He ran through the forest, weaving around brambles and underbrush, his boots crunching
over the snow. Each stride was a desperate stretch, his breath coming in sharp bursts that
mingled with the howling wind. The blizzard roared around him, a curtain of icy white that
bit at his face and blurred the night-shrouded landscape. He couldn’t see more than a few
paces ahead, but stopping wasn’t an option.
If they caught him now, it would all be over. Not after what he had done.
For hours, he ran, his legs burning and lungs screaming in protest. Occasionally, he paused
to scatter false trails—broken branches here, footprints leading toward nowhere
there—anything to throw his pursuers off the scent. He wasn’t sure how far behind they
were, but the paranoia clung to him like a second skin.
Then, through the swirling snow, he saw it: the dark outline of a building. He blinked
against the wind, heart pounding. As he drew closer, the shape sharpened into that of a
cabin, half-buried under a thick blanket of snow. It was neither small nor large, but a
modest structure with frost-covered windows that glinted faintly in the moonlight.
With a final burst of energy, he stumbled toward the cabin, each step sinking into the
snow as exhaustion tugged at his limbs. He tried the door knob, and surprisingly, it was
open. He rushed inside, and slammed the door closed behind him. Now, he could truly feel
how cold his body was, as the blistering cold wind outside could no longer reach him.
Inside was simple furniture. A couch, a bed, a table, small cabinents and cupboards, and a
fireplace. His thoughts immediately went to setting a flame—but that would produce
smoke and steam, and pinpoint him inside the forest. He couldn’t do that—lest they find
him.
Instead, exhaustion began to tear away at his spirit. He stumbled toward the bed, and fellonto it. His hands grasped the daggers at his side, their blades still stained. He was tired,
but he still had to be cautious.
Eventually, he succumbed to a short sleep.
When he awoke, it wasn’t the gradual stirring of a man well-rested. It was abrupt, his heart
thumping as though it had never slowed, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his
daggers. The cabin was silent, save for the faint whistle of wind sneaking through the
cracks in the walls. For a moment, he lay still, his ears straining for any sound, any sign
that his pursuers had found him.
But there was nothing.
He sat up slowly, muscles stiff after last night’s frantic escape. The cabin was dark, the
only light coming from a pale crack of moonlight filtering through the frosted windows.
Yet, something about the room felt… different.
His stomach growled, breaking the silence. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet,
intending to rummage through the cupboards for anything remotely edible. But as he
turned, he froze.
There, on the small table in the center of the room, was a tray.
He blinked, unsure if his sleep-starved mind was playing tricks on him. The tray was laden
with what could only be described as an attempt at breakfast: a hunk of stale bread, a
steaming cup of something that smelled vaguely like tea, and what appeared to be an
overcooked egg. The arrangement was clumsy, the plate slightly askew, and crumbs
scattered around it.
His instincts screamed that it was a trap. He tightened his grip on his daggers, his eyes
darting to the door and windows. Had someone been here while he slept? Had his hunters
somehow gotten in without him noticing?But the cabin was still as he’d left it. No footprints in the snow outside, no signs of forced
entry. Just the tray of food, sitting innocently on the table.
Hunger warred with the caution within him as he approached it, his steps slow and
deliberate. He prodded the bread with his dagger, half-expecting it to explode or release
some kind of poison gas. When nothing happened, he took a cautious sniff. It smelled fine,
if a bit burnt.
Against his better judgment, he ate. The bread was dry, the egg rubbery, and the tea far
too bitter, but it filled the gnawing ache in his stomach. Still, unease churned in his gut
alongside the makeshift meal.
Who had left it? And why?
The questions nagged at him as he searched the cabin, checking every corner, every
cupboard, even under the bed. But he found nothing out of place. He pushed the thought
to the back of his mind.
He needed to camp out here for a while, and a cabin was better than the blistering snow.
So, he decided to take the day slow, and spend it resting.
