The rule was simple, ancient, and absolute: Never look at the Sky-Eaters after sunset.
Everyone knew it. Every child whispered it, every elder reinforced it. The Sky-Eaters weren't gods or demons; they were the silent, colossal shadows that drifted across the pale dawn and faded into the fiery dusk. During the day, they were harmless, ethereal. But as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, a transformation occurred. Their forms, once indistinct, sharpened into terrifying clarity. Their silent glide became a predatory drift. And their gaze, if met, was said to steal your very essence, leaving behind an empty husk. No one had ever truly seen one after dark and lived to tell the tale, which was precisely what made the rule unbreakable.
Elara, however, was desperate. Her little brother, Finn, lay still and pale, afflicted by the Grey Sickness that had swept through their village. The healers were at a loss. Their only hope, according to a half-burnt, forgotten scroll Elara had unearthed, was a flower that bloomed only under the light of the Sky-Eaters' true forms – a light visible only after sunset.
Fear clawed at her, but Finn’s shallow breaths spurred her on. As the sun kissed the distant mountains, casting long, purple shadows, Elara clutched a leather-bound journal and a piece of charcoal. Her plan was mad: she wouldn't look at the Sky-Eaters. She would draw them. Every terrifying detail, every impossible angle, every ripple in their dark expanse, she would capture on paper without truly meeting their gaze. A fool’s errand, perhaps, but it was Finn's last chance.
She climbed to the highest point overlooking the village, a gnarled oak that offered a clear view of the western sky. The air grew cold, heavy with a silence that felt less like peace and more like held breath. The last sliver of sun vanished.
It began.
A low thrum vibrated through the ground, rising into her bones. The vast, formless shadow in the sky solidified. Elara squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She risked a glance at her charcoal, then flicked her gaze upwards, barely registering the colossal, inky blackness that filled the heavens before snapping her eyes back down. Her hand trembled as she began to sketch furiously, her mind’s eye piecing together the fragmented glimpses.
The journal filled with impossible shapes: jagged, geometric wings that seemed to absorb the starlight; long, sinuous forms that writhed without moving; eyes – oh, the eyes – not singular, but a thousand pinpricks of pure, hungry light that somehow felt wrong to even perceive indirectly. Each stroke was a victory against her mounting terror. She wasn't looking at them; she was looking away from them, seeing them only in her periphery, transmuting the forbidden sight into lines and curves.
Then, a jolt. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through her right eye, so intense she cried out. She stumbled back, clutching her face. She hadn't looked, she swore she hadn't, not directly. But for a split second, the unbreakable rule had bent. Through the corner of her vision, as she recoiled, she saw it: a single, impossibly bright, multi-faceted eye on one of the Sky-Eaters, swiveling, focusing on her.
Panic seized her. She scrambled down the tree, the half-filled journal forgotten, the thrumming in the air now deafening. She ran, blind with fear, back towards the village.
The next morning, the village was a changed place. Not overtly, not violently. The Sky-Eaters had drifted away with the dawn, leaving behind their usual innocuous presence. But Elara's world had fundamentally shifted.
The pain in her right eye was gone, replaced by something far more unsettling. When she looked at people, their auras shimmered – a chaotic rainbow of emotions and intentions that she’d never seen before. Finn’s aura, when she reached his bedside, was a faint, struggling blue, but it was there, a spark of life she could now perceive.
The true impact of breaking the rule became apparent with time. Elara could now see the truth behind things. Not just auras, but the intricate weave of lies in a merchant’s smile, the desperate hope in a mother’s eyes, the deep-seated resentment beneath a neighbor’s pleasantries. The world became a dizzying, overwhelming tapestry of raw emotion and unspoken thoughts.
And then there were the sounds. Not the whispers of the Sky-Eaters, but the constant, low hum of the world’s secrets. She heard the silent growth of roots beneath the earth, the slow decay of stone, the faint echo of past conversations clinging to ancient walls. Her senses, once normal, were now hyper-attuned to the hidden realities.
This newfound perception was a double-edged sword. She knew now, without a doubt, that a specific, glistening dewdrop on a rare moonlight-blossom would cure Finn, a dewdrop whose existence no one else could possibly perceive. So, the rule-breaking had given her the means to achieve her initial goal.
But it had also separated her. The simple joys and comfortable illusions of life were shattered. The easy conversations felt hollow, knowing the unspoken thoughts beneath. The once-unbreakable rule wasn’t a barrier to a single danger; it was a shield against a chaotic, overwhelming truth that humanity was perhaps not meant to bear. Elara had saved her brother, but in doing so, she had peeled back the veil of reality, and there was no going back to the comfortable ignorance of before. She saw the world as the Sky-Eaters must see it, a place of vibrant, terrifying, beautiful chaos. And the question lingered: what else would she see, now that her eyes were truly open?
What do you think about Elara's new abilities? Do you think they are a blessing or a curse?
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