The village sat in a hush that felt unnatural—a silence so deep it seemed to weigh down the air itself. Along the blackstone walls, torches burned low, their flames flickering uncertainly against a mist that no longer pressed forward but circled lazily, like a predator biding its time.
Valtor moved with cold precision along the northern rampart. His eyes—sharp, restless—scanned every crack in the stone, every soldier's stance. No barking orders this time. Instead, his presence alone commanded discipline. Behind him, the newly trained watchmen adjusted their grips on their weapons, jaws tight with a tension that was no longer fear but something harder—resolve hammered into shape.
"Your eyes," Valtor said low, pausing by a young guard, "are your first blade. Don't blink until this is over."
The guard nodded sharply, his knuckles white around his spear.
Kaela crouched on the far end of the wall, her gaze distant and alert. Ears twitching, she traced delicate circles with one claw across the stone, eyes locked on the treeline where the mist pooled thickest. There—just at the edge—she saw it again: small spirals, twisting unnaturally, the kind of pattern that didn't belong to weather or beasts.
She rose smoothly, whispering into the nearest scout's ear, "No movement alone. Stay in pairs."
"Understood," came the tight reply.
Further south, Angela stood watch, her small frame tense as her fingers curled around a pendant at her throat. Her breath came shallow, her eyes flickering between the shadows. For days, the strange weight pressing on her chest had grown heavier. Now, it was like something coiled just out of sight—watching, waiting, breathing with them.
She turned suddenly, catching sight of Kaela approaching with quiet, measured steps.
"It's… different tonight," Angela said, her voice small but sure.
Kaela's golden eyes met hers, sharp and steady. "Yes. I feel it too."
Angela swallowed hard. "It's closer."
Kaela didn't respond, but her hand rested briefly on Angela's shoulder—a rare, grounding touch—before she moved on.
Inside the longhouse, the air was thicker still. Maps sprawled across the main table, ink bleeding through worn parchment. Lilith stood over them, flanked now by her two pale-cloaked daughters—silent and poised, eyes burning crimson. She moved a rune-stone slightly to the left, marking a fresh position along Valaris's outer ring.
"Her eldest daughter leaned in, eyes bright. 'New reports—an inner-circle priest vanished last night. And at the western gate, the guards whisper of specters in their dreams.'
Lilith's fingers paused over the map, her eyes sharpening. 'Good. Fear within, and rot beneath. Push harder on the western flank. No mercy.'"
Her other daughter also leaned in, voice like a whisper of silk. "What of the Cathedral Ward? Whispers speak of fractures."
Lilith's smile was cold and measured. "Not yet. We want them desperate—but not shattered. When they begin to suspect betrayal within, that's when they'll turn on themselves."
A faint sound—footsteps, deliberate—drew their attention. Valtor entered, dragging a cold wind with him. His gaze swept the room once, catching Lilith's.
"The walls hold," he reported. "But the mist... it's settling wrong. Coiling, but not breaking."
Lilith's fingers drummed lightly on the map. "Waiting."
Valtor's tail lashed once, a flash of irritation. "For what?"
Lilith's smile was thin. "For the right moment. It's learning from us now."
She turned, her eyes catching the faintest flicker of motion at the doorway—Kaela, silent as ever, stepping into the circle of torchlight.
"We're ready," Kaela said quietly. "But it's… close."
Lilith's eyes narrowed, her breath slow and sharp. "Tonight, everything tightens."
Her gaze swept over them all, eyes burning like embers.
"Hold the lines. Watch the dark. The next breach… will not be like the last."
And as the torches hissed and cracked, the village braced itself—caught in the quiet before the storm, every breath drawn sharp and waiting.
The longhouse had quieted, but the tension beneath its blackstone bones had only thickened. Lilith stood by the main doors, cloak drawn close around her shoulders, eyes like twin embers in the low torchlight. Valtor waited beside her, silent and brooding, his claws flexing in restless arcs.
