Dark. Cold. Silent.
The last thing Fortis Dexter remembered was finishing his meal and speaking with a client about a case. Now, as his senses returned, a question surfaced in his mind.
"Where is this?"
He looked around, but nothing seemed familiar. As confusion took hold, a thick fog began to gather before him, blurring his vision. A sense of disorientation overwhelmed him, and moments later, he lost consciousness.
---
A crow's piercing caw jolted him awake. His body was cold, and he realized he was lying on damp ground. Rising to his feet, Fortis took in his surroundings. He was enveloped in an impenetrable mist, its density reducing his visibility to mere meters.
He glanced around, hoping for a landmark, a clue—anything—but saw only the skeletal remains of a ruined castle. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint rustling of the mist.
As he moved between crumbling pillars, Fort's attention was drawn to his attire. His suit, once familiar, had been replaced with something alien: dark clothing reminiscent of the Victorian era.
Approaching a pool of water collected in a stone basin, he peered at his reflection. Relief washed over him as he confirmed his face remained the same.
"At least I haven't been thrown into someone else's body," he muttered, exhaling deeply.
Still, the strangeness of his situation gnawed at him. He patted down his "new" clothes, searching the pockets. Inside, he found an assortment of curious items:
A revolver, pristine and fully loaded with six bullets.
An iron emblem engraved with dragons and ancient symbols.
A green dagger, its blade faintly glinting even in the dim light.
A small bottle filled with swirling black-and-white liquid.
A tattered piece of paper scribbled with strange writing.
A pouch containing fifty silver coins.
But what caught his attention most was an old, weathered book. Its cover was unassuming, but it radiated a sense of hidden knowledge.
While examining these items, Fort noticed a faint light shimmering in the distance. He called out to it, but the light flickered and vanished into the mist.
Frustrated yet determined, he started walking toward where it had been. The silence of the castle was oppressive, broken only by the echo of his own footsteps.
As he pressed forward, another light appeared, further ahead. This time, he sprinted toward it, his breath clouding in the cold air. But as he closed in, the light dissolved, leaving him alone once more.
Panting, Fort slowed to a stop. He inspected the revolver, marveling at its pristine condition.
"Why does this look untouched? Who prepared this?" he wondered aloud.
His musings were interrupted by a sound: a feminine voice, whispering from within the fog.
"Posteritates tenebrarum, Posteritates Spirituum, Oculi spirituum..."
The voice was melodic, its chant eerie and foreign. Then, as if to punctuate its strangeness, soft laughter echoed, feminine and unsettling.
Fort instinctively raised his revolver, his grip tightening.
The laughter faded, replaced by a low, whispering question:
"Quid conaris, cur?"
His pulse quickened. The whispers grew, circling him, seeping into his ears. He turned in every direction, revolver poised, but saw no one.
A sudden touch on his shoulder made him whirl around, his weapon aimed at the figure behind him.
"Aah!" The person flinched, raising both hands, one of which held a torch.
Fort lowered his revolver, exhaling sharply. "My apologies," he said, his voice steady despite his racing heart.
The figure, a woman with steady eyes and an air of authority, offered a faint smile. "No harm done," she replied. "But I must ask—what are you doing here in the fog so early in the morning?"
"I got lost," Fort said, studying her carefully. "I followed a light."
Her brows furrowed briefly. "I see. I'm Callie Lignea. I guard the village outskirts during the morning and evening. And you?"
"Fortis Dexter. Call me Fort."
Callie scrutinized him for a moment before gesturing. "Follow me. It's dangerous to wander alone."
---
After some time, the pair emerged from the fog into a small village. Houses made of stone lined the cobbled streets, their windows glowing with the faint light of torches.
As they entered, Fort noticed a commotion near one of the houses. A man stood at the door, weeping uncontrollably.
Fort turned to Callie. "What happened to him?"
She exhaled deeply. "I was going to explain earlier. This village... we're plagued by something in the fog."
Fort's brow furrowed. "What kind of 'something'?"
Callie's expression darkened. "Every night, there's a knock on someone's door. If anyone opens it, they disappear. But even if no one answers, someone is taken from their home regardless."
Fort's stomach churned. "Has anyone ever returned?"
Callie shook her head solemnly. "No. Tonight, it was that man's daughter."
Fort glanced at the man, his shoulders trembling as he wept uncontrollably.
(A father who just lost his daughter...)
The sight lingered in Fort's mind as he turned away from the crowd, their murmurs and consoling voices blending into the background.
Beside him, Callie motioned for him to follow. Without a word, she led him further down the fog-shrouded path, her torch casting flickering shadows on the damp cobblestones.
---
Callie led Fort to a modest house at the village's edge. "This is an empty guest house," she said. "We maintain it for visitors, though we don't get many these days."
Fort nodded, handing her three silver coins for the night.
Before leaving, Callie hesitated. "Lock your door. And no matter what happens tonight, do not open it."
Her words lingered in Fort's mind as he entered the house. The room was simple—a combined living and sleeping area with basic furnishings.
He set his belongings on the bed, his thoughts racing. The mysterious fog, the vanishing villagers, the strange items in his possession—all of it hinted at something far darker than he cared to imagine.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Fort pulled out the old book from his pocket. Its pages were filled with strange writing. But as he stared, the symbols began to make sense.
"Latin?" he murmured in surprise.
Though he could read it, the realization unsettled him. "How do I understand their language here, but not this script until now?"
Shaking off his unease, Fort began translating the text, eager to uncover any secrets it might hold.
. . .
Meanwhile, Callie, having just left the rental house she had arranged for Fort, cast a lingering glance toward the crowded home of the grieving father.
She bit her lip, her expression clouded with frustration and disappointment.
"I've failed them again…" The thought gnawed at her as she resumed her walk, each step heavy with guilt.
(Damn those creatures!) she cursed inwardly, seething at the malevolent force that had been preying upon her village.
As she trudged through the fog, her thoughts swirling with anger and self-reproach, a voice called out from behind her.
"Callie!"
The sound was familiar, and she turned slowly, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Madam Mourch!" Callie exclaimed, her somber expression giving way to relief. "Good morning."
(Madam Mourch… thank the God of Light she's safe.)
The older woman gave a slight bow in response, her movements graceful yet tinged with weariness. "I heard another villager has gone missing," Madam Mourch said, her voice calm but laced with concern.
Callie stiffened at the question, her hands instinctively clenching at her sides. After a brief pause, she nodded, her head lowering as she replied, "Yes… it happened again."
Her tone was heavy with regret, the weight of her perceived failure etched into every word.