The next morning, the lot of children woke up to three very weary-looking adults.

Maurice and Claude simply looked tired, but Margaret in particular truly looked as if she was a walking corpse. Her eyes were the most noticeable – beyond simply having dark circles underneath, they were opened a little too wide like a startled animal. She attended to her morning duties unblinkingly, disturbing the children as she went about her business.

"What's wrong with her, dad?" Mirabelle asked as she tugged on an exhausted-looking Maurice's sleeve.

The old merchant was currently doing his best not to look tired by wiping his face down with a cold rag.

"She didn't sleep very well." He turned to look at the other children before speaking a little more loudly. "According to lord Claude, we are only a couple of hours away from reaching Villeneuve. We'll all be able to get some proper rest then." His eyes went to Anastasia who looked similarly exhausted. Her skin somehow seemed even paler – almost translucent as the veins beneath could be seen.

Maurice looked at her with concern. For a moment he felt terrified, thinking that she'd been awake for the events of last night, but her facial expression didn't look particularly perturbed. She just looked tired.

Maurice sighed in relief.

"Why don't you go help your big sister, Belle?" Maurice spoke to his youngest, motioning with his chin over to where Anastasia was folding her clothes with an absentminded expression. In her tiredness, she'd refolded the same garment twice. The other children were busy taking care of their own business or assisting Margaret.

The two La Fayettes watched the morning hustle and bustle with detached expressions. They had made to assist for propriety's sake, but had naturally been refused by Maurice. They had travelled so lightly they barely had anything to prepare.

Gaston had naturally slept in, as was his habit. Claude felt somewhat ashamed of how early the other children had woken compared to his own. Not even the early morning clamor had caused him to wake. Eventually, Claude had to shake him where he lay, still wrapped in a stiff animal hide.

Claude had no idea how he slept, wrapped in that prickly thing. Personally, he preferred to just dress warmly and sleep in his clothes.

The boy in question was leisurely feeding Char-… Charbonneau Archambault Babineaux IX some roots he'd brought along as animal feed. The horse was rather picky, only accepting the softest and most tender of the vegetables. The others, perfectly fine starches that any peasant would be happy to have, were discarded on the ground after a single sampling bite judged them to be… unsatisfactory.

Claude felt a little uncomfortable by how Gaston had pointedly not asked him about the terrible states of the three adults. Claude had done his best to make himself presentable, but Gaston was nothing if not observant.

There was also the fact that Claude's axe, which had been extremely robust, was now practically scrapped. What was he supposed to tell the boy? 'I cracked the blade when I struck a wild animal last night' was hardly believable.

He wanted Gaston to just ask so some of the tension could be relieved, even if he wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer.

"I'll go look for some fresh shoots." Gaston spoke, throwing the last dry root into the woods.

Gaston started walking off in to the forest, likely planning to occupy himself until the time of departure.

"Wait."

Claude stopped his son. He didn't want him going into the forest, no matter if it was daytime or not. However, when Gaston sent him a questioning look, he wasn't sure how to explain himself.

"I think it's better if you wait until we depart."

'Am I not his father?' Claude thought to himself. I don't need to explain everything to him. As long as he listens, all will be well. His hand unconsciously went to grip at his cracked axe handle. It was a nervous tick he'd developed back when he was still involved in… more unsavoury things.

Gaston's eyes went from where Claude's hand gripped the handle to his stoic face.

"What's the matter, Father? You look like you've seen… a ghost." Gaston asked, his eyebrows raising slightly in interest as he played with his shirt with one hand.

Slap!

The camp stilled, their heads turning to see Gaston toppling over. Before he lost his balance, he managed to grab a branch to steady himself with. His free hand went up to his lip, lightly dabbing his ring finger there. He looked dumbly at the spot of red that colored it.

Everyone was quiet as they looked at Claude who stood with one hand raised. It was clear what happened: he'd been hit by his father.

Claude looked at his own hand with incomprehension.

