs rattled as he cut through them and finally reached her heart, grasping it.
The blood from Theo's own grandmother surged into his hands. He felt an unearthly torrent of voices—regret, guilt, hatred, malice—all flooding him with a taste so alien it seemed to empower the very act itself. He could feel every whisper of pain, each echo of sorrow pouring through the charred skin of her ribs.
His grandmother's lips opened and closed in a mournful cry that echoed across the ruined room: "I.... Hate.....you.... Wha.... Why.... did....you…raise him... I should have killed him.... I am sorry..... Bad Luck...." The words were raw as black energy flowed from Theo toward Anna, his father—Elisa's father—who was still searching for her through a village ridden with living dead and the actual corpses of those who had fallen in battle.
The black‑haired woman laughed hysterically at the drama unfolding. "The most important person to you… now hates you," she chuckled. She could feel the emotions—sadness? No, empowering—and the swirling dark energy around her intensified. She nodded, intent on feeding her own hunger for sorrow and death.
She thought again, "I can't forget the mission. There isn't much life force left to siphon." Her gaze flicked over the sky as a storm of purple black light danced in her eyes—an eldritch glow that promised even greater horrors should she feed on it.
The room was thick with a deathly silence punctuated by the sound of snapping arteries, dislodged lungs, and Theo's trembling breaths. She watched him slowly close his hands around the heart—a static, unyielding vessel of corrupted blood—before her own black light shone upon him as he bit into it.
"Theo…" The black haired woman called. "Seems you are quite famished, Why don't you help yourself to lunch" She said with a smile. A surge of unwillingness overwhelmed Theo; a sudden urge to feed himself with the very thing that had once been his grandmother rose within him. The arteries and veins hissed as they disconnected from the heart's core. As Theo ate, his bloodied mouth swallowed the pulse of black energy, and tears flowed from his eyes like an endless tide.
Anna stroked Theo's head softly, her fingers trembling against his hair. She spoke with a quiet triumph: "He is almost fully corrupted." The static grandmother—once a vessel of life—lay still, its heart now a husk in the hands that had once sought to protect it.
The forest outside was a pulsing purple, dark cathedral of twisted trees and blackened roots. The black‑haired woman's laughter rang like a funeral bell, an echo that reverberated through every stone and leaf. Her thoughts were a cruel joke: the most vital part of Theo's life—his grandmother—once loved him and now hated him, all while she fed on it.
In the final moment she whispered to herself, "I can't forget the mission." She felt the black light that surged in her own veins as if it were an eldritch beacon. The sky above flickered with a storm of unspoken dread—a reminder that even death could be a twisted feast for those who fed on it.