There is a chill in the night, the transformation from summer to autumn ushering in cold winds that sweep away the lingering warmth. The change feels distinct, unlike the autumns back in town or the Pits—definitely nothing like our island.
Seasons hardly touched our island, an idyllic haven for relaxation and leisure. Winters were when Verity set her sights on the influx of visitors: the wealthy and content, traversing the vast expanse of the Glimmering Sea, lavishing coins on any and every indulgence. Peach wine, gambling, and companionship were all enjoyed within the confines of our island where brothels and such trade were forbidden. While we boasted a rich agricultural heritage and most lived comfortable lives, not everyone flourished. Each island operated under its magistrate, unique in their policies and governance.
Then came the war, this bringer of misery. I watched as women I had grown up with, accustomed to affluence, stood on street corners, dressed to expose their delicate and frail bodies, seeking warriors, mercenaries, or wandering healers willing to pay a pittance for their company. Medicine's price soared, the seas grew treacherous for trade, and what was once bright and promising withered into despair. Trees reduced to ashes, farms abandoned. And then, the dreaded Mist.
The Isles of Agony, as Verity dubbed our home, bore witness to our struggles. When the next summer dawned, our men returned maimed and broken, our women plagued by sickness, and lean children instead of fat rosy cheeks. The island's once-pink glow seemed nothing but a cruel jest orchestrated by Deities and Spirits, mocking our past and our harsh new reality.
--
I stand atop Mt. Onyxies as if Mikhael's tale from the previous night transported me there. I've been here once, for hunting. I find myself amidst a snowstorm, ensnared within a gray cocoon of ice. I spin around, disoriented, barely able to see my own hands. Footsteps in the snow. I recognize them—Verity's. My yearning to hold her, to bury my sorrows in her thick brown hair, intensifies. I seek solace in her embrace, much as she's offered me countless times before. Yet, as my gaze meets hers, it's as though she's only half-present.
"Be cautious," Verity's voice utters, though it's not truly hers. "Malevolence courses through these lands. An ancient darkness has stirred, and you will bear the ultimate price."
A scream reverberates, and I awaken.
A dream—it was just a dream. The fragment of our island's downfall remains a nightmare, and Verity's ominous words, that mountain... a shiver travels down my spine.
Then the quiet night once again shatters, as another scream fills the air. Not a figment of my mind. A knock at my door, it isn't Mikhael. A knock at my door, different from Mikhael's. Softer, urgent. With my blade in hand, I approach the door cautiously, cracking it open. The corridor's cold pierces my skin.
"You must leave," the innkeeper's daughter whispers. "Darkness is here."
"What about the others?"
"They're getting ready to fight," she glances over her shoulder. "Retrieve your friend and flee—quickly." Stern and resolute, she's bound to join the others, to fight. I wonder about the darkness she speaks of, but before I have time to ask, she slips back into the shadows.
As I prepare to leave, the hurried footsteps in the hallway signal others preparing for combat. I pack my essentials swiftly, securing them in a rucksack. I hold my blade in hand, feeling safer as its cold handle digs into my skin. Leaving the room, I sense the Book filled with an almost jubilant energy.
"Why are you so happy?" I ask aloud, met only with silence. Cheery and lively, an echo within my thoughts. It pulls at me, its intentions elusive.
--
"Mikhael!" I shout as my hands pound the door. "We have to move… quickly!" A crash, a muttered curse, and he opens it. Sleep still lingers in his eyes, his curls untamed. "Get dressed, we need to leave."
"What's going on?"
"Something's arrived, and we can't stay here..."
"What about the others? Terie? Rogan?"
"They're the chosen heroes; let them go and be heroic or whatever. Now, come on."
He steps back from the door, leaving it slightly ajar. I notice he's not wearing anything as he searches through his belongings. His muscular frame, honed through labor and battles, bears scars here and there, his chest covered in thick dark hair. I avert my gaze, irritated with myself for stealing a glance.
