As the mist thickened surrounding the ship, a sickening feeling permeated deep into Bram's chest as the hairs on his arm began to stand. The weight of this terror was truly suffocating, as if it were alive. Sweat poured from his brows, stinging his eyes, but he was too consumed in this horror to wipe it off. The smell of death seeping in from the floorboards in the form of mist. Instinctively, Bram could feel that he should not go anywhere near the mist, but Solveig's scream was not something he could ignore. Bram was a coward, but still a kind soul; he still wanted to help the giantess that he had only met some time ago..
Ignoring the warning of his body, Bram dove through the main deck, hoping to get some clarity of the situation while the ominous fog was slowly covering the face of the ship. He could feel its pull on his body, drawing the strength from his limbs, as if warning of something worse to come when he tried to enter the fog. His very soul now burning as he dove further into the mist, the horrifying scene unfolded. Bram, now in the epicenter of the fog, was the closest to Solveig. "Solveig!" Bram called, his voice hoarse from the stifling air. She didn't respond.
He pushed forward, his legs trembling with every step. When he reached her, his heart dropped. She was kneeling, her breaths ragged, her hands clutching her arm. At first, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing, his mind refusing to accept the grotesque reality before him.
Her left hand was gone. In its place were stark white bones, glistening with remnants of melted flesh. The flesh of her arm seemed to drip away, dissolving into the mist with a faint sizzle.
"It's the fog, boy. Do not stay here. Go warn the others before it's too late," Solveig said, mustering whatever strength she now had. The pain was overwhelming her. He saw the giantess stumble as she tried to muster up some strength to stand at least. But Bram realized that it was too late for him. He was now at the heart of the fog. His heart dropped, knowing it was hopeless. If the giantess got caught up in the skin-eating fog, then what chance did he have?
His heart sank as her words sank in. The tendrils of the fog now like snakes loomed closer, as if it were alive. The mist surrounded Bram. Hope is lost, he thought, but surprisingly, Bram only felt a prickling sensation in his skin. The mist couldn't get through his skin.
"Heed my call, cursed gale!"
Suddenly, a gust of air blew past Bram and Solveig, clearing a small pathway to them. Bram didn't understand what was going on, but he knew this was the moment they had to escape. Having no way of carrying the giantess, he opted to drag her to the storage area where the path seemed to be calling to.
Bram tightened his grip on Solveig, a fire of determination in his eyes. Bram had spent his whole life with nothing. He was not going to stop now. Whatever the trials, he would brave it.
"Bram, get inside, brat!"
Bram entered the dimly lit storage area, all while dragging Solveig, who now seemed unconscious at least. The dust-filled walls of wood and the smell of rust permeated heavily. Broken casks littered the floor, but Bram could not notice any of this because he was now shocked from relief. He survived whatever that was. He was in one piece.
"It's too early to be relieved now, Bram. The fog is still approaching us. It's only a matter of time," Arcia spoke while examining Solveig's hand, which was now only bones.
Taking out an ornate dagger that had four gemstones of four different colors embedded into the hilt, she chanted, "Heed my call, cursed light."
As Arcia slowly knelt beside her, the blade slowly shimmered with radiant white light that seemed to calm the atmosphere down. Solveig let out a small growl, pain fluttering in her eyes.
"She's stopping the bleeding," Orden whispered. The light weaving through her flesh like threads of silver, the blood pooling around her arm now stopped entirely. Bram, now in awe of what he had seen, this is what must have summoned the gale that made them the escape route and now stopping the bleeding. He was sure of it. This was magic. The one in the stories he had heard as a child. His goal now seemed more realistic than ever to Bram.
"Unfortunately, it cannot regenerate her flesh," Arcia said sorrowfully. "But at least it will help her from bleeding out and ease the pain for now."
"Thank you, little lady," Solveig said after letting out a shaky breath as she tried to gather strength in her legs to sit. "Thank you too, little man. You are stronger than you look, being able to drag me here. I will not forget this," she said, trying to put on a brave face. Deep down, Bram understood that although the giantess was strong, pain was still something every human hated and feared.
Bram, wanting to ask about the magical dagger, controlled himself as they had a much harrowing situation to face. The fog was now visible through the closed holds door, slowly slithering its way to them, almost seemingly alive and predatory. Bram was now deep in thought. He wasn't effected by the fog even though he was in the center of it, while Solveig was effected. What made it so? What made him resist?
"Could it be that I am immune to magic?" he thought quickly, dismissing the idiotic thought, trying to think of a much more practical answer. The lazy Solveig was effected.
Solveig's situation struck him like a bolt of lightning. She had been lounging on the deck when the fog reached her. The trial wasn't about immunity to magic—it was about movement, about effort.
Bram's voice was tight as he spoke, his thoughts aligning rapidly. "Solveig… you were napping when it hit you, weren't you?"
The giantess's gaze snapped to him, confused but alert. "Yeah, so what?"
"It's not random," Bram said, his voice rising with conviction. "The fog targets idleness. It's punishing inactivity."
"The answers to completing the trials were in the myths," this sentence ran through Bram's mind. The more he thought about it, the more it clicked.
"The myth about the lazy man and his wife."
