Chapter 1: Shadows on the River

The Danube’s waters moved sluggishly beneath the pale moon, carrying with them the scent of distant fires and the faint cries of men. In the village of Durostorum, a clutch of wooden huts huddled behind rough palisades, fear moved as silently as the river itself. Niketas, eldest son of the village reeve, pressed his ear to the ground outside the stockade. He listened—not for the hooves of horses, but for something subtler. Whispers, perhaps, or the scuttle of movement beyond the ordinary. The Avars, fierce riders from the steppe, had been sighted upriver. But Niketas had learned long ago that the world’s dangers were not always of flesh and bone. He stood, brushing dirt from his tunic. The chill air carried the sharp tang of smoke. Somewhere, a dog barked, frantic and thin. Niketas crossed the packed earth to the main gate, where old Diodoros, the night watchman, sat hunched with his spear. “Another bad night?” Diodoros asked, not looking up. Niketas nodded, eyes on the forested darkness. “Did you hear the bells from the basilica? They rang after sundown. Father Gregoras says the Lord’s protection is strong, but I saw his hands shake.” Diodoros spat. “It’s not prayers that will keep the Avars away. Or what follows them.” He pointed with the butt of his spear toward the riverbank. “Last night, something killed three goats. Not a mark on the flesh, but their eyes—gone.” Niketas shivered. He thought of his younger sister, Anna, asleep in their hut. Of his mother, whispering prayers to saints whose names she could barely remember. The village was small, but the legends were vast; tales of old Thracian gods, Roman ghosts, and things that came with the river fog. A sudden, distant scream froze them both. It came not from the north, where the Avars might strike, but from the marshy bend behind the chapel. Niketas drew his knife and sprinted toward the sound, heart thudding. He found a cluster of villagers already gathered, torches lighting pale faces. At the water’s edge knelt Anna, her hands stained with mud, her eyes wide with terror. “He was here,” she choked. “He stood in the reeds, watching me.” Diodoros arrived, breathless. “Who, child?” Anna pointed at the dark water. “Not a man. Not anymore.” Niketas pulled her close, feeling her tremble. In the torchlight, something pale floated downstream—a shape too large for a fish, too twisted for a man. As the river carried the thing away, a hush fell over the villagers. The Danube, ancient and implacable, had kept its secrets for centuries. But tonight, Niketas feared, it would reveal horrors none of them were prepared to face. —

Chapter 2: The Messenger and the Omen

At dawn, the village was roused by the arrival of a rider—mud-splattered, half-starved, bearing the crimson cloak of a Byzantine courier. He staggered into the square, clutching a scroll. “From the strategos at Singidunum!” he gasped. “The Avars are crossing the river—burning everything behind them. Your men must ready themselves.” Niketas watched as Father Gregoras took the letter, his lined face growing graver with each word. The priest turned to the villagers. “We are ordered to fortify and pray. The Emperor’s army is days away. We face the Avars alone.” A murmur rose—fear, anger, despair. Niketas felt the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders. He was not a soldier, but the reeve’s son; he must be brave, or at least pretend. As the villagers argued, Anna slipped her hand into Niketas’s. “He’s still out there,” she whispered. “I saw his eyes in the reeds last night. Like glass. He called my name.” Niketas knelt beside her, voice gentle. “Anna, it was a trick of the river. Or a dream. There are worse things coming than phantoms.” She shook her head. “It was real. The river gave him back.” She shuddered. “He wore your old tunic, Niketas. The one you lost last spring.” A coldness crept through him. That tunic had vanished months ago—taken by the floodwaters during a sudden storm. He glanced at the other villagers, recalling the stories of the river-drowned, of corpses that walked the banks at night. Superstition, he told himself. But the fear in Anna’s eyes was not so easily dismissed. That evening, as the men stacked stones and sharpened spears, Niketas found the courage to question Father Gregoras. The priest listened, grave and silent, as Niketas recounted Anna’s vision. “There are old stories,” Gregoras admitted, voice hushed. “Of the vrykolakas—the restless dead. Sometimes, when war and hunger stalk the land, the boundary between living and dead thins. But we are Christians now. We bury our dead with rites. The saints watch over us.” Niketas wanted to believe him. But as night fell, and the mist rose from the Danube, he watched the river with new dread. —

Chapter 3: The First Night of Terror

The Avar threat hung over the village like a storm cloud, but it was the river that claimed their dreams. Night fell heavy, pressing in with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Niketas took his turn atop the palisade, spear in hand, eyes straining against the gloom. His mind wandered to Anna’s words, the courier’s news, the pale shape in the water. Beneath the stars, the village seemed smaller than ever, a fragile shell against the vastness of the wild. Sometime after midnight, a commotion broke out near the cattle pens. Men ran with torches; women huddled in doorways, clutching children. Niketas rushed to the scene, heart pounding. There, beside the broken fence, lay Diodoros, the night watchman. His body was twisted, his face locked in a rictus of terror. Blood pooled beneath his head. No wound—just a look of utter horror, and, as with the goats, his eyes were missing, sockets empty and black. Father Gregoras crossed himself. “It is a sign. The devil’s work, or the vengeance of old spirits.” The villagers argued, panic rising. Some blamed the Avars, others whispered of curses. Niketas forced himself to kneel by the body, searching for sense in the horror. He found a single footprint beside Diodoros—a human heel, bare and caked with river mud. He looked to Anna, who watched from the shadows, her face pale. “He’s coming for us,” she whispered. The rest of the night passed in a fever of fear. No one slept. The river, unseen but ever-present, seemed to pulse with hunger. —

