The storm still clawed at Claethorpes by morning. It was not the fury of a single tempest but the unyielding persistence of a thousand storms stitched together—a punishment that bled from sky to soil. Water slithered through the cracks of every hut, saturating straw mattresses and creeping up walls until mud and wood were indistinguishable. The village's thin chimneys coughed meager smoke into the air, pillars of defeat, smothered by the rain.

  Beneath the glowering sky, Ishiauun stood at the altar again, drenched despite the temple's partial shelter. The great brazier before him was blackened with soot, its embers a memory of prayers unanswered. His cedar staff leaned against the stone lip, the smooth grain now stained by months of dampness. The temple itself, the last true structure still standing in this forsaken village, shivered under the relentless wind.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the damp, thick air, heavy with the scent of earth, rot, and regret. Before him, the altar was bare. No lambs remained. No offerings. Only a stone bowl that echoed with emptiness, just as his heart did. The gods spoke in signs, or so he had told the people. But signs demanded faith, and faith was a river running dry.

  The door creaked behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was; the gait was familiar, as was the heavy, deliberate pace.

  Dumuzi crossed the threshold with the confidence of a man who had no patience left for subtlety. His thick frame cut a wide silhouette against the grey light, arms crossed beneath his patched cloak.

  "It grows worse." His voice was a rumble, as if the storm had given him its tone. "Nanshia’s babe died in the night. Biutu says two more children are fevered, and the mother of one is coughing blood now."

  Ishiauun opened his eyes but kept his back to the headman, staring into the cold brazier. The priest's silence hung heavy between them.

  "How much longer can you keep pretending the gods are listening?" Dumuzi pressed. "The people whisper that the gods have abandoned us—worse, cursed us for your failure."

  "I hear their whispers," Ishiauun replied softly, tracing the lip of the brazier with his fingers. "I hear everything. The prayers. The pleas. The doubt."

  "Then do something," Dumuzi growled. "Words won’t fill the bellies of the starving. Indecition will kill us faster than the monsters."

  Ishiauun finally turned, his deep-set eyes catching Dumuzi's. "And what would you have me do? Hmm, Summon rainbows from the sky? Call lightning to strike down the monsters beyond the fucking gates!" His tone was sharp, though there was no anger in it—only the brittle edge of frustration.

  Dumuzi's gaze did not waver. "We are beyond hymns and sacrifices. If the gods won’t answer, then we find another way."

  "There is no other way," Ishiauun said, almost in a whisper.

  Dumuzi leaned closer, his voice low. "If we do nothing, Claethorpes will die. And if it does, no one will come looking for us. There will be no songs about the priest who prayed as his village drowned."

  A gust of wind battered the walls, making the timbers groan in protest. Ishiauun closed his eyes again, just for a moment, wishing he could find solace in the darkness behind his lids. But no visions came. No divine message. Just the unrelenting void.

  Dumuzi turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. "They'll look to you. If you have nothing to give them, they'll find someone else to lead them. And you won't like who they choose."

  The threat lingered as Dumuzi stepped into the rain and vanished from sight.

  ---

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The priest, soaked robes cling to his thin frame. His cedar staff tapped gently against the ground, its rhythm deliberate, controlled. The rain dripped from his beard in tiny rivulets, streaking the grey strands. His deep eyes scanned the huddled villagers—faces worn by hunger, sickness, and grief.

  "We will not last the winter," muttered a wiry old fisherman whose hands trembled from cold or fear, no one could tell. His voice was sharp and rasping, the kind of voice that only men who live by water acquire. "The fish are gone from the river. Nets come back with nothing but leaves and slime."

  "They're not just gone." Ariu the burly farmer, stepped forward, his jaw clenched beneath the rough stubble of his beard. "Something's wrong in the forest. The animals—they don't behave the same. No birdsong in the mornings. No deer tracks in the woods. Even the foxes keep away from the village now."

  "And the beasts," a young woman with messy tangled hair and hollow cheeks, added, glancing toward the windows as if they could see through the night. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of fear and resentment. "Whatever is in the dark—it's growing bolder. Just yesterday I heard something scratching at my door, sniffing around like it was testing the wood."

  "The beasts are no more than shadows in your mind, chiara." Dumuzi, He stood tall, broad-shouldered even in his patched cloak. "Fear plays tricks. Hunger makes men see monsters where there are none."

  Chiara scowled. "Tell that to Kamu's wife. She buried his chewed-up corpse after that thing dragged him back from the woods—what was left of him, anyway."