In a matter of minutes, we're outside, the autumn chill thick in the air, our breath forming misty clouds. I can hear the sounds of combat, yet I cannot see what opponents they are facing. The daughter had called it darkness. I suppress a chuckle, I hadn't even learned her name.
A glimmer of gold emerges as Meia casts a spell from behind the house. Mikhael seems drawn to it, a desire to assist evident in his stance, but I grip his shirt and shake my head. This isn't our battle. Just as we're about to dash in any direction away from the impending threat, a sound akin to cannon fire detonates within my mind. The Book chimes in.
"Master," it proclaims.
Master
Suddenly, hands grip my shoulders, the noise deafening, rendering me unable to open my eyes, as though the sound could physically pop them out. I feel the forceful shaking, hands on my body, and cold, damp grass beneath my elbows and knees. My hands instinctively clamp over my ears, hoping to quell the auditory onslaught. Then, it all goes silent.
Too silent.
I cautiously open my eyes to find myself surrounded by grey and green lightning and mist. I stand amidst pure air. A vortex? Master, the Book had intimated. Could it be that the Book and the Mist share a similar origin? A mirror of the afterlife and a book capable of resurrection...
A voice calls out my name. Not the Book's voice. I turn, encountering a man's gaze—or something that resembles a man. His hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, cascades down, framing eyes gleaming red like rubies from the Red Isles. A scar slices across his left eye, extending down to his chin. Never before have I witnessed a figure so eerily captivating and terrifying simultaneously. He repeats my name, his voice echoing, and his armor, the blackest of onyx, clings to him. Devoid of color and life, a deep abyss encompassing his entire form, except for his shoulder pauldrons. These are adorned with bones, a grim arrangement of ox skulls.
He extends a hand toward me, a gesture that prompts a desire to recoil or escape. Yet, I remain immobilized. Sadness resides within his gaze, as if he comprehends my inclination to flee and this realization pains him.
"Elyse," his voice emerges, hoarse yet rich. It reverberates around me, though his lips remain motionless. He advances, and I try to command my body to move. But it refuses. Panic surges, urging me to break free, to scream, yet I'm trapped within his voice. A sensation akin to the Book's pull thrums within me, drawing me toward him.
"I've long awaited you, my love." His voice fills my entire essence. A tug echoes, akin to the connection I share with the Book. "My beloved," he murmurs, his lips in motion this time. His armor doesn't make a sound as he nears me. Move, please, I silently will my body, yet it remains immobile.
"I've waited," his words continue, like an incantation. I brace myself, a surge of anticipation coursing through me. As his frigid armor brushes against my cheek, I remain unable to shift or utter a word. I try to scream, but his voice drowns everything out, leaving me engulfed in his presence. Yet, there's something more—a yearning, a sensation unlike any other. It pulses within me, ignited by the touch of his armor against my skin. I'm not alone in this shell; someone else resides within, alongside me.
And that presence longed for him. They mourned for him, wept for him.
As the man slowly peeled off his gloves, I discern the intricate runes etched into his hands. He grazes his fingers over my cheek—a gentle touch, surprisingly warm. The entity within me reacts to his contact like fire and explosions, a turbulent concoction ignited by his mere presence. I yearn for this to cease. A surge of emotion overwhelms me, tears prickling my eye, their trail searing my skin as they course down my face. The man draws closer, his lips brushing my skin, warmth lingering where he kissed away that solitary tear. His mouth grazes my skin, his tongue moistening my flesh, and then he shifts his attention to my lips. His breath wafts over them, carrying the scent of earth, rain, and the electric charge of a thunderstorm.
"My beloved," his words, a soft murmur, caress my lips, and inexplicably, I lean in. Why? Why? Why? No, I plead myself. Stop.
But I incline toward him, unable to resist, and our lips meet. I scream inside myself, urging myself to stop this inexplicable momentum. Yet, his lips are rough against mine, a taste of metal against my moist tongue. His hand weaves into my hair, clutching the nape of my neck, pulling me closer with vigor. Closer, harder. I part my lips, yielding to him, surrendering as he consumes me.