Darkmist.
That was the name Ian had given it.
Not because it had told him, but because names gave shape to the formless. Because the thing he saw when he first entered the Prophet of Death state needed to be called something—anything—other than himself.
Because he wasn't sure if it was a vision, a fragment of his own soul, or something else wearing his face when it didn't wear darkness.
It hadn't spoken often.
In fact, it rarely acknowledged him.
But when it did recently, it repeated only one phrase:
When you enter the Reach, there will be one who will know you, who will watch you, and who will show you the worst of truths.
No more. No less.
Ian had tried to summon it since.
In the quiet between battles, in meditation, even through corruption increase. But Darkmist only appeared when it wanted.
A figure of shadows and depthless gray eyes, like mirrors filled with ash.
Sometimes standing just beyond the veil of dreams. Sometimes in reflections that lasted too long.