He couldn't believe it – he had never hit Gaston once in his whole life.

Something in the moment had caused his hand to move, almost by its own. The fear of last night and his own feelings of helplessness had been building beneath the surface. Gaston's clever tongue had been the spark to set him off and Claude's tiredness had not allowed him to exercise self-control.

It was unreasonable, and he regretted it the second his hand moved.

He watched as Gaston raised his head a little to look at him out of the corner of his eye. A normal seven-year-old child would undoubtedly have started crying or, at the very least, would be cowering in fear.

Gaston calmly wiped his bleeding lip. The honey-brown color of his had eyes turned a shade darker due to the shadow cast by his curtain of hair.

Claude did not apologize. He wanted to, but his pride as a father prevented him from doing so while in the company of others. He would to do so once they were alone back home.

He extended his hand to Gaston. The boy looked at it for a moment, his lip twitching downwards as if he wanted to frown. He almost looked like he would refuse, but noticing the tense surroundings, he took Claude's hand and let himself be pulled up,

"I apologize, father." Gaston stated despite knowing he did nothing wrong. The apology was for the audience's benefit alone. After that, he wandered off into the woods, completely ignoring Claude's earlier request.

The giant of a man clenched his teeth as he watched the boy leave, half in anger and half in worry. He didn't say anything, as he didn't want to disturb the atmosphere which had started settling down.

Anastasia surreptitiously watched Gaston leave. She took in a slow, silent breath through her nose.

'Was last night a dream, or… a nightmare?'

She'd always had a keen eye for things, one which she'd further developed in her dealings with people.

She'd noticed when Margaret slipped something strange into last night's dinner. She also noticed the silent conversation between the maid, her father and Lord Claude. She doubted that her father would allow anything dangerous to be fed to them, but at the same time she wasn't too fond of the idea of ingesting something unknown.

That was why she'd requested some of the La Fayette heir's catch – so she could have something else to eat besides the soup. She'd had someone scoop a bowl for her, but had given it away when none of the adults were paying attention.

When everyone, including the blabbermouth Celia, had quickly fallen asleep Anastasia guessed the purpose of the mysterious ingredient – to induce sleep. It wasn't too hard for her to pretend, since she frequently eavesdropped on others' conversations using this same method. One would be surprised how easily people dropped their guard when in the presence of a 'sleeping' maiden.

She rolled her eyes inwardly as she lay on her cushy bedroll, keeping her breathing steady as a sleeping person would. She'd once seen Louis bring back three wolf pelts when he returned from a solo hunt. These next few years would be a complete waste of her time. She was meant for better things than to spend her adolescent years with a bunch of dolts who treated a few wild wolves with this level of superstition.

Such were her thoughts as she lay near the fire, listening to the quiet conversation happening near her as well as the sounds of the nighttime forest. She had almost decided to drift off to sleep, as hours had passed without anything like an attack happening.

However, that was when the fog arrived.

Anastasia immediately felt something in the air change. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up. She felt a strange sensation bubbling within her chest.

A mania welled up from inside her. It flowed through her veins and into the tips of her fingers, causing a buzzing, pins-and-needles sensation. It was both foreign and familiar, like remembered fragments of a dream she'd had a long time ago. In this trance-like state, she'd barely noticed the passage of time.

She realized too late that she'd lost control of her body. She'd straightened into a ramrod-straight posture on her side and her eyes were wide open. She was laying with her back to the campfire, looking off in the direction of the mist. The three adults where behind her; if they noticed her situation then they didn't comment on it.

Before she could close her eyes to pretend at sleep and to try and control this overwhelming, mysterious sensation, she spotted something in the fog. The… shape was slowly, very slowly, drawing closer. Something about it reminded her of an old man. Its posture was hunched over, its hands almost touching the ground as it noiselessly sailed over the misty ground.

She couldn't make out any details, concealed as it was by the mist and the darkness of the night.

Then, part of it was revealed.

