The night was eerily still, the moon a thin, jagged scar in the sky.
Not a single whisper of wind passed through the trees surrounding the small elven village, their leaves stiff as if holding their breath.
Shadows stretched unnaturally, curling at the edges of the forest like hungry tendrils waiting to devour the light.
A figure stood at the outskirts of the village, draped in an abyssal black cloak that rippled despite the stagnant air.
A slow, twisted grin crept across his face, revealing stark white fangs that gleamed like polished bone.
His crescent-shaped eyes, blood-red and glimmering with malice, narrowed as he surveyed the peaceful scene before him.
The elves, unaware of the horror about to befall them, moved about their evening rituals. Lanterns glowed with gentle blue flames, laughter rang through the air, and the scent of freshly baked bread and morning dew mingled in the crisp night.
It was idyllic.
It was perfect.