The next morning, it happened again.
This time, the tray held a watery porridge and a single shriveled apple. Again, it was
haphazardly arranged, and again, there was no sign of who had left it. He didn’t touch it at
first, spending the better part of the day searching the cabin for hidden compartments or
signs of someone sneaking in. When hunger finally won out, he ate the meal with the
same wary deliberation as before.
Days passed, and the routine continued. Each morning, the mysterious tray appeared. The
food never improved in quality—if anything, it grew stranger, as though whoever prepared
it didn’t quite understand what humans ate. Once, there was a plate of raw potatoes.Another time, a pile of dried herbs sprinkled over a rock-hard biscuit.
And yet, there was a certain comfort in the strange predictability of it. Whoever—or
whatever—was leaving the food didn’t seem interested in harming him.
At least, not yet.
It wasn’t until the fifth night that he finally caught a glimpse of his unseen benefactor.
He had stayed awake, his exhaustion barely held at bay by the adrenaline coursing through
his veins. The cabin was deathly silent, the fireless hearth casting long, jagged shadows
across the walls. Hours ticked by as he sat in the dark, his daggers resting on his lap, his
ears straining for any sound.
And then, he saw it.
A shadow moved—not outside, but within the cabin. It slithered along the wall,
unnaturally fluid, its shape shifting as though it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. For a
moment, it paused, coalescing into something vaguely humanoid before darting toward
the door.
He didn’t think, only acted. Lunging forward, he flung the door open just in time to see theThis text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
figure slip through the crack and vanish into the blizzard.
Cold air bit at his face, but he didn’t care. He stared into the storm, his heart pounding, the
image of that shadow burned into his mind.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t human.
And he wasn’t alone in the cabin.
The door slammed shut behind him, and for a long moment, he stood there, his back
pressed against the wood, his breath coming in sharp bursts. His mind raced, replayingwhat he had just seen. It hadn’t been a trick of the light or a figment of his exhaustion.
The shadow had moved, had shifted, had watched.
The food, the tidied cabin—none of it made sense before, but now, it was unmistakable.
He wasn’t alone, and whatever shared the cabin with him wasn’t flesh and blood.
Sleep was out of the question. He spent the rest of the night perched on the edge of the
bed, daggers clutched tightly in his hands, his eyes darting to every corner of the room.
But the shadow didn’t return. The only movement came from the flicker of the frosted
window panes as the blizzard raged on outside.
By morning, his body ached from tension, his muscles stiff and his eyes burning from lack
of sleep. He forced himself to move, pacing the room as his thoughts spiraled. The
shadow—whatever it was—had been helping him, hadn’t it? It had brought food,
straightened the cabin, even cleaned his boots one night. It had had countless
opportunities to harm him, but it hadn’t.
Yet, the way it had moved—the way it had slipped through the crack in the door like
smoke—it wasn’t natural.
He was no stranger to danger, to the malice that often lurked behind kind acts. He’d been
a thief for too long to trust generosity at face value.
When the food appeared again that morning, he stared at it for a long time. It was a crude
attempt at a sandwich this time, two uneven slices of bread clumsily stuffed with raw
greens and some unidentifiable paste. The sight of it, so absurd and almost pitiful, made
something in his chest tighten.
He didn’t eat it. Instead, he let it sit there.
Digging through his satchel, he pulled out a single, half-melted sugar cube—one of the
last remnants of his stolen haul. He placed it carefully on the table next to the sandwichand sat back, watching.
Hours passed. The day crept by in agonizing silence, the blizzard outside refusing to relent.
The shadow didn’t show itself, but when he turned his head for just a moment, he heard it:
a faint, almost imperceptible sound, like the rustling of dry leaves.
When he looked back, the sugar cube was gone.
That night, he lay awake once more, waiting. The hours dragged on, but eventually, the
whispering rustle returned. It came from the far corner of the cabin, where the shadows
were deepest.
