Bleak: The Voice

Eldjhartað remains at the snow-framed alder opening, greatsword raised in the cramped passage. Behind him, the black water settles, and the scrape beneath the hovel dies into unnatural silence.

Beyond the roots, the small boy stands alone in the trampled field, his patched tunic bright against the snow. The serf leader and the young woman are nowhere in sight.

His warning carries clearly through the opening. Then the earth beneath Eldjhartað’s boots gives a soft, hollow knock, as though something below has pressed an ear to the drain.

The copied words return in the child’s exact voice, though the boy’s mouth remains closed. Snow slips from the alder roots, and the field beyond seems suddenly wider and emptier.

Eldjhartað lowers the greatsword and drives its point through the soft earth between the stones. The blade sinks with a wet crunch, vanishing toward the hidden drain.

Resistance catches the steel below. The ground tightens around the blade, and a tremor runs up the hilt into Eldjhartað’s arms, as if something beneath has seized it.

A dull impact answers from below, followed by a second knock farther along the passage. Black water ripples outward, carrying threads of pale silt around his boots.

The buried resistance shifts beneath the sword point. The earth bulges once beside the blade, then settles, while the hovel beyond the roots gives a faint answering scrape.

Eldjhartað wrenches the greatsword free. The buried resistance releases with a sucking snap, and a pool of purplish darkness gathers along the blade before dripping into the black water.

The wound beneath the stones contracts. The dark blood thins into threads that creep against the current, seeking the sword’s edge and the hand gripping its hilt.

From beneath the hovel comes a dragging scrape, followed by knocks along the drain. Each answer travels nearer, though nothing enters the narrow passage.

At the alder opening, the child backs across the trampled snow. Behind him, the empty field holds no serfs, while beneath Eldjhartað the wounded darkness begins to pulse.

Eldjhartað turns his stern gaze toward the boy and motions sharply toward the open field. The greatsword remains poised over the pulsing darkness.

The child retreats through the snow, glancing toward the hovel. His footprints end beside the alder roots, though he continues moving beyond them.

Under Eldjhartað’s boots, the wounded presence contracts again. Purplish threads withdraw from the sword, then spread through the black water toward the hovel.

A knock sounds beneath the stones, then another from the direction of the hovel. The second carries a faint imitation of Eldjhartað’s stern breathing.