Nothing yet. The tables are still set; the lanterns are dark. Whatever the village knew, it left in writing.
Every year, the village of Mothlight Vale holds the Lantern Festival to keep
the Quiet away. This year, mid-festival, everyone vanished — tables
still set, bread still warm, a fiddle resting mid-tune.
You are the lamplighter’s apprentice, sent over the hill on an errand nobody
explained. You came home to an empty valley and nine dark festival lanterns.
Light all nine. The moths know what happened.