A/N: if you would like to read the rest of the story(19 chapters) go check out my patron - patreon.com/random_person11
(The rest of the story will be published on there over the course of a few days and be exclusive to patron + actual story will be released soon)
Chapter 1: The Toll of the Mist
The mist clung to the Moors like a shroud, a cold, damp blanket that stifled sound and swallowed light. It slithered through the gnarled branches of ancient oaks, their leaves rustling with an almost mournful sigh. Beneath the oppressive grey, the village of Oakhaven huddled, its thatched roofs and wattle-and-daub walls seeming to shrink back from the encroaching gloom.
Elias clutched his father's worn leather satchel tighter, the rough hide a meager comfort against the gnawing fear in his stomach. He was seventeen, barely a man, yet tonight he felt like a child again, lost in a nightmare from which he couldn't wake. His father, the village cobbler and a man known for his hearty laugh and steady hand, had not returned from his journey to the neighboring town of Barrow Creek. It had been three days, three days of ever-thickening mist and whispered anxieties among the villagers.
"The Moors take what they want, lad," Old Man Hemlock had rasped, his one good eye glinting with a disturbing mix of fear and resignation. "Best not to dwell on it."
But Elias couldn't help but dwell. His father wasn't the type to simply vanish. He was strong, resourceful, and knew the treacherous paths across the Moors better than anyone. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
As dusk bled into night, casting long, skeletal shadows from the twisted trees, Elias made his decision. He would venture into the Moors, follow the path his father would have taken, and find him.
Ignoring the pleas of his mother, whose face was pale and etched with worry, Elias packed a meager ration of bread and cheese, a tinderbox, and his father's hunting knife. The steel felt cold against his palm, a reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the village walls. He kissed his mother's forehead, promising to return with his father, and stepped out into the swirling mist.
The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, a scent that clung to the back of his throat. The path, barely visible in the fading light, was treacherous, riddled with hidden roots and slick patches of mud. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent a jolt of adrenaline through Elias, making him spin around, searching for the source of the sound.
He called out his father's name, his voice a thin thread swallowed by the mist, but only silence answered him. The further he ventured, the denser the fog became, until it was like walking through a wall of cotton. He could barely see a few feet in front of him, the world reduced to a claustrophobic circle of grey.
Then, he heard it. A faint whisper, carried on the wind, a sound that seemed to slither into his ears and burrow into his mind. It was a voice, but not one he recognized, a sibilant whisper that spoke in a language he didn't understand, yet somehow, he felt its meaning. It was a voice of hunger, of malice, of ancient, unfathomable power.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Elias's resolve. He wanted to turn back, to flee the suffocating embrace of the Moors, but the thought of his father, lost and alone in this nightmarish landscape, spurred him on. He pushed through the mist, his heart pounding in his chest, the whispering voice growing louder with each step.
Suddenly, the path dipped down into a shallow ravine. As Elias descended, the mist seemed to part slightly, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold. In the center of the ravine, a flickering light danced, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding trees. Drawn by an unseen force, Elias moved towards it, his fear momentarily forgotten in a morbid fascination.
As he drew closer, he saw the source of the light. It was a fire, small and struggling, built against the base of a gnarled oak. And beside the fire, slumped against the tree trunk, was a figure.
"Father?" Elias gasped, his voice cracking with relief and terror.
The figure stirred, its head slowly turning towards him. The light from the fire flickered across its face, revealing features that were both familiar and horrifyingly altered. It was his father, but his eyes were vacant, his skin pale and stretched taut over his bones, and his lips moved soundlessly, whispering words that Elias couldn't hear, but felt deep in his soul.
The whispering voice in the mist grew louder, coalescing into a chilling chorus that seemed to celebrate Elias's arrival. He was trapped, caught in a web of ancient evil, and the Moors had claimed another victim.