The train arrived in Eastbury under the persistent drizzle of dawn.
From it stepped a man bent with time, his eyes shadowed by the long brim of his hat, and a thick scar slashing across his face like the memory of a forgotten war.
His name was Caleb Ward.
And he knew the hunger that now grew.
Caleb had been one of the last survivors of Glastonbury. He had watched the forest devour his friends, his family, his soul. He survived not out of bravery, but because he chose to run when all the others stood and fought.
Twenty years trying to forget.
Twenty years hearing the screams in the stormy nights.
Now, the call had returned — and Caleb knew that this time, there would be no escape.
As Eastbury’s citizens locked themselves behind fragile doors, Caleb walked alone to the old abandoned library. He knew what to look for: the forgotten records, the ancient rites, the symbols that might contain — or at least delay — the forest’s new incarnation.
In his pocket, he carried his grandmother’s battered journal: a woman who, in Glastonbury’s final days, had written of “the inevitable rebirth of flesh.”
The journal spoke of a chance.
Small, uncertain, but real.
As he read by the weak glow of a trembling flashlight, Caleb didn’t notice: outside, bluish eyes were already watching him — fixed, ravenous.
The new Glawackus knew the hunt had begun.
And this time, the hunter was also the prey.
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