VISION ✔️ || The Keepers of Astraela #1

3.0 || Of Canines and Stick-Poking

EMRYS

THE RAIN ANNOYED HIM.

It wasn't entirely terrible. In fact, the sound was rather beautiful. Pattering droplets made the woods feel less empty that time of night, as if millions of dewy friends were kissing the flora and fauna.

But the rain itself? Emrys could easily do without it.

It was the wet hair sticking to his forehead and the moisture tracing patterns down his face, stinging his eyes as it slithered between his lashes. Not to mention the way it made his clothes cling to every curve of his body, weighing him down after a taxing trek through the woods. The bone-chilling dampness made each gust of October wind even more bitter against his gooseflesh.

The worst part was the smell. Not the earthy tones that rose from the ground during every storm; those he found lovely and would have appreciated any other night when he could find solace wandering the woods.

Instead, the foul odor came from the mutilated beast at his feet.

The creature was revolting enough without its wetness enhancing the stench of rotting flesh, separated from the bone to escape its own grotesque appearance. Around its snout, the skin had peeled from its jaw to showcase rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Its face was nothing compared to its back, where the skin had receded from a bubbling, blackened protrusion along its spine—and, as Emrys had unfortunately discovered, the tumor was not skin-like at all. It had the quality of thick jelly, sticky with a viscous substance he never wanted to touch again.

The beast puzzled him, mostly because it wasn't a beast at all. Or it hadn't been at one point in its life.

Judging by the large build and what little remained of its face, it was all that remained of a Great Dane. A dog. One of the most loving and gentle Earthly animals he'd come across.

It had probably been someone's pet. No doubt called Fido, or Otis, or any number of cliché names that beings in this realm gave anything with canine resemblance.

Emrys had named the heavy mutt Lard. The title was fitting after carrying it into the deepest part of the woods, each half of its body slung over a shoulder like sacks of rotten food. But it wasn't long after naming the dog that he wished he hadn't. It only reminded him that it once had a home.

A family.

Now, the caring creature had been reduced to an animated sack of decay. Earth's first victim of the Darkness—and it would be far from the last.

A sniffle cracked his stoic wall with instant regret. If there was one thing worse than constant whiffs of wet, rotting flesh, it was charred, wet, rotting flesh. He glowered at Lard's carcass, where his flames had coated it in blackened scorch marks.

It wasn't that he'd wanted to burn it alive. It was just the only way to slow the damn thing down.

Being cold and drenched did not put him in the mood for stomach-churning odors, but if he couldn't rid himself of the smell, at least he could do something about his sopping wet clothes.

Emrys straightened his shoulders and let out a measured breath. Steam curled from his lips, mingling with the raindrops that sniped through its tendrils. Closing his eyes, he clenched his hands into fists, though his fingers lacked compliance after being numbed by the cold.

Warmth swelled in his belly, spreading to heat the clothes on his back. The fabric had already begun to dry, and steam rose from every raindrop that dared invade his space.

"What are you doing?"

The voice startled him, and he turned to find a light flickering beyond the treeline. A young woman approached, face masked in shadow by a darkened hood. She waved her phone's flashlight along the ground as she swerved to avoid roots and divots in her path.