The sun began its ascent, casting a warm, golden-amber glow across the dark canvas.

  Mokash watched the sun climb up, his forehead covered with sweat, but his face calm. His tall, lean, and muscular frame effortlessly carried the firewood's weight. His neatly combed yellow-golden hair swayed elegantly in the cool salty breeze of the sea. Behind him was his younger brother Grahn, carrying his bundle of firewood sluggishly.

  Though shorter than Mokash, Grahn shared his sturdy build. His fair complexion contrasted with Mokash’s tanned skin, and his perpetually messy blue hair was a testament to how ‘busy’ he always claimed to be.

  “You’re going to drop that.” Mokash said without turning around.

  “I’m fine.” Grahn said huffing. He tried to adjust his grip, only for a splinter to jab in his finger.

  “AAaaahhhHHhh!!” Grahn screamed, dropping his bundle. Mokash turned around and raised an eyebrow.

  “Bad day already?” He asked with a silly smile on his face.

  “It’s the worst!” Grahn screamed while trying to pull out the splinter. “First, I stubbed my toe on that stupid stone, and then that goat tried to kill me”

  “The goat attacked you because you tried to steal its kid.” Mokash reminded him while chuckling.

  “That’s not important. I even stepped in that goat’s poop. It laughed at me.”

  “Sure a goat laughed at you.” Mokash laughed sarcastically as he helped Grahn.

  “This is the worst day ever. If one more thing goes wrong I’ll burn the entire village.” Grahn grumbled as he picked up his firewood.

  “Please don't. We’ll have to rebuild it again.” Mokash said laughingly.

  …

  Their village, Shura, nestling atop an island surrounded by coastal cliffs, was a quiet, close-knit community. The villagers moved unhurriedly, moving in and out of wooden structures. Their laughs mingled with the sounds of livestock and the creaks of wooden carts.

  Mokash had lived here as long as he could remember, and though it wasn’t glamorous, it was his home. His presence was always appreciated by the villagers as a dependable figure, never shying away from helping others.

  And Grahn was… just Grahn. He was energetic and strong but was spoiled by his brother. It was hard to make him do the work, but for food, he had to work. Even after all his shenanigans, he was still loved by the villagers.

  “Mokash! Grahn!” a familiar voice called them out from across the village square.

  Janak stood beside a cart loaded with sacks, waving them over. He was a tall man with a once-strong frame that now bore the weight of years, his back stooping and wearying. The deep wrinkles on his forehead and his soft white hair were evidence of his life rich with experience and hardships.

  He had once stumbled upon two infants, lying vulnerably and alone, bare in a devastated forest near a war-torn country. With great compassion, he took them in and named them Mokash and Grahn, giving them a chance at a new beginning.

  Their bond was just as strong as any familial connection. To them, Janak was their father, and in his heart, they were the sons he cherished and was proud of.

  “Stop dawdling and come here,” Janak called. “The granary’s not going to fill itself!”

  “Coming, father!” Mokash stepped forward without hesitation. Grahn followed behind him with slouching shoulders. Still mad about the morning incidents. Together they hoisted the heavy cart and started trekking towards the granary.

  “You’re getting strong, young man,” Janak patted Grahn on his back. “One day, you’ll be as strong as me.”

  “One day… huh?” Grahn teased, earning a laugh from both of them.

  …

  As the day passed, the sun climbed higher, covering the whole village in golden heat. The trio had finished their job in the granary, coming out to stretch their bodies, when Mokash’s sharp eyes caught something in the sky.

  The once-clear sky darkened as ominous black clouds roiled overhead, their edges shifting like liquid shadows. An unnatural stillness settled over the village. A low hum, barely perceptible, seemed to vibrate through the air, sending chills down their spines.

  “Storm?” Mokash murmured, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  “No… Something else.” Janak said in a low tone beside him. He had a grim expression.

  “Then what?” Mokash asked, glancing at Janak.

  Janak didn’t answer. He clasped his hands behind his back, the crease between his brows growing more pronounced. He took a deep breath and said, “Take Grahn back home. Stay there and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

  Grahn was puzzled, “But papa, wh-”

  “Go!” Janak’s voice was loud and firm. Startling both Mokash and Grahn. They both nodded and started walking towards their home.

  “What is going on?” Grahn worriedly asked his brother.

  “I don’t know.” Mokash admitted, still worried about what he saw.

  “Mokash, will Papa be alright?” Grahn asked in a tense voice.

  “Of course, he’s strong after all.” Mokash looked at his brother, his own heart was accelerating, his throat getting dry but he still put up a reassuring smile in front of Grahn.

  …

  The brothers ducked into their small home, and Mokash bolted the door shut.

  ‘Father has never acted like this. Something terrible is happening.’ Mokash thought as he turned towards Grahn who was looking out the window anxiously.

  The village, once alive with laughter, now lay in a haunting silence. The square, which was alive with activity only a few hours back, now stood desolate; not a single step broke this stillness. Even the livestock were unnervingly quiet. Only the mournful whistle of the wind echoed through the empty streets. The air hung heavy on their chests like a thick, suffocating blanket. Each breath was a struggle, the atmosphere feeling stagnant and stifling as if the world itself had stopped breathing at that moment. The salty ocean breeze rushed past, its chill biting at the skin.

  “I don’t like this, it’s too quiet outside. I can’t see anybody…” Grahn said, still looking out the window.

  “It’s alright, nothing will happen.” Mokash gave an awkward smile to Grahn.

  “Mokash… W-what should we do now?” Grahn asked, his voice trembling.

  “Let’s just stay here for now. Alright?” Mokash said as he took the hunting knife off the wall.

  Grahn sat on the bed, feeling overwhelmed.

  Then, it came—a scream so raw, so desperate, that it cleaved through the silence, freezing their blood in its wake. It was a high-pitched wail that twisted into a guttural, primal growl, a sound that seemed to be born from the very depths of despair. It conveyed an overwhelming sense of pure, unrestrained terror.

  Grahn instinctively grasped his brother’s arm, his voice filled with concern. “Mokash…” he said softly, terror in his tone. Panic was written all over Mokash’s face, the hairs on his body stood on end as if the scream itself had reached out and touched him.