  A ripple of discomfort spread through the crowd at the memory. Kamu had been a woodsman, a stubborn man who refused to heed warnings about the forest. One morning, he ventured beyond the village to gather firewood, and by nightfall, they found what remained of him strewn along the muddy path. His bones had been gnawed, the skull crushed as if by enormous jaws. His widow's scream still haunted their ears.

  "I warned him not to go," Dumuzi muttered darkly, but it was more for himself than anyone else. His expression hardened. "The storm keeps travelers away. The beasts, or whatever you claim they are, keep us inside. We survive by staying together, by staying sharp. We can't afford more stupidity."

  "It isn’t just stupidity keeping people in their homes," said a the old woman, her back hunched beneath a cloak patched with bits of fur. She hobbled closer, her eyes clouded but still gleaming. "The sickness is spreading faster now. Little Tasini is coughing blood tonight, and the fever hasn’t left the children in three days."

  "The gods will see us through." Ishiauun’s voice was soft but steady. "They always do."

  A scoff broke the silence, loud and dismissive. It came from a man with arms of flapping flesh who's build suggest intimidating figure, his skin bechipachy, whiteness overtaking blackened skin from years at the forge. "The gods? I’ve broken my back hammering iron for their shrines, and they don’t lift a finger to stop this plague. I’ve knelt, I’ve prayed—and look what good it’s done me."

  The crowd stirred at his words, uncomfortable yet unwilling to argue. Faith, like everything else in Claethorpes, was worn thin.

  Biutu nodded slowly. "Hadan speaks true. We’ve done all the priest asked—burnt the offerings, sang the hymns, fasted. And yet the sickness still takes our young. The beasts still circle our homes. The rain still drowns our fields."

  A woman, clutching the swaddled body of her dead child, let out a stifled sob. She had not spoken since the night the fever took her babe, and now the sound of her grief broke something fragile in the air. Several villagers turned away, unable to meet her hollow gaze.

  Ishiauun took a breath, tasting the damp sorrow that clung to the room. His gaze softened as it drifted to Nanshia, and his heart ached with the weight of every prayer left unanswered.

  "We are not cursed," he said quietly, though his voice carried through the room. "The gods test us. They ask us to endure when it seems impossible."

  "Endure?" A meddle woman hissed. "We've been enduring for years, priest. And what has it brought us? Hunger. Death. Silence."

  "It isn’t endurance—it’s punishment." Enru’s voice cracked. "They’ve turned their backs on us. Left us to die in this cursed place."

  "No." Ishiauun’s grip tightened on his staff, and for the first time, there was steel in his voice. "We are not forsaken. Not yet. The gods may be silent, but silence is not abandonment."

  "And what if they have abandoned us?" Hadan leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing. "What then? What do we do when even the gods forget our names?"

  The priest held his ground, though the doubt gnawed at him like a worm in his heart. He had no answers for them. None that would bring back the crops or fill their stomachs. None that would keep the beasts at bay. And yet, surrender was not a path he could walk—nor let them walk.

  "We endure," Ishiauun said softly." because we have no other choice."

  "That’s not enough," Ariu said coldly, his arms folded across his chest. "Faith will get us nowhere. We need real answers, priest. Not empty words."

  The villagers murmured in agreement, their expressions darkening. Fear was turning to resentment, and Ishiauun knew that the line between faith and fury was thin.

  Dumuzi stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "What do we do, priest? How do we fight what we can't see? How do we stop the rain, the beasts, the sickness? Tell us—or we’ll find someone else who can."

  The challenge hung in the air, and Ishiauun knew this was the moment. If he faltered, he would lose them forever. He met Dumuzi’s gaze, unflinching.

  "We leave," Ishiauun said at last.

  A stunned silence followed, broken only by the hiss of rain outside.

  "Leave?" Whisper came from the crowd their're voice trembling. "Into the forest?"

  "There is no salvation here," Ishiauun continued. "If the gods will not come to us, we go to them. We gather supplies. We seek help beyond the woods, beyond the storm. And we fight whatever lies between us and survival."

  "You’re mad," Someone whispered. "The beasts—"

  "Then we fight the beasts," Ishiauun said fiercely. "We fight the rain. The sickness. Everything. We do not wait to die."

  A slow, grim smile curled across Hadan’s face. "Well. At least that’s a plan."

  Dumuzi gave a reluctant nod. "It’s dangerous. But so is staying."

  Ishiauun turned to the gathered faces, his gaze steady. "We leave at first light. Those who wish to stay may stay. The rest—prepare for the journey."

  No one spoke, but the murmurs were quieter this time. Fear still clung to the villagers, but something else stirred now—a spark of grim determination.

  The detached rumbled of thunder, a reminder that their battle was only beginning.