I approach the longhouse. The heavy timber barring the doors is easily lifted away by one person—it was meant to keep people in, not a determined scholar out. I set it aside quietly and push one of the large doors open just enough to slip inside.

  The smell hits me first: unwashed bodies, stale straw, and underneath it all, the faint, sweet-sickly scent of grave-earth and belladonna—the ritual paste.

  The scene is exactly as relayed by my familiar, but experiencing it directly adds new layers of wrongness. The silence is absolute and heavy. Moonlight slices through the cracked shutters, painting bars of silver across a floor crowded with still forms. Dozens of people. Their eyes are open but unseeing, reflecting the moonlight like dull coins. Some rock gently. None react to my entrance.

  My silver sight reveals the truth their vacant faces hide.

  Each villager's aura is dimmed and threaded with fine lines of that same void-black energy I saw deep within Arlen. But here, it's not a core replacement; it's a web, a net cast over their own life patterns, suppressing will, emotion, and consciousness. The green-yellow Abjuration aura I detected from outside emanates from runes painted in that same paste around the base of the walls—a containment field to keep this psychic suppression contained and stable.

  They are not just drugged. Their souls have been quarantined.

  I walk slowly among them. Up close, I can see details: their clothing is simple but intact; they are gaunt but not starved; they have been fed just enough to keep the vessels viable. A young woman stares through me, a thin line of drool tracing from her lip to her chin.

  On the central table lies the empty clay bowl and the bone needle. Next to them is a small ledger. I pick it up.

  The pages are filled with cramped notations in that now-familiar spidery hand.

  Inventory - Gallow's Hollow Larder

  Subjects: 47 viable vessels.

  Status: Pacification complete via Oneiric Threading (Stage 1). Vital signs stable.

  Harvest Schedule:

  - 6 vessels allocated for monthly sustenance of Dreamer's Chosen (True Dreamers).

  - 12 vessels earmarked for upcoming Convergence at Twinstone Spire (new moon).

  - Remainder held in reserve for pattern-extraction experiments (see Project: Silver Key).

  Note: Pattern disruption detected at Anchor Site (Oak Grove). Security team dispatched. Awaiting report from Dreamer Karthok (Antlered). If disruption is external threat, accelerate Silver Key protocols. Primary objective remains unchanged: secure the Silver-Sighted one for the Grand Unweaving.

  The ledger slips from my fingers and lands on the table with a soft thud.

  This is not an isolated ritual. It's a supply chain. A farm. And I am not just a target; I am listed under my own project name.

  The sheer scale of it—the cold, bureaucratic evil—settles in my gut like a stone.

  At that moment, a sound breaks the silence.

  Not from the catatonic villagers.

  From outside.

  A door creaking open elsewhere in the village.

  Then another.

  Followed by the soft crunch of boots on frosty ground.

  Multiple pairs of boots.

  They're back.

  My silver eyes sweep over the green-yellow Abjuration runes at the base of the walls. They are not the source of the villagers' condition; they are a container. The void-threads woven into each person's aura are the active agent—the "Oneiric Threading" mentioned in the ledger. The runes create a stable field that maintains that threading and prevents external interference.

  Destroying the runes would likely have two immediate effects:

  1. The containment field would collapse. This could disrupt the stability of the void-threads.

  2. It would be instantly detectable to whoever cast these wards. It would be a loud, magical alarm.

  But would it restore them? Probably not fully, and not safely. Based on my analysis of Arlen's more advanced corruption:

  The void-threads are a parasitic weave around their life patterns. Severing them abruptly could cause psychic backlash—confusion, memory loss, or even soul-fraying.

  Some threads might be anchored deeper, requiring a more delicate, targeted unraveling than simply breaking the container.

  * They have been in this state for days or weeks. Their minds have been suppressed. Waking up to their reality—trapped in a dark longhouse after being mentally violated—could induce panic, trauma, or madness.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  In short: Destroying the runes might break the spell's maintenance field, causing the villagers to stir or even awaken, but they would likely be disoriented, terrified, and possibly mentally damaged. It would also alert every cultist in earshot that their larder has been breached.

