I had been told several times by my father to keep my back straight and my eyes alert. Though, I couldn't help but avert my attention towards Harriet, my sister, who seemingly was ready to break down into a puddle of tears. With a deep force in the pit of my stomach, I barked out a laugh.

"It's not funny," Harriet blubbered, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.
"I know," I croaked out, "It just hasn't settled yet". I looked over my blouse and methodically straightened out the slight crease to the collar, my hands quivering. I looked over my face in the mirror, disgruntled with dark bags under my eyes from my lack of sleep. My usual flushed tanned skin now looked dull and lifeless, allowing my freckles to fad. My eyes just appeared sad. Nothing had changed over the last couple of days- always filled to the brink of tears. The ringlets in my hair had now been brushed back into a braided bun at the back of my head. I fiddled with the lose ringlets, my hands uncontrollably quaking and was stopped by my mother, who held them in her own.

One thing that my family have had to come to terms with is that we had to say goodbye. Although, we hadn't spoken of it, the hum of fear and uncertainty had settled in the deep roots of our relationship. My mother had barely spoken the last couple of weeks, thinking of what was to become of me. Harriet left the house most days, going for strolls through the village square. My father had been the tough one. But even now, as I stared at him by the window- his mind lost to the flurry of solemn people outside- he was beginning to falter. I myself, had come to terms with it long ago. And yet, my arms still shook and a thick set migraine had begun behind my right eye.

Of course, I had to overthink everything. The fear had grew like a raging cancer the night before. I had woken in hot sweats, panting and scratching away at the hair on my scalp. The walls where thin in our house. They all heard me. But nobody came.

"It's okay to be frightened," my mother whispered, wiping away the dampness beneath my eyes. "I think any sane person would be. And I don't know what to tell you other than to keep your whits about you".

These creatures where sharp and continuously calculating their next trap. Derived from an old folklore, but told differently throughout the centuries, the semblance to the tales held little value and the only thing in common was their strive to be a dominant species.

It had been a spirited village. Bakery's worthy of royalty. Seamstresses with lengths of rare silk. It was seen as a prosperous part of the world that people in their millions would visit - if not to splash every coin in their pockets, then to visit one of the several festivals during the spring and summer months. It had been considered its own world entirely. The people who visited never wanted to go back home.

But even good things die, eventually.

We had never understood the creatures, or why they took the things they took, like animals that had been starved or deprived of a natural habitat. We could have welcomed them. Instead, our food was taken, our families broken apart and had been replaced with nothing but a desperate sigh of diminished hope.

My father remained still, hands clasped together as he spoke his first words of the day. It sent a jolt through us all.

"Bloody tyrants," he hissed. "How can they expect us to be okay with all of this? She's my daughter for gods sake. And with her own mind about her". His attention snapped away from the window and towards me. With a tremble in his voice and the flow of tears down his face, he whispered, "Vayla".

It was a rarity to see my father cry or even pay me much attention, for that matter. He was a quiet man, usually keeping to himself in the garden and selling his vegetables at the village feyre's. Though, we had an unspoken fondness and respect for each other, I never thought the relationship ran this deep. But seeing him, wiping his clammy hands down his sleeves, the slight tremor in his eyes and the fear - I felt sick to my stomach.

"No. No. No. No," he blubbered, crossing the room to grasp at my shoulders, "I don't mean to make you worry, Vayla. Look at me. I need you not to worry of consequences. The first sign of a threat, you run".

I wouldn't promise it. If it meant putting them all in danger, I couldn't promise it.

"Don't ask me to do such a thing, they could have you killed," I looked at my mother, who sat thoughtfully. And Harriet, who seemed to agree with my father. I shook my head, "I won't".

"Vayla..." He was cut short by a loud bang at the door. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath.

"Calling for Vayla Brenson, to be in the village square immediately," a rasped voice spoke between the planes of wood. A sudden panic ruptured into my head, making it difficult to see clearly.
"When it presents itself, Vayla," my father whispered. I hardly registered what he said.

I tried to take it all in; the dining room I'd never get to see again, the presence of my family beside me. But my mother had already reached the door, opened it and allowed the kelpie guard to enter our home. He towered over all of us, his demeanour cold and abrupt. A sight that would surly fuel my nightmares.

"Which of you is Vayla Brenson?" he spoke in a monotone, flicking his gaze between me and my sister.
"I am," my voice broke as I tried to hold a decent posture. A jolt of a silent sob rippled through Harriet. No noise came from her. But I had noticed, just as the kelpie guard had asked, she had been prepared to step forward and lie. To have taken my place. The both of us knew we couldn't have gotten away with it, even if she'd tried. The kelpie where more knowing than they let on.

The guard held me at my elbow, ushering me away from my father, my mother and my sister. I winced at his thumb grinding into the soft spot between the bone. The crisp, winters breeze slapped against my cheeks as I left my home for the final time. And as we neared the village square, my body had mostly become numb. From fear or the cold, I couldn't decipher. I looked back at my family following suit. A dramatic sight, really. A spectacle. My sister whimpering and wiping at her irritated nose. My mother whispering prayers underneath her breath and looking up at the sky. The only one who remained truly solid was my father. He held my gaze with an invigorated motive, his words creeping up from the back of my mind.

When it presents itself.