This time, he didn’t move. He kept his breathing slow, his daggers resting within easy
reach as his eyes remained fixed on the darkened corner.
And then he saw it again.
The shadow unfolded itself like a living ink stain from a page, its edges shifting and
writhing. It grew taller, its form taking on more definition—long, thin limbs, a hunched
frame, a head that tilted slightly as though curious. Two pinpricks of pale, glimmering light
appeared where eyes should have been, staring directly at him.
His breath caught in his throat, his fingers twitching toward his blades. But he didn’t
attack.
The shadow didn’t approach. Instead, it reached out a spindly arm toward the table, its
movements deliberate and strangely careful. When it touched the crude sandwich, it
seemed to hesitate, then pushed it slightly toward him.
An offering.
He stared at it, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. The thing wanted to… what? To share?
To befriend him?Swallowing hard, he forced his trembling hand to move. He reached toward the sandwich,
his fingers brushing the rough surface of the bread. The shadow didn’t react, simply
watching him with its unblinking pinprick eyes.
He took a bite. It was as unpleasant as he’d expected, the greens bitter and the paste oily,
but he forced it down. When he finished, he gave a small nod, his throat too dry to speak.
Perhaps if he showed any discontent at the creature’s offer, that thing would instantly kill
him. There was no telling what it wanted, or what it could do.
The shadow seemed to shrink slightly, its edges softening. Then, without a sound, it
slipped back into the corner and melted into the darkness.
The cabin was silent once more, but the air felt different, lighter somehow.
He exhaled shakily, setting the daggers aside. Whatever this thing was, it seemed friendly
for the time being—otherwise it would have killed him the moment it knew that he was
laying awake for it.
But one thought lingered in his mind as exhaustion finally pulled him into a restless sleep.
Had he won its favor, or had he just made himself easier to trap?
The days passed, each one slipping into the next with an eerie consistency. The shadow
continued its silent ministrations, appearing in the dark corners of the cabin when he least
expected it. Every morning, a small, poorly made breakfast tray sat on the table, laden with
clumsy food—bread half-burned, eggs scrambled into a lumpy, unappetizing mass. But it
was food. And for a man on the run, starving in the wilderness, it was enough.
He gave little thought to the mystery of it. After all, the shadow had helped him. It had
shown him kindness—something he hadn''t experienced in a long while. And so, he began
to leave things in return. Trinkets he had stolen, small treasures he’d kept hidden in the
folds of his cloak. He’d leave them on the table, near the fireplace, sometimes under hispillow when he’d sleep. He thought perhaps the creature wanted these things, some kind
of payment for its help.
At first, it didn’t take them. But after a few more tries, the small coins, the little pieces of
string he left out on the table—they began to disappear. That thing was accepting his
offerings.
One night, as he was resting, he heard the shuffle of steps, and the loud yells of
something outside. The blizzard was still raging, but he could hear the voices of others
from deep beyond the icy veil. His pursuers—they were somewhere near. But not near
enough, as they would have seen the cabin if they were close.
He gripped his daggers, and waited behind the door. If he heard the steps, he would have
to spring out and attack.
However, the voices eventually dissipated, disappearing into the howling winds outside.
With a relax sigh, he slumped down the door, glad to have escaped danger, once again. As
his eyes fixated back on the cabin, he noticed something strange. The table—it was clear.
The walls, the cabinets, even the bed—they were all dusty. It was as if the cabin had been
abandoned, and his stay there had never existed.
What was happening?
The thief looked down at his hand, and noticed a small stain of blood.
What? He thought. The thief froze, staring at the stain on his hand. It was dark and dry,
flaking slightly from his touch. His mind raced. Was it his blood? No—he didn’t feel any
wounds. Then where had it come from?
He turned toward the table, where the strange, unappetizing meals had been left for him
every day. His heart sank. The table was empty, as if nothing had ever been placed there.No plate. No crumbs. No utensils. It was bare wood, cracked and warped with age, and
streaked faintly with something dark. Something that looked like… dried blood.
