The horizon was nothing but ruin—a jagged line of shattered spires stabbing upward into a blood-red sky. Servius trudged forward, the weight of the Warp pressing against him as though it were a living thing. The ever-shifting ground beneath his boots alternated between firm stone and oozing sludge, forcing him to stay alert with every step. He hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, though the concept of time had lost all meaning in this cursed place.

  Then he saw it—a thick, pale mist rolling in from the far side of the desolate expanse. It spread quickly, a living tide that swallowed the landscape. Servius slowed, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the fog. It was unnatural, moving against the nonexistent wind, curling and coiling as if it had purpose.

  He sighed quietly, muttering to himself, “I suppose it’d be too much to hope for a quiet stroll.”

  Still, there was no other path forward. The fog was coming, and avoiding it seemed impossible. His grip tightened on his knife as he stepped into the haze, the oppressive silence closing in around him.

  At first, the fog was merely an inconvenience. It wrapped around him, cold and damp, reducing visibility to only a few meters. Every sound he made—his boots crunching on gravel, his breathing—was muted, swallowed by the mist. Even the dim, ever-shifting glow of the Warp’s twisted sky was gone, replaced by a sickly, grayish pallor.

  “Keep moving,” he muttered to himself, his voice a thin thread in the silence. “Keep your wits about you.”

  But the silence began to shift. Faint whispers drifted on the air, soft and fragmented, just loud enough to tease the edges of his hearing. Servius paused, tilting his head as his ears twitched instinctively. He couldn’t make out words, only the unsettling cadence of voices overlapping—layered and discordant, yet somehow familiar.

  He forced himself to press on, his pulse quickening as the whispers grew louder, more distinct.

  “Servius…” one voice murmured, stretched and hollow.

  He froze. His tail flicked once behind him. That voice—he knew it. His mind raced as he tried to place it. It sounded like a comrade from years ago… someone who had died in his arms. The memory flickered in his mind, vivid and raw. But that was impossible. The dead didn’t usually whisper in the fog.

  “You left us,” another voice said, sharp and accusing. This one, too, was familiar—a friend turned foe, a soldier who had betrayed their unit for personal gain. The words cut like a knife. “You always leave, don’t you?”

  “Show yourself,” Servius announced, his voice low but steady. “If you want to talk, come and talk.”

  The fog responded with laughter—soft at first, then louder, overlapping and echoing like a cruel chorus. Shadows began to form in the mist, faint and flickering, their movements fluid and unnatural. Servius turned in place, his blade at the ready, his eyes scanning the fog for anything tangible. But the figures were never still, never solid. They darted at the edges of his vision, always just out of reach.

  A shape stepped forward, coalescing from the mist. It was a soldier—an Imperial stormtrooper, clad in familiar carapace armor, the kind worn by his regiment. The man’s helmet was missing, and his face was unmistakable. It was Anders, one of Servius’ closest comrades from the early days of the campaign on Chimir. Anders had died in a firefight, buying time for Servius and the rest of the squad to escape.

  “You let me die,” Anders said, his voice calm but cold. His eyes bore into Servius, unblinking. “And for what? So you could drag out this miserable excuse for a life?”

  Servius stiffened, his mouth a thin line. “You died with honor, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have come back to whine about it.”

  Anders’ expression didn’t change. He raised a hand, pointing at Servius. “You’re the one who keeps running. Running from death. Running from your failure. How many have you left behind, Servius? How many names do you carry?”

  Another shadow emerged from the fog—a larger figure this time, its features distorted. It spoke in a guttural, warped voice that rang with authority. “Is that why you fight, Cat? To run from the guilt? Or do you fight because it’s the only thing left for you?”

  Servius took a step back, his knife glowing faintly in his hand. The air felt heavier now, as though the fog itself were pressing down on him. “If you’re trying to make me feel something, you’ll have to try harder than that,” he said dryly, though his voice carried a brittle edge.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The larger figure laughed—a deep, grating sound that seemed to shake the very ground. “This is no trick, Servius. These are your ghosts, and they walk with you always. Deny them if you wish, but they are yours.”

