The mist was cold against his skin, cold enough to seep into his bones if he'd let it. Ethan could feel his breath speeding up; he could feel the way it bunched into his chest as he tried to push away the unease that threatened to suffocate him. His own heartbeat beat in his ears. And with each step, the weight grew heavier, as if the ground itself was trying not to let him go.
Beside him, Amara moved with practiced precision, her sharp eyes scanning the fog like she expected to find an ambush behind every shadow. Her weapon stayed steady, gripped tightly, although the weight of their journey was already bearing down on her. Ethan could see the tension in her—she wasn't nearly so calm as she made herself out to be.
"We're being watched," Ethan whispered, his voice low.
Amara said nothing right away. Her face was taut, her lips pursed in a tight line. She kept staring forward into the mist, her bright eyes piercing right through it. "Here, everybody is watched," she said finally, in a voice as unforgiving as the mist.
Ethan let out a breath, his fingers tightening in his own. His mind was restless. He couldn't stop thinking about the voice from earlier - the voice that had seemed to come from nowhere, smooth and mechanical, yet somehow ancient and terrifying all the same. *The observer.* What did it mean? What were the gates, and why did they feel like they'd crossed a point of no return?
He tried to blot his thoughts, focusing on how to get one foot ahead of the other, but the air felt too still, too alive. He could almost hear whispers in the fog, though there was nothing there.
"Do you think the voice was lying?" Ethan asked his words hesitant.
Amara's face was still set, but she glanced at him briefly.
"Lying about what?"
"About *everything.* About the gates, the truth, the consequences." His voice cracked a little. "I don't know if we can trust anything we hear anymore."
She furrows her brow. "The voice wasn't trying to trick us, Ethan. Not at first, not exactly. But I definitely believe it was trying to judge us. To see what we would do. Every move we make in here means something, even when we don't know that it's so.
Just in time for him to respond, a small noise cut through the mist. It was soft and low and rhythmic—a gentle *thud-thud-thud* that made his heart ride back in over. His hand went back to his weapon instinctively. His muscles tensed up, readied.
"Did you hear that?" Ethan said, tightening his grip on the weapon.
Amara's hand was already signalling fingers sharp in the air, signalling him to stay low and quiet. Together, they both crouched beside a jagged outcropping of stone that jutted from the ground: mist pooling ominously around them. Ethan felt he could catch his breath right in his throat. All of his body seemed living with anticipation.
He can hear it clearer now - the sound came closer-and each beat of whatever made him spin into a pit of panic.
"It's humanoid," he whispered, hard to catch. "Too steady to be natural."
Amara slowly nodded, her own weapon poised ready but steady. "Stay low," she said for the second time.
The sound continued to creep closer with each step. Ethan hardly breathed. His fingers gripped his weapon tighter. He could feel the pulse pounding in his hands, his head, every nerve ending. He hated this feeling-being hunted, being *watched.* It felt like being stripped bare, vulnerable, exposed.
Figures emerged out of the fog--two at first, then another. They were somewhat human in form but moved with an unnatural strangeness, almost as if in slow motion and with an air of mechanical deliberateness. He could almost hear them breathing, though he wasn't sure if it was imagination. He could focus now, and dim outlines started to emerge-limbs and shifting forms and shadows which walked as if alive and yet alien.
"Are they robots?" Ethan asked, his voice strained.
Amara shook her head, not taking her eyes off the figures. "No. Not exactly. They are alive, but they move as though engineered—a mix of machine and organic."
Ethan could feel his heart beating harder. The figures continued to move slowly in the fog. Ethan wondered if they could see him, if they knew he was there, but neither of them had moved. His breath felt rough as he tried to keep his fear from building in his chest.
"What are they doing?" Ethan asked, his voice tight.
Amara said nothing. Her face was set in concentration, her gun steady and her shoulders tensed. They were not yet in view yet-still half-hidden in the fog, but moving closer with every passing second. Ethan felt time slow around him, his mind pulling him in a thousand directions.
"Stay here," Amara whispered suddenly. "Don't move."
Ethan felt herself stiffen. He was sure that eyes upon him lay sharp and hard, but he could not raise a word. "Wait, what are you—"
She hadn't let one more word come out before she darted forward into the mist. Ethan's heart plunged as panic started coursing through his body.
"What in the world are you?" He hissed, but there was no reply.
He remained crouched, holding his weapon tight, but his nerves were fraying. His breath came harder. What was she thinking? Was she going to confront them? His thoughts spiralled, his body trembling as his fear and confusion pulled him into chaos.
And then, from the fog, a voice came.
It wasn't the smooth, mechanical voice from earlier. This one was louder, more visceral, more alive.
"Who comes here? "
Ethan's blood quit. His eyes opened so wide that he could feel the pulse pounding in his throat. His hand gripped his weapon like he was holding on for dear life.
Amara stepped forward again into the mist, her face taut, voice steady. "We are travelers. We did not come to injure anyone."
The voice returned, this time harder-edged, cutting through the fog like a sharp blade.
"You shouldn't have come," it said.
Ethan and Amara turned to each other. The fog breathed; it was alive, suffocating, every word a burden on their shoulders.
"We did not know," Ethan tried to steady his voice.
The voice lingered, growing heavier in the air. Ethan felt something inside him that this wasn't just a warning but an unveiling.
"Knowledge costs," the voice said again, soft this time.
And as the words hung in the air, he felt this strange feeling in his chest—as if something old, cold, a decision to be made and all the uncertainty of what lay beyond.
They had to decide.
And the mist waited.