The shadow. The creature. His mind replayed the odd exchanges over the past few
days—the strange offerings, the things he had left in return. He thought of the food he
had eaten, forcing down every bitter bite. His stomach churned.
He staggered to the corner of the room where he had tossed a necklace the creature had
left him the night before. But when he reached for it, his fingers brushed nothing but cold
air. The necklace wasn’t there. He scoured the cabin, overturning the sparse furniture,
tearing through cupboards and drawers, but every offering he had received was gone.
The unease grew into full-blown panic as he checked his satchel. His gold, the stolen
riches that had cost him everything—gone. All that remained were scraps: bark that
crumbled in his hands, shards of bone, and a dark, oily substance that smelled like decay.
“No,” he muttered, clutching his head. “No, no, no!”
He stumbled back, his vision swimming. It was all a lie. The meals, the gifts, the
protection—it had been nothing but illusions. He’d been eating scraps of bark, sipping foul
sludge. And worse, he’d been giving his treasures—his only leverage, his lifeline—away to
a creature he didn’t understand.
The walls of the cabin seemed to close in, the air thickening. He staggered to the door and
threw it open, desperate to escape. But the blizzard outside had only grown fiercer, the
howling winds carrying whispers that sounded like laughter.
The shadow loomed in the doorway, pale eyes gleaming with malice.
“You… tricked me!” the thief shouted, his voice hoarse. “You lied!”
The creature tilted its head, an unnerving gesture that seemed almost curious. It steppedcloser, its edges blurring and twisting. The thief backed away, his remaining dagger
clutched tightly in his trembling hand.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded, his voice cracking.
The shadow didn’t answer. Instead, it reached out, one dark, claw-like appendage unfurling.
The thief lashed out with his dagger, but the blade passed through the creature as if it
were smoke.
The shadow’s hand closed around his wrist, and an icy cold shot through his body. He
screamed as the dagger fell from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.
The creature didn’t stop. It took from him—not just objects this time, but pieces of
himself. His strength, his warmth, his very essence. He felt his body weaken, his limbs grow
numb, his vision darken.
By the time it was finished, the man was a hollow shell, crumpled on the floor of the cabin.
Outside, the blizzard raged on, but within the storm came a scream—long and piercing, a
sound of pure, unfiltered terror. The scream echoed through the forest, carried on the icy
wind, and then… silence.
???
Far away, in the grand halls of the royal house, the snow holiday was in full swing. Guards
patrolled the opulent corridors, their boots echoing against polished marble floors.
Outside, children played in the snow, their laughter carrying through the crisp air.
In the entry hall, a messenger arrived with a package—small, unassuming, wrapped in plain
burlap. The guard who received it frowned, puzzled by its appearance. There was no
indication of who had sent it, only the faint smell of iron that made his stomach churn.
He hesitated, then untied the rough string and pulled back the cloth.The contents spilled out: a severed hand, pale and stiff with frost; a bundle of twisted,
blood-soaked rags; and a pouch of gold coins, each one glinting faintly in the light.
The guard recoiled, his stomach turning as the stench of decay hit him. But something
else caught his eye—a piece of paper tucked among the gruesome remains.
With trembling hands, he unfolded it.
The words were written in an uneven scrawl, almost childlike, as if the writer had never
learned to hold a pen:
“A gift, from the snow. Thank his majesty for the yearly offerings. I present you, an
offering of my own. Happy human holidays, mortal.”
The guard turned pale, his mind racing. The nobleman’s death, the stolen gold, the fugitive
who had vanished into the wilderness—it all clicked into place.
He stepped back, his breath quickening, as if the shadow that had delivered the package
was still watching.
And outside, amid the snow and the cheer of the holiday, a dark figure moved through the
forest, carrying its next gift.