NyraI was running.Branches tore at my arms as I sprinted through the woods, breath burning my lungs, my feet slipping on wet leaves. The night was too loud, filled with screams that didn’t sound human anymore, and laughter that did. Firelight flickered between the trees ahead of me, orange and violent, and I knew even as I ran that I was already too late.I burst into a clearing and skidded to a halt.Bodies were everywhere.My mother lay on her side near the old oak, her eyes open and empty, one hand still stretched toward the path like she’d been reaching for me. My father was slumped against the chopping block, his throat torn open, blood soaking into the dirt where he’d stood his ground too long. The smell hit me then, thick and coppery and wrong, and something in my chest split open.“No,” I whispered, my voice breaking like I was still small enough for it to matter. “No, no, no.”A shadow moved near the fire.I turned just in time to see them,
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