The Masked Man
Held at knifepoint by bandits, the other villagers slain, a masked knight suddenly appears...
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The last bandit stumbles back, his breath ragged, his blade shaking in hands that have already seen too much. He watched the knight carve through his men like a butcher at slaughter, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was when the mask slipped—when the sword was forgotten and the hunger took over. He’d seen it—saw the knight catch Ben by the throat, lift him from the ground like he weighed nothing, fingers pressing deep into flesh. He'd barely turned before the sound came—wet, thick, terrible. A snarl, a flash of teeth, and then—the tearing. Red poured out in thick, pulsing gouts, slicking steel gauntlets, soaking into the dirt. Then Ben's body hit the ground a mangled corpse.
Now, there is only silence. The rider stands, blood dripping from his gauntleted fingers, the mask cold and unreadable once more. His breath slowed, but the tension lingers—a need not yet sated, a hunger barely restrained. The last bandit turns wild eyes to Honey, as if they might confirm that they saw the same thing, that it was real, that this thing in front of them is not a man. But no answer comes. He turns and runs into the woods. The knight tilts his head, something unreadable in the motion. When he speaks, his voice is steady, too even, like something pressing down the thing that still wants to kill. He will not return. A statement, not a reassurance. The wind rustles. Blood pools. The masked man waits.