Damon leaned against the crumbling wall of an old house. The floor beneath him was coated in thick dust, and large portions of the structure had long since collapsed, leaving the place vulnerable to the chill night air.
The interior was pitch black. No one in the party dared to create a single light source, not even a spark, despite the biting cold that settled over the city once the sun dipped below the horizon.
They had learned their lesson during their first night in Lysithara—light only attracted something worse.
Damon could already hear them—familiar creatures, the grotesque ones the locals had once called lamp snatchers.
Well the locals were the lamp snatchers.
They moved across the ruined streets, their disfigured forms twitching and crawling as they hunted for even the faintest glimmer to steal.
Somewhere deeper in the city, he caught the distant growl and clash of nocturnal monsters locked in a deadly skirmish. Another night hunt.