A grotesque hand crawled out of the darkness. The first thing one would notice was just how long the nails were. Indeed, they were nails – not claws like an animal. Long, yellow human nails that started curling inwards due to their unkempt state.

Next, the fingers showed themselves: the were bony, gnarled and bent in the wrong directions, like a very elderly person suffering from a terrible case of arthritis. The palm they were attached to wasn't much better – it was wrinkled and papery with grey, mottled skin. Thick sinews ran underneath, hinting at the wiry strength the hand possessed.

It continued creeping forward, showing first its forearm, then upper arm and finally its torso and head. It was dreadfully quiet the entire time.

The rest of its body was the same corpse-like gray color, although some areas were darker than others. Its anatomy wasn't outlandish, but in fact very much that of a human. Still, there was something… other about it. No body part made that clearer than the things head, which fixed Anastasia with a glassy eyed, toothy grin.

No, it wasn't grinning.

It just seemed that way because the thing didn't have a 'face'. Nothing was covering its teeth – it had no lips or cheeks. There was nothing but jaw and blackened denticles to be seen. It also had no nose. The spot was simply empty of anything except two black slits. Its vacant gaze, milky and pupil-less, stared towards Anastasia.

The girl uncomprehendingly watched the thing in a state of utter shock. It held the position for a while, simply looking at her through its tangled, matted and thin hair that fell over its face like rotting seaweed.

The gesture, as well as its unblinking 'gaze', finally roused some emotion within Anastasia: a sensation of mind-numbing, all-consuming terror. She couldn't even scream as it slid over the soil on its endlessly long ribcage, crawling over the dirt and rocks with its corpse-like digits. It drew closer towards her – no, towards one of her little brothers.

All she could do was stare at this nightmare-come-to-life as an insurmountable sense of fear gripped her body like a vice.

As she watched its long, dirty nails gently grip the peacefully sleeping little boy's bedroll, Anastasia felt something… else inside her. It was a dark and evil feeling that sprouted within the overwhelming fear like a cancer, turning it into something completely unexpected: a sense of horrid fascination.

She wanted to know more about whatever the thing was. She wanted to see what it planned to do with her brother. She wanted something... dark.

Her face showed an expression of wonder as these new feelings washed over her. She didn't understand it: it was wrong, wicked, vile, evil; yet… she couldn't deny the truth of what she was experiencing right now. It was a transformative moment like nothing else she'd ever experienced. Her whole word was shifting around her and hanging on for dear life was all she could do.

Finally, like a membrane snapping, something gave way inside her feet and she fell into herself, into an unfathomably deep pit that she didn't even know was there.

She hit the bottom with a splash.

Her first instinct was to draw a breath – but that was a mistake. The watery-black substance all around her flowed into her mouth almost as if it had a life of its own. In fact, it wriggled and pressed against every orifice of hers: her ears, her nose and even her tightly closed eyelids.

She couldn't stop it.

She wailed inwardly as she felt the liquid gush madly up into her head. She thrashed and struggled, but no matter what she did, she couldn't reach the surface. Instead, it felt as if she were sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Her veins pulsed and pounded in her skull as if her very blood was being replaced by the thick, cloying and dark substance that filled the bottom of that ancient well.

Yet, there was no pain.

Instead, she felt herself growing, transforming, changing into something foreign, something alien, something… other. She was sure that this premonition was true.

At the pinnacle, the climax of that metamorphosis, Anastasia suddenly became hyper-aware of a pair of eyes in the corner of her vision that glowed with a fiery light.

She turned towards them.

Her own eyes, which had completely turned inky-black, froze in their sockets. The moment she met that gaze, she experienced a powerful sucking sensation as if the orbs had become two twisting, glowing vortices. Her arms flailed madly as she fell upwards, out of the deep darkness.

Those two slitted eyes, burning with an unholy yellow fire continued to stare at her. They had expanded to fill her vision until it was as if they had consumed all of existence.