From deeper within the hall, footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate. Lysanthir emerged from the shadows, his gaze sweeping once across them both. Without words, he nodded toward the stairwell descending into the crypt.
Kaela, perched near the far end of the room, caught their movement and met Lilith's eyes with a single sharp look—a silent warning, or perhaps just understanding.
Lilith's voice was low. "The mist thickens again. If we are to act, it must be now."
Lysanthir's gaze didn't waver. "We go."
The descent was quiet but heavy, the torches lining the narrow stairs flickering as if unwilling to witness what lay below. The door to the crypt creaked open with a long, hollow groan, spilling them into a place colder than stone should ever be.
Inside, the familiar pulse of the warding circle greeted them—dim and sluggish, its runes throbbing faintly like a dying heartbeat. The demon crouched at the center, half-formed as always, shadow and smoke coiling around its jagged limbs. But tonight… its eyes gleamed sharper, and its smile was already waiting.
"You return," it rasped, voice slithering across the crypt like oil over glass. "I wondered when the Hollow Star would seek me again."
Lysanthir stepped forward, his presence a blade drawn from its sheath. "Speak plainly, for once" he said, voice low and cold. "We have no time for riddles."
The demon's grin flickered. "She scrapes deeper now—past the bone of this world. And in doing so… she has marked your foxling. The herald is no longer just watching. It is hunting her."
Kaela stiffened near the doorway, her claws flexing instinctively. Lilith's gaze snapped to her. 'When?'
The demon's voice coiled, dark with glee. 'Even now… it draws near.'
Lilith's eyes narrowed. "The herald?"
"The herald waits," the demon hissed. "But that is not your true enemy. Not anymore."
Valtor's growl cut through the air. "Enough games. What do you see?"
The demon's gaze slid toward him, its grin sharpening. "I see threads unraveling. Not just in your village… but deep within Valaris itself. "Her grasp weakens even as she claws deeper. That is why she marks the foxling—desperation, not mastery."
Lilith stepped closer, voice like a blade. "We know all this. What don't we see?"
The demon's smile faded slightly, eyes darkening to pits of smoke. "You see walls and armies. You see mist and monsters. But the true fracture… lies deeper."
It shifted, almost writhing against the bindings of the circle. "Not all chains break with violence. Some… slip free without notice."
Lysanthir's eyes gleamed, sharp and assessing. "What are you saying?"
The demon's voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "When the time comes… you will know who truly stands with you."
For a beat, silence fell—thick and heavy. Lilith's hand twitched near her belt, but her voice stayed level. "You speak like one who plots escape."
The demon's grin returned, razor-thin. "I do not need to escape. The fracture… will set everything loose."
Valtor stepped forward, claws flexing. "And if we end you now?"
The demon's laughter echoed, dry and soft. "You could try. But then… who would whisper the truth in your ear?"
It leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "The herald's bond is fraying. When next it comes, it will not act alone. And when Valaris begins to fall—when the mist tears its way through the last of their prayers—you will see."
Lilith's eyes flared crimson. "What will we see?"
The demon tilted its head, a gesture almost playful. "Who your true allies are."
Lysanthir's gaze stayed hard, unwavering. "We'll hold you to that."
Without another word, he turned sharply, cloak sweeping through the cold air. Lilith and Valtor followed, their footsteps hard and certain against the stone.
Behind them, the demon's smile lingered, faint and knowing, as the door to the crypt creaked shut once more—sealing the dark inside.
And high above, beyond the thick walls and torchlit ramparts, the mist stirred—silent, watchful… waiting.
The air in Valaris was thick with smoke and whispers.
In the heart of the capital, behind high walls, Duke Ferdinand slumped in his great chair, eyes sunken, fingers twitching against the armrest. The once-proud banners of House Vaelmont hung limp above him, stained with soot and old blood. A brazier burned low beside the throne, but even its warmth seemed unable to chase the growing chill from the room.
Chancellor Breven stood a few paces away, his posture stiff, his eyes sharp despite the deep lines of exhaustion carving his face.