  The bootsteps outside are getting closer. A low voice mutters something I can't quite make out.

  The villagers are a non-combatant variable. Introducing chaos—awakening them—transforms them into an unpredictable agent that will demand the cultists' immediate attention and resources. It maximizes disruption with minimal direct expenditure of my own energy.

  I move swiftly. The nearest rune is painted in thick, greasy paste on the wooden wall near the door. I don't need to decipher it; I need to break its structure.

  I raise my boot and bring my heel down hard on the painted symbol, grinding it against the rough wood floor.

  The effect is not physical, but metaphysical.

  There is a silent, psychic SNAP that resonates in the bones more than the ears. The green-yellow Abjuration aura clinging to the walls flickers violently and then shatters like glass. A pulse of null-energy washes through the longhouse, cold and static-charged.

  The change in the villagers is immediate and terrifying.

  The void-threads woven through their auras twist and recoil, their stabilizing field gone. All at once, forty-seven people gasp as one—a ragged, sucking intake of breath that fills the silent hall. Blank eyes blink rapidly. Heads turn. The gentle rocking becomes jerky, confused movement.

  Then, the first scream pierces the air.

  It's a woman's voice, raw with disorientation and horror as she sees her surroundings, feels the filth, remembers nothing. It sets off a chain reaction. Cries, shouts, wails of "Where am I?", "What happened?", "My children!" erupt into a cacophony of panic.

  The longhouse door you left ajar is shoved fully open as a terrified man stumbles out into the night, screaming for help.

  Outside, the muttered conversation cuts off abruptly.

  "What in the Dreamer's name—?!" a rough voice barks.

  "The longhouse! The wards are down!" another shouts.

  "Contain them! Don't let them scatter!"

  Boots pound on frozen earth, rushing toward the building from multiple directions.

  Inside, chaos reigns. People are scrambling to their feet, stumbling over each other, pressing toward the door in a blind panic. I'm surrounded by a surging tide of confused, terrified humanity.

  I can hear at least three distinct cultist voices outside trying to corral the escaping villagers.

  The villagers are a perfect smokescreen—a roiling mass of noise, movement, and emotional energy that will drown out any subtle magical workings.

  I melt into the panicked crowd, letting the surge of bodies carry me toward the doorway. I keep my head down, my posture slumped to match the disoriented villagers. My dark clothing and lack of distinctive gear help me blend in.

  Through the open door, I see three cultists in the moonlit yard. They are not in the full ritual garb of the ones at the stones; these look like guards or overseers—wearing dark, practical clothes and armed with clubs. They are trying to herd the fleeing villagers back toward the longhouse, shouting orders that are ignored amidst the screams.

  "Get back inside! It's for your own safety!"

  "Stop running, you fools!"

  One cultist, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, has positioned himself squarely in the path of the main door, arms spread wide to block it. He is the focal point of their containment effort.

  Perfect target.

  As I'm jostled to within about 30 feet of him, still surrounded by wailing villagers, I raise a hand subtly from within the press of bodies. I focus my will, channeling a fragment of psychic dissonance—a sliver of mind-rending doubt.

  "Shatter," I whisper in that alien tongue.

  A barely-audible chime rings out as a shimmering dart of silvery psychic energy materializes and streaks through the chaotic air. It's nearly invisible amidst the panic and moonlight. It strikes the bearded blocker squarely in the temple.

  The cultist staggers as if struck by a physical blow. He clutches his head, his face contorting in confusion and pain. A trickle of blood seeps from his nose.

  He snarls, looking around wildly for the source of the attack, but sees only panicking villagers. "Someone's casting! Find them!" he bellows to his companions, his voice strained.

  The other two cultists now have their attention split between corralling villagers and looking for a hidden spellcaster.