The black blood which had flowed within her ceased and, at once, disappeared. It was as if a blade had been placed against her neck – no, it was as if the tip of a dagger was being held against her heart: so closely that she could practically feel the pain of that deadly, phantom stab.

Every moment that oppressive, lethal pressure grew. For the first time in her privileged life, Anastasia felt death. That was the feeling she was experiencing: pure, concentrated mortal danger.

Under that executioner's gaze, the dark water drained from her body, seeping back into that well which soon became sealed and hidden once more. A few moments later, it was as if it had never been there in the first place.

Neither she nor the pair of eyes paid any attention to the creature or to the commotion it caused.

The moment both that feeling of 'change' induced by the mysterious well, as well as the… bladed intent of those peering coals disappeared, Anastasia snapped out of her frozen state to look at the owner of those unfathomable eyes.

The young Gaston stared quietly at her in the darkness. Those demonic apertures had disappeared as if they were never there, replaced by two honey-brown, perfectly normal human eyes.

Her eyes whirled in their sockets as she remembered the creature from earlier and tried to catch a glimpse of it, but it was gone.

"Maurice… look at… your son."

Hearing these words, Anastasia quickly snapped her eyes shut, not wanting to be discovered now of all moments. She felt so utterly confused with everything that had happened this night – the last thing she needed now was the pestering attentions of the rest of the camp.

Her fake sleep quickly turned into the real thing, exhausted by the events and emotions of the past few witching hours as she was. Her thoughts where conflicted as she considered the corrupting mutation that would have completed were not for the… devilish interference. Yet, she could sense that its… inhuman influence still clung resiliently to her psyche.

She was… changed.

Anastasia had moved a little away from the hustle-and-bustle of the Le Marquands and their entourage. She'd left the four-year-old Belle to attend to her things along with Celia. The red-haired twin wasn't really fond of the youngest daughter, something she'd mimicked from Anna's own behaviour.

Her siblings weren't the smartest lot. It's not that she hated them, they simply weren't that interesting to her. Celia and Bertrand were not so childish as the rest due to their age, but they were still not the type of people she'd prefer to interact with.

The twins were too… sycophantic. They did have their uses, but they weren't the type of people she could respect.

Anastasia had wandered off a little to the side. She had a slight headache, and the noisy lot over there certainly weren't making it any better.

Suddenly, she heard a soft voice some distance away from her.

"If it isn't the fetching Miss Anastasia Le Marquand."

She looked over in that direction to see Gaston sitting up in an old tree.

He smiled at her, looking boyishly handsome with his messy long hair tied and stuffed under a leather cap.

"Perfect timing: I have another gift for you."

He dropped down from the tree while reaching around to fetch something stored in his woven pouch.

"Another bauble? I'm not interested." She tossed her long hair over her shoulder casually as she watched the approaching boy. He was acting very naturally, as if nothing extraordinary had happened between them.

Had Anastasia been a different person, she would have thought of those events as a nightmare or the figments of an over active imagination. However, there was nothing she had more faith in than the soundness of her own mind – not even God, even if she would never say it out loud.

All of it had happened. She was completely sure about that fact. If nothing else, Margaret's state today was proof that she'd laid eyes on that same creature. She was planning on dragging the truth out of the boy in front of her, one way or another.

"Close your eyes." Gaston said as he gripped the thing behind his back so she couldn't see it.

Anastasia played with the plain golden bracelet on her wrist with an unamused expression. "You can just give it to me. I don't like surprises."

Gaston rolled his eyes with a smile. "Boring. But have it your way." He looked at her with a mischievous expression. "Regardless, I'm sure you'll like it."

In a smooth motion, he stepped close to her and held one of her wrists.

Before she could say something, she felt something dry and leathery being shoved into her palm.

She looked down, only to recoil in shock at what he gave her, dropping it in the process. Gaston watched with keen interest as her gaze became nailed to that mysterious object:

On the ground, covered by dirt and leaves, was a gnarled, dry and greying hand.

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