  The fog writhed like a living thing, tightening its grip on Servius as he trudged forward. The voices were louder now, overlapping whispers that gnawed at his resolve. Yet one voice rose above the rest, piercing and clear.

  “Servius…”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart lurching in his chest. That voice—it was unmistakable. Soft yet weary, tinged with the kind of exhaustion that only came from carrying too much for too long.

  “Einsthrawl?” he murmured, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.

  The mists ahead began to part, revealing a figure standing motionless in the gloom. Sabine. Her face was exactly as he remembered—sharp yet tired, with dark circles under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. She wore her uniform, though it was tattered and stained, and her expression was a strange mix of sorrow and quiet reproach.

  Servius stiffened, his fingers brushing instinctively against the handle of his pistol. “You’re not real,” he said, his tone flat but brittle. “Another trick to make me give in to something?”

  Sabine tilted her head, a faint, ghostly smile flickering across her lips. “A trick?” she said softly. “Is that all I was to you?”

  Her words hit him harder than he cared to admit. He forced himself to look away, his tail flicking once behind him. “You’re dead,” he muttered. “And you didn’t even give us the chance to help you.”

  Sabine took a step closer, the fog curling around her feet like a second skin. “Help me?” she asked, her tone laced with bitterness. “You think you could have helped, Servius? When you couldn’t even help yourself?”

  He flinched, his grip tightening on the grip of his pistol. “You don’t get to blame me for what happened. I wasn’t the one who pushed you to—”

  “To what?” Sabine interrupted, her voice rising sharply. “To break? To end it? Do you think I wanted to? Do you think I wanted to give up?”

  Servius turned back to face her, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You could’ve fought, Sabine. We all fight. Every damn day.”

  Sabine let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cutting. “And what has it gotten you?” she asked, gesturing to the swirling mists around them. “You’re here, Servius. Alone. Surrounded by ghosts and whispers. Fighting for what? What’s left for you?”

  He opened his mouth to respond but found that no words came. Sabine took another step closer, her gaze boring into his.

  “You think you’re strong because you keep going,” she said quietly. “But you’re just like me. You’re tired, Servius. Tired of the fighting, the betrayal, the endless grind. And one day, you’ll break too. Just like I did.”

  Servius felt himself wavering, his grip on the gun slackening. The exhaustion that had been building within him for what felt like an eternity threatened to overwhelm him, dragging him down into the mists.

  But then he looked at Sabine—really looked at her. He saw the sadness in her eyes, the weight she had carried until it crushed her. And he realized that this was not Sabine. Not the woman he had fought beside, laughed with, trusted. This was a shadow, a mockery, twisted by the Warp to prey on his fears.

  “You’re not her,” he said, his voice steady now.

  Sabine blinked, her expression faltering. “Servius—”

  “No,” he said, cutting her off. He stepped forward, his knife now glowing faintly in his hand. “Sabine was stronger than this. She broke because this galaxy is broken. But she didn’t drag anyone else down with her. You’re just a parasite.”

  The fog around him seemed to recoil, the whispers faltering. Sabine’s face twisted, her features warping into something inhuman. Her voice, once soft and familiar, became a guttural snarl.

  “You’ll break,” she hissed. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Maybe,” Servius said, his tail flicking as he raised his knife. “But not now.”

  With a swift motion, he slashed through the shadow of Sabine, the mist exploding into a torrent of wind and whispers. The fog began to dissipate, the oppressive weight lifting as the figures in the mist dissolved into nothingness.

  Servius stood alone in the clearing, his breathing ragged, his body trembling from the effort. The silence that followed was almost deafening, the absence of the whispers leaving a hollow ache in his chest.

  He glanced down at his knife, its glow fading, and let out a slow, steady breath. “I don’t know if I’ll break,” he muttered to himself. “But I’ll decide when that happens. Not you. Not anyone else.”

  He sheathed the knife and began walking again, the ruined landscape stretching out before him. The fog was gone, but its weight lingered, a reminder of the ghosts he carried—and the ones he refused to let define him.