Miren Hollow was not made for fear.
Its fields had never seen battle. Its people had never locked their doors. It was a village born from gentleness, where bread was shared freely and no one questioned the shape of tomorrow.
But fear had found its way in, quiet and crawling.
The sickness didn't roar—it whispered. And that made it worse. It lingered in the space between coughs, in the silence after meals. Every cleared throat drew eyes. Every fevered brow invited suspicion.
By the second week, ten villagers were ill. One had collapsed in the field. Another stopped coming to the well.
Elder Callen called for calm, but his voice cracked on the last syllable.
"They're scared," Elira said one morning as she mixed dried herbs into poultices. "They're trying to be brave, but no one knows what this is."
"Can't they fix it?" Eon asked. "The healers?"
She shook her head. "We've never needed more than boiled roots and rest. We don't have medicine for something new."
Eon stood by the window, watching the empty path where the children once played. The laughter had stopped days ago.
He didn't understand everything, but he understood change. This place, once so warm and full of life, felt dimmer now. Like the light had been pulled inward, hiding in corners.
When he walked through the village to carry water or firewood, eyes followed him. Quietly. Suspiciously. He wasn't from here. He hadn't been sick.
He heard the whisper: Maybe it started when he came.
Nivi still ran to meet him when he returned, arms wide. But even her voice was softer, less sure.
That night, Elira bolted the door.
Not because of the sickness outside.
But because the people were beginning to forget who they were.
And for the first time, the god felt not just fear—but distrust, and the cold echo of a world losing its way.