Day 1: The Omen

The air was crisp and cold, biting at Eira’s cheeks as she made her way down the winding streets of Thornwick. The town, nestled between snow-dusted hills and the frozen woods, always felt a little darker in winter. The shadows seemed to linger just a bit longer, the nights stretched, and the days grew shorter as the solstice approached.

Eira adjusted the scarf around her neck, her breath misting in the air as she quickened her pace. The path to the local market was familiar, but today, something felt different—off, even. Maybe it was the oppressive silence that seemed to blanket the streets, or maybe it was just her overactive imagination playing tricks on her.

She had heard the old stories, passed down by her grandmother like bedtime tales meant to scare children. The curse of Evandra, the witch who had been executed during the winter solstice 25 years ago, always seemed like just that—a story. Something Thornwick had woven into its local legends, embellished over time like an old wives’ tale.

But as the 25th anniversary of the witch’s death loomed, there had been talk. Whispers, really, about strange occurrences and eerie happenings. It was enough to make anyone nervous, especially in a town that had always had one foot in superstition.

As she reached the market, Eira’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her name, spoken softly yet with a strange weight.

“Eira…”

She froze, glancing over her shoulder. The street behind her was empty, the buildings casting long shadows over the cobblestone road. Nothing but the wind stirred the trees in the distance, and yet she could have sworn she heard it. Her name, whispered in the wind like a warning.

“Eira…”

This time it was louder, clearer, but still untraceable. Her pulse quickened as her eyes scanned the deserted street, searching for the source. And then she saw it—a figure standing in the shadow of a nearby alley, cloaked in darkness but unmistakably there.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice trembling slightly.

The figure didn’t move but raised a hand, beckoning her forward. Against her better judgment, Eira found herself stepping toward it, her boots crunching in the snow with each hesitant step.

As she drew closer, the figure became clearer—a woman, her face obscured by the hood of her dark cloak. She stood impossibly still, like a statue, her presence almost otherworldly in the cold morning light.

“Who are you?” Eira asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman’s head tilted slightly, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, yet it carried a strange weight, like the words were ancient and full of meaning. “The curse is coming, child. You cannot escape what was set in motion long before your time.”

Eira’s heart hammered in her chest. “What curse?”

“The witch’s revenge,” the woman replied, her voice low and almost melodic. “Evandra’s reckoning. Twenty-five years have passed, and now, on the eve of the solstice, her power stirs once more. She will rise, and with her, the darkness she was wronged by.”

Eira felt a chill crawl up her spine. The witch’s curse. The old legends. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

The woman stepped forward, her face still hidden in the shadows of her hood. “Because you are the last of Alden’s line. Your family’s sins have doomed this town, and now you must face what your ancestors set in motion.”

Eira’s breath caught in her throat. Alden—the name was familiar, though she hadn’t thought of it in years. Her great-grandfather, the man who had supposedly been at the heart of Evandra’s trial. The man who had condemned her.

“I don’t have anything to do with that,” Eira said, taking a step back. “It’s just a story, a legend.”

The woman shook her head slowly. “It is not a legend, and it is not just a story. You are tied to this curse by blood. Each day leading up to the solstice will bring Evandra’s power closer. If you do not stop it, she will have her vengeance. Starting tonight, the first of the omens will reveal itself.”

Eira swallowed hard, her mind racing. This couldn’t be real. Curses, witches—it was all superstition. And yet, as the woman’s words echoed in her mind, a deep sense of dread settled in her chest.

“What do I have to do?” she asked, her voice small.

The woman stepped closer, her presence looming over Eira. “You must uncover the truth of what happened all those years ago. Only then can you begin to undo what was done. But beware—the witch will not rest until her disciples are awakened, and her curse fulfilled.”

With that, the woman turned and melted into the shadows, her figure disappearing as quickly as she had appeared. Eira stood frozen in place, her mind spinning with the weight of what she had just heard.

The curse was real. And somehow, she was connected to it.

Later That Evening

Eira couldn’t shake the conversation with the cloaked woman. Her words echoed in her mind as she tried to go about her day, but the sense of impending doom clung to her like a heavy fog. She tried to convince herself it was just a trick of the mind, that the old stories had gotten into her head.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the howling wind outside took on an unnatural tone. It was as if the air itself carried whispers, soft and chilling, pressing against the windows and slipping through the cracks.

Then came the sound of the bell.

The church bell of Thornwick, which had not rung in over two decades, suddenly tolled in the dead of night. Eira sat up in bed, her heart pounding. It was impossible—the bell had been broken for years, its tower abandoned and crumbling. No one in town had ever bothered to fix it.

And yet, it rang, each deep chime reverberating through the silence.

Her skin prickled with fear as she threw on a coat and rushed to her window, peering out into the night. The streets were empty, but the sound of the bell continued, loud and haunting, as if it were announcing something long forgotten.

She could feel it in her bones—this was the first omen. The curse had begun.