On the day I pledged my troth to Rhea, beneath the endless blue of our village’s sky, an inexplicable illness seized me. It was nothing like the fevers that swept through the countryside, nor the exhaustion of long journeys. This was something deeper—an invasive unease that made every nerve flare, a shadow creeping through my body just as I welcomed our guests for the union feast. I tried to conceal my trembling, but my laughter felt hollow, distant, as if it echoed from behind a closed door.

That night, as the twin moons rose above ancient pines, I understood the world would never be the same. The familiar, ordered rhythm of life spun out of control. Reality twisted; sometimes I awoke in places I could not recall visiting, clutching strange tokens—an old compass, a string of beads from distant travelers. I wandered the drafty halls of our stone manor in a waking dream, and each morning I struggled to gather the tatters of my memories. A cold dread tightened when I neared our home, as if the very stones whispered warnings I could not comprehend.

Six seasons passed before I woke in my own bed with a clear mind, though wary. That was when the true omen began. Whenever a certain guest—Sir Soren, Rhea’s companion in study and counsel—drew near, the air changed. A sharp, acrid scent, unmistakably sulfurous, crept into the chamber. It was not the faint tang of torches or the reek of the stables. This was something ancient, primal—reminiscent of tales our elders told, of demons walking in human guise.

Desperate for answers, I scoured the manor, cleansed the rushes, burned sage and rosemary, yet nothing banished the smell. It lingered, a persistent warning for me alone, growing stronger each time Sir Soren visited. No one else seemed to sense it, but my heart knew peril was near.

One evening, I confessed my fears to Rhea, my voice trembling. “There is something amiss with Soren. Can you not smell it?” Her eyes filled with worry, as if I were the one who had lost reason. The distance between us grew, love faltering under the weight of a warning only I could perceive.

The day Soren departed our manor for good, the sulfur vanished as if it had never existed. My illness faded. Peace returned, but the price was sorrow—our love, irretrievably changed. Rhea, though near, was as distant as a figure glimpsed through mist. I never learned what darkness Soren carried, or why only I could feel its presence. But I understood, at last: sometimes, omens come in forms only the watchful will see, and listening is all that can save one’s heart—and perhaps the soul of another—from an unseen threat lurking just beyond the light.