Bram, in a moment of eureka, finally understood how to survive the mist.
"The myth about the lazy man?" What does that have anything to do with our current predicament?" Arcia asked with doubt and slight anger.
"Oh, but it does, my lady. The answer is simple once you understand."
The myth of the lazy man and his wife."
Once, there was a man so lazy that he did nothing but lie in the shade while others worked. His fields were barren, his home crumbled, and he begged for food rather than lifting a hand. His idleness angered the gods, who decided to teach him a lesson.
They gifted him a wife of extraordinary beauty, but with a condition: the moment he stopped working, she would begin to eat him.
At first, the man was overjoyed. To keep her happy, he tilled the soil, repaired his house, and hunted in the woods. But one day, tired from labor, he rested under a tree. At once, his wife's eyes darkened, her teeth grew sharp, and her voice turned cold.
"You've stopped," she said sweetly, stepping closer.
Terrified, the man leapt up and resumed his work, and her beauty returned. From that moment, he worked tirelessly, never daring to rest. The villagers marveled at his transformation but never knew the truth.
When he died, his wife vanished, leaving only whispers in the wind. To this day, people say laziness invites punishment, for even the sweetest blessings can hide the sharpest teeth.
Bram stood frozen, his mind whirling. The myth of the lazy man, once a tale told to scare children into working hard, now seemed more than a mere story. It had been something whispered in passing, perhaps from an old woman, a grandmother's lullaby, or a village elder's warning. Yet now, in the midst of this trial, the pieces clicked into place.
He remembered it clearly now, not just as a random myth but as a warning wrapped in a lesson—one that had been tied to this very moment. The lazy man, who stopped working and was consumed by his own inaction, was not merely a figure of caution. The gods had made a deal with him, a pact born from his indifference, and now, it seemed, that very lesson had returned.
The fog, the trial, the sweating—everything was connected. It wasn't just about physical labor or endurance; it was about the essence of effort, of action. The gods had crafted this trial, perhaps for those who dared to be lazy or to question the cost of their own.
The fog, the trial, the sweating—everything was connected. It wasn't just about physical labor or endurance; it was about the essence of effort, of action. The gods had crafted this trial, perhaps for those who dared to be lazy or to question the cost of their own complacency. Bram, in his silent thoughtfulness, realized that while Solveig had stopped—perhaps too still or too passive—he, for reasons unknown, had continued. He hadn't slowed, hadn't given in to the fog's oppressive pull.
Could it be that his constant motion, his desire to keep fighting even when exhausted, had kept him safe? Was it true that only those who stopped—those who gave in to lethargy—would fall victim to the trial?
Bram's heart pounded as the myth, now woven into the fabric of reality, clicked into his consciousness. His survival here, his resistance to the mist, was not random.
Bram's mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, but still, the important part seemed elusive.
What gave him the immunity he had? Two possibilities came to mind: his heart rate or sweat. It was either the heart rate—the rapid heart rate which did not drop from the moment he stopped unloading the boxes—and the heart rate that kept rising as he saw Solveig and the horrifying reality that unfolded, or sweat. Sweat was the other possibility, as he was covered in sweat from the moment he saw the fog and saved Solveig. Whatever it was, the constant motion he had in this moment was key. The way to survive the man-eating fog was constant motion that must not be undeterred.
Bram took a steadying breath, his gaze flickering between Arcia, Solveig, and Orden. The fog was close now, pressing in, slithering under the door and creeping along the floor like a living thing. He knew they didn't have much time.
"I think I know how to stop this," he said, his voice firm, though his mind still buzzed with uncertainty.
Arcia looked up from where she was tending to Solveig's hand, her expression skeptical. "What do you mean? You're saying you know what's causing this?"
Bram nodded, trying to hold their attention, but his eyes kept flickering toward the fog, which was now crawling up the walls. "This fog... it's not just a natural phenomenon. It's connected to an old myth—the one about the lazy man and the gods' punishment."
Solveig winced at the mention of the myth, her eyes glazed from the pain, but she listened intently.
Bram took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "The gods punished the lazy man by giving him a wife who would eat him if he stopped working—if he didn't sweat, if he rested. That's what's happening here. The moment you stop moving, the fog will consume you. It's not about magic. It's about effort. The key is to keep moving—keep working."
Arcia furrowed her brows, clearly not fully convinced. "You're saying that... sweating will stop the fog?"
Bram nodded urgently, glancing at the mist as it slowly pushed its way under the door, darker and more suffocating. "Yes, either the heartbeat or sweat. It's one of those, but the way I see it, the only way to fight this is to keep pushing. To never stop."
Orden, standing by the edge of the room, crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing with distrust. "Stop spewing nonsense, brat. And why should we trust you? You've barely been here longer than we have, and now you're telling us it's all connected to a story? A myth?"
Bram could feel the weight of Orden's skepticism, but there was no time to argue. He could see the fog creeping closer, and it was growing harder to ignore the chill in the air. He made a snap decision. He would show them, not with words, but with action.
"Fine, if you don't believe me, then I'll prove it," Bram said, his voice sharp, his eyes fixed on the fog. "I'll do it myself."