"She's overreaching," the Duke muttered hoarsely, gaze locked on nothing. "This—this war of mist and whispers... it bleeds us dry."
Breven's lips pressed thin. "The sabotage strikes deeper than expected. The outer temples—damaged. Supply lines faltering. And the Prexies..." He hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the far corner of the hall where shadows pooled unnaturally thick.
From that darkness, the Prexie of Ash emerged, her robes heavy with soot and ash stains, eyes gleaming like dying embers. She stepped forward, her voice brittle but cold.
"We are holding—for now. But faith is... cracking. Our rites grow thin, our prayers falter. Something festers beneath the surface, Your Grace."
Ferdinand's eyes flicked toward her, red-rimmed and sharp. "Then stop it. Root it out."
The Prexie's gaze was unwavering. "We try. But the fracture... it moves like rot beneath stone. Subtle. Patient."
Breven cleared his throat. "Some whisper... of betrayal. That certain hands within our own ranks might... falter."
The Duke slammed a trembling fist onto the armrest. "No more riddles! I want names. I want heads."
A long silence followed, heavy with words unspoken.
At last, the Prexie spoke again, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "It's... slipping from our grasp. There are forces at play beyond what we can see. Beyond Morveth's reach... or ours."
Breven's eyes narrowed. "You mean the demon?"
The Prexie's lips twitched, almost a grimace. "I mean... something deeper. Older. There are cracks we cannot seal."
The Duke leaned back slowly, his breath ragged. "Then we crush them before they grow. We tighten every chain."
But even as he spoke, a tremor rippled faintly through the floor—a subtle quake, easy to miss... but none of them did.
Breven's eyes darkened. "My lord... we may already be too late."
Silence returned—thick, uneasy, and absolute.
Outside the great hall, the skies above Valaris churned—clouds roiling heavy and dark, like the breath of something vast and unseen..., coiling tighter with each passing hour.
The night fell heavier than before, pressing down on the village like a suffocating weight. The mist—once thin and hesitant—had thickened again, crawling low along the ground, winding between the outer stones like fingers searching for purchase.
Kaela stood alone atop the north wall, her daggers sheathed but her body taut, every muscle on edge. The silence was wrong—too deep, too complete. Even the insects had gone quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Her golden eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline with sharp, patient precision.
And then—she felt it.
A ripple. A shiver that wasn't just cold, but alive. The air shifted, almost imperceptibly, and her breath hitched.
Behind her, hurried footsteps approached. A scout, pale and breathless, stumbled up the stairs, eyes wide with terror.
"Kaela—" he gasped. "It's moving. The mist—it's… it's coming."
Kaela's eyes stayed locked on the forest, watching as the fog began to churn—slow at first, then rippling like something vast and unseen stirred within it.
"Go," she ordered, voice tight and cutting. "Warn the Master."
The scout didn't hesitate. He bolted back down the wall, his shouts echoing through the quiet night.
Moments later, the longhouse doors slammed open. Lysanthir stepped into the torchlight, followed closely by Lilith and Valtor. Their eyes snapped to Kaela's rigid form atop the battlements—and the mist, now roiling like a living sea.
Kaela's voice rang out sharp and clear. "Master—it's begun."
Lysanthir's gaze darkened, his steps slow and measured as he advanced to the base of the wall. For a long breath, he said nothing, simply watching as the horizon seemed to fold and twist beneath the weight of the oncoming storm.
Then, at last, his voice rose—quiet, but sharp enough to cut through stone.
"Prepare the walls."
Valtor growled low, his claws flexing as he moved to rally the guards. Lilith's eyes gleamed crimson, a wicked smile curving her lips as she faded into shadow, already summoning her clan to position.
Kaela remained frozen, her eyes locked on the mist, golden and unblinking.
A sharp sting lanced down her spine, making her breath hitch. Not cold. Not fear. The mark.
Her golden eyes narrowed. 'You feel me,' she whispered into the dark. 'Then come.'
And as the torches flared against the deepening dark, the mist surged forward—silent, relentless.
The storm had come.