Chapter 4: The Dead Man’s Tale

Morning brought little relief. The villagers gathered for council, desperate for leadership. Some wanted to flee into the forest; others demanded they fortify and fight. Father Gregoras spoke. “We must hold fast. If we abandon our homes, the Avars will find only ashes. If we stay and lose heart, evil will enter.” Niketas volunteered to patrol the riverbank. He took his friend Marcus, a herdsman, and together they scoured the marshes for signs of the intruder. In the reeds, they found a tangle of footprints, and something worse—a corpse, gray and bloated, tangled in the roots. Marcus retched; Niketas steeled himself and examined the body. It was Petros, missing for days, his face unmarked but his eyes plucked clean. A piece of faded cloth clung to his body—the same blue as Niketas’s lost tunic. Horror churned in Niketas’s stomach. He remembered the tales of the vrykolakas, and how the restless dead could wear the faces of the drowned. They carried the body back to the village. Father Gregoras performed the rites, but his hands trembled. “We must burn the body,” he whispered. “The old ways demand it. Let the fire cleanse what the river cannot.” The villagers, fearful but desperate, agreed. That night, as the flames rose and sparks drifted heavenward, Anna clung to Niketas. “He’s not the only one,” she said. “There’s more beneath the water. Waiting.” Niketas stared at the river, its black surface unbroken, and felt the weight of centuries pressing in. The Avars were not the only invaders this year. —

Chapter 5: The Siege Without and Within

News came at dusk: Avar scouts had been seen on the northern bank. The villagers braced for attack, piling wood and stones, sharpening what little steel they possessed. But the enemy that haunted the village was silent, invisible, striking at night. That evening, the fog rolled in thick and stinking. Niketas gathered the men, posted watch at every corner. Anna, despite his pleas, refused to stay inside. “If I see him, I’ll know what to do,” she insisted. “I am not afraid of the dead.” The hours crawled by. The river lapped at the banks; the fog pressed close. Somewhere, a dog howled, then fell silent. Suddenly, a scream tore the night. Niketas raced toward the sound, Anna close behind. They found Marcus, collapsed beside the well, blood streaming from his face. His eyes had been clawed—one gone, the other ruined. “He came from the water,” Marcus gasped. “He called my name. I thought—he looked like my brother.” He died before dawn. The villagers were broken. Panic seized them. Some ran for the woods, only to return, wild-eyed, when they heard the distant thunder of Avar horsemen. Caught between two terrors, they clung to each other and waited for morning. Niketas sat beside Anna, staring at the river. “If the dead can rise, what hope do we have?” Anna squeezed his hand. “We have each other. And we have fire.” —

Chapter 6: The River Gives Up Its Dead

The Avars attacked at sunrise. Their arrows darkened the sky; their horses thundered against the palisade. The villagers fought with desperate fury, hurling stones and spears, praying aloud as arrows whistled past. Niketas fought beside his father, sweat and fear blurring his vision. The battle was chaos—screams, smoke, the stink of blood. Then, as the Avars breached the gate, something else rose from the river. Figures, pale and dripping, emerged from the fog—bloated corpses, eyes hollow, mouths gaping. The vrykolakas. The Avars recoiled, horses shrieking. Some fled; others stood transfixed as the dead advanced, silent and inexorable. Niketas saw Anna, torch in hand, dart forward. She thrust the flame into the face of one of the dead, and it shrieked, collapsing into ash. The villagers, emboldened, took up torches, driving the dead back toward the water. The Avars, panicked and disordered, broke ranks and fled. The dead, too, retreated, sinking beneath the surface, leaving only ripples behind. When dawn finally came, the village stood battered but unbroken. The river ran red with blood, but its horrors had, for now, been driven back. —

Chapter 7: Ashes and Remembrance

In the aftermath, the village mourned its dead—Diodoros, Marcus, Petros, and others. Father Gregoras led prayers for the souls of the fallen, his voice cracked but resolute. Anna and Niketas walked the riverbank, smoke rising from the pyres behind them. “Will they return?” Anna asked quietly. Niketas shook his head. “The fire has driven them off—for now. But the river remembers. We must not forget what we faced.” Anna nodded. “We survived. That must be enough.” As the sun rose over the Danube, painting the water gold, the village slowly began to rebuild. The scars of that night would never fully heal, but the people of Durostorum had endured. The river, ancient and implacable, flowed on—carrying its secrets, its horrors, and the memory of those who had faced them, into the endless future. —