A villager asks fearfully: "Who is coming?"
The white rider replies hastily:
"A creature of darkness!"
The crowd falls silent. Not even the rustling of leaves can be heard.
"You must flee! Only then can you save yourselves!" She breathes heavily, the journey visible in every muscle of her body—the reddened eyes, the sweat-soaked brow, the bloody cracks on her hands from reins held too tight. "I have ridden as fast as I could. I hope I arrive in time to avert this doom from your village."
She takes a step toward the crowd, and Liyen sees the fear in her eyes—not fear of the journey, but fear of failure. Liyen supports her and gives her something to drink.
"The village I came from, I cannot save, unfortunately. But I hope I can at least save this one."
The villagers murmur. An older man steps forward, arms crossed. "Calm yourself, stranger. Look around—everything is in order. No creature, no danger."
The white woman shakes her head violently. "This danger, this creature of darkness, can hide within a human being and thus disguise itself as one of you."
Confusion spreads. Whispers. Fear.
"Then any one of us could already be this creature of darkness?" The voice of a young woman, brittle with panic.
Another, deeper, skeptical: "And even if that were true, who says you are not this creature? Perhaps it has already consumed you and is merely toying with us?!"
The white woman does not hesitate. Her hands fly to her garment, open it, and she presents her bare upper body to the public—her skin pale but unblemished, her shoulders back, her eyes proud despite the humiliation.
"If I were afflicted by this creature of darkness, there would be a huge vertical scar across my entire upper body."
The crowd freezes. Men avert their gaze, women cover their children's eyes. Only one older, sturdy villager steps forward, examining the torso with the indifference of a midwife.
"No scar to be seen."
"But those are merely her words," the skeptic calls out again. "Who knows if these words hold any truth?"
Liyen feels something—not logic, not calculation, but an instinct, deep in her chest. She steps forward, leaves her mother behind, leaves the angry words at Yaoming, and looks into the stranger's eyes. Green. Exhausted. But honest. Desperately honest.
"That was quite brave," she says quietly, "baring yourself before the public like that."
The white woman nods curtly. "We have little time. I must do everything to make my words believed."
"I believe you."
The words fall from Liyen's mouth before she can think. Behind her, a rustle of shock, of protest.
"How can you say that so easily?" The skeptic again, shocked and now louder.
"I believe the white woman too."
The voice comes from behind, from the crowd, but Liyen knows it. Yaoming. Her heart leaps, but she does not turn around. Her gaze remains fixed on the white woman as his words fly past her back like a warm, supporting wind.
"Who would travel such a long way only to play a joke?" Liyen raises her voice, speaks to the crowd, but also to herself. "She has traveled these long distances to warn us. We should not scorn her sacrifice and effort."
She takes a step closer to the white woman, feels the villagers' eyes upon her.
"And as for the assumption that she might be a creature of darkness—why would she even tell us this? Could she not simply pose as a normal traveler and ambush us at night? That would be much easier, would it not? Therefore, we can dismiss that assumption as well."
Silence. Then: a nod here, a murmur of agreement there.
"I thank you for your trust." The white woman's voice is rough with relief.
"What is your name, brave white rider?"
"I am Mara of Kaelon. And you?"
"My name is Liyen." A smile, the first in hours. "Pleased to meet you."
"Where exactly in Kaelon do you come from?"
"From Marenlor."
"And thank you truly for your kind welcome, but you really must flee from here at once." Mara reaches for Liyen's hands, squeezing them with an urgency that almost hurts. "You are no longer safe here!"
But before Liyen can answer, a voice rises from the crowd—not the skeptic, not Yaoming, but an older man with a weathered face and hands roughened by fieldwork:
"If this creature is to come, then we will not abandon our homeland without a fight!"
A murmur of assent. "We will defend our village!"
"If need be, with our lives!"
"You do not understand, you have no chance against this creature!" Mara's voice breaks with despair.
"We may be but a simple village," the old man calls out, "but we are still a village of the Baiteng realm!"
"If we want to defend our village, we must do it properly!"
This time it is Yaoming who steps forward. His gaze seeks Liyen's, meets it for only a heartbeat, then he turns to Mara. Professional. Focused. The boy who brings cake every day has vanished, and in his place stands a man who leads.
"What else do you know of this creature of darkness?"
Mara takes a deep breath. "I believe it can only appear at night, but during the day it can hide within a human being to walk unrecognized among people, as one of us. And thus defy the daylight."
"At night?!" Yaoming said. His voice was hoarse, as if he'd swallowed sand. "So she only comes at night."
He stared at his hands. Were they trembling? He pressed them against his thighs.
"So we'll double the guards. Shorten the patrols." He swallowed hard. "If she still gets through—if she takes one of us—then the game's over. You understand? Then she'll be walking around disguised as one of us, and we won't even realize it. We absolutely have to prevent that!"
"We should also sharpen our weapons for a possible fight," he adds. "We have not used our blades in a long time, but our blades are not among the sharpest and hardest in all Mittertal for nothing."
"Ranged weapons are better," Mara interjects. "Spears or bow and arrow. It has long arms and deadly claws. And it can fly through the air."
"Then let our smith forge more spears and arrows," Liyen says to Yaoming, and her voice is calm, accustomed to command—the voice of the archer who speaks.
"Good, I will inform the smith."
He goes, without another word, without another glance. Liyen watches him leave, and something in her chest—anger, confusion, perhaps pride—mingles with the fear of the coming night.
Mara tells Liyen that she has something else to say, but only in private.
The sun hangs low in the sky when the preparations begin.
And somewhere in the forest, beyond the pond, beyond the border that no one crosses at night, darkness begins to fall.