The dilapidated building seemed to stand upright out of sheer defiance, a precarious assembly of blackened planks and reddish stones. The walls, eaten away by fungi and invasive mold, allowed the wind to whistle through gaping cracks.

  The door creaked as it opened, revealing a suffocating and dim interior. The air, heavy with the rancid smell of beer and sweat, clung to the nostrils like an invisible threat.

  Beneath his boots, a floor of packed dirt mixed with filthy straw crunched softly, littered with debris and dried mud stains. Wobbly tables and benches, stained and poorly crafted, were scattered in a nearly chaotic disarray.

  On the walls, only a few tanned hides broke the grimy emptiness, while flickering candles and smoky torches cast dancing shadows like specters.

  Behind a soiled counter, a stocky old man watched with his gaze lowered. The innkeeper looked as worn as the establishment he inhabited.

  — “Do you have the coin, Rouis?” Barca asked, his tone shakier than he had intended.

  His hand gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening under the strain, as though seeking support to keep himself steady. A drop of sweat, cold despite the stifling heat of the room, slid down his spine.

  With a sudden movement, he grabbed a bottle from the shelf. The glass clattered against the wooden counter, releasing a splash of brown liquid that pooled into a sticky puddle, emitting an acrid smell. Barca carefully avoided Rouis’s gaze, fixing his eyes instead on the puddle as if it held an escape route.

  — “Drink it and go…”

  Rouis, unperturbed, took the glass between his fingers and slowly swirled it. A thin, sharp smile stretched across his lips. He raised the glass to his mouth and drank it down in one gulp, his expression unwavering, the bitterness of the alcohol drawing barely a furrow of his brow.

  Barca, on the other hand, trembled. His sweaty hands nervously grazed the bottles within his reach, searching for something to do. Rouis tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the innkeeper’s.

  He let the silence settle, sharp as a blade hanging over its prey.

  — “Thanks for the drink,” he finally murmured.

  The tone, light and almost friendly, sent a chill through Barca greater than any explicit threat could have. Rouis straightened up, his imposing silhouette casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the old man’s. With a mocking smile, he turned on his heels.

  Barely out of the bar, Rouis felt the darkness envelop him like a damp, icy cloak. Every uneven cobblestone under his boots seemed to conspire against him, their grime-slick surfaces faintly reflecting the sparse flickers of light. The air, heavy with the stench of rot and spoiled meat, clawed at his lungs, thick and suffocating.

  In the corners, mounds of refuse shifted imperceptibly, revealing massive rats whose robust bodies slid through the debris with unsettling ease. One paused briefly, its red eyes gleaming in the gloom, before vanishing into a crack in the wall.

  The facades of the buildings oozed with moisture, rivulets of filth tracing erratic paths down the blackened stones. Through gaping windows, flickering shadows hinted at deserted interiors haunted by silence.

  The wind whistled, making the rusted signs of abandoned shops creak. Tattered clothes hanging from sagging lines flapped feebly, like flags of surrender in this forsaken quarter. Farther ahead, dingy taverns opened their black mouths, swallowing staggering figures without question.

  Rouis moved forward, his eyes scanning the deserted alleys. His hand, almost instinctively, brushed the hilt of his sword—a reassuring gesture amid the familiar chaos. Suddenly, at the corner of a narrow street, a shadow slipped by, swift and elusive. He slowed, his muscles tensing slightly. In this part of town, real danger never announced itself—it waited in silence.

  A faint, flickering light, barely visible through a broken window, caught Rouis’s attention. It danced in his memory for a moment, rekindling an image he hadn’t summoned in years.

  — émilie…

  His little sister twirled around candles, her bare feet skimming the floor with the effortless grace of a carefree child. Her hands, smeared with wax, flitted through the air as she laughed at her own wonder. The flames danced with her, casting shadows that seemed to breathe life into the walls of their home.

  Their mother, sitting nearby, would burst into that crystalline laughter capable of dispelling even the heaviest clouds. Her eyes shone with a brilliance Rouis had never seen elsewhere, a mix of strength and tenderness that could transform an ordinary moment into an unforgettable memory.

  A fleeting but painful warmth surged through his chest. That memory, so sweet, belonged to a world he no longer recognized. The darkness of the alleys seemed to press in around him, but he clung to the memory, like a shipwrecked man clutching a lifeline.

  — Why did I let that light fade? he wondered briefly, before shaking the thought away. The night did not forgive distractions.

  His still-numb legs pulled him back to the present. He moved forward, but a cold sweat traced a line down his spine, sticking his coat to his skin. Each step seemed louder than the last, amplified by the silence that wrapped itself around the place.

  Rouis scanned his surroundings, his eyes skimming over grimy walls and boarded-up windows. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a movement. Yet the feeling, that creeping sensation of being watched, intensified, seeping into his mind like a wave of black ink. He quickened his pace slightly, his senses sharpened to the edge.

  At the entrance of a narrower alley, he hesitated. The space was so confined that the walls, oozing with damp and mold, seemed ready to close in on him. A sliver of sky, barely visible, traced a pale fissure through the darkness. He stepped into the oppressive corridor, each step an effort. The facades, covered in crumbling plaster and rotting wood, emitted an acrid stench that clung to his throat.

  The windows, barricaded with nailed planks, stared back at him like empty sockets.

  No place to hide, no alcove to pause. Everything here was exposed, as though the alley itself was daring him to continue. The few abandoned storefronts, their signs eaten away by mold, resembled carcasses, locked in a state of eternal decay.

  A sudden crack broke the silence. Rouis froze, his breath shallow, his gaze sweeping through the shifting shadows. Nothing. But his heart pounded in his chest like a frenzied drum. Something was there—he could feel it—lurking in the darkness, waiting for its moment.

  — "I know you're there!" Rouis shouted, his voice echoing faintly before being swallowed by the thick, eerie silence.

  The mist came without warning, as if the ground itself had exhaled a foul breath. It erupted suddenly, spreading in a dense, shifting veil that swallowed everything in its path. The air grew heavy with an acrid, stagnant smell, reminiscent of a cellar where mold and decay had long taken hold. Each breath felt heavier than the last, filling his lungs with a sticky sensation and leaving a metallic taste lingering at the back of his throat.

  It slithered along the ground, sinuous, coiling around his boots and climbing in thick tendrils up his legs. It wasn’t still; it moved, undulated, pressed against him, then withdrew, as if it were alive—curious or malevolent. At moments, he thought he felt a faint pressure against his skin, a cold, damp caress that vanished as quickly as it came.

  Rouis tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Around him, the mist seemed to devour everything—the ground, the walls, even the sky. Every contour was swallowed by the shifting whiteness, leaving behind an oppressive void. He tried to orient himself, but every direction looked the same, as though this sea of fog was intent on engulfing him. A cold sweat slid down his neck. He didn’t move, but a shiver ran down his spine.

  Then came the sounds. At first barely audible, almost like whispers, then clearer: footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Uneven. They echoed faintly, as if from some distant place, but the thick air seemed to draw them closer with each passing moment. The uncertain rhythm of the steps heightened his unease—a tempo too erratic to belong to anything truly alive.

  Rouis drew his sword in a swift motion, the blade hissing sharply before sinking into the silent embrace of the mist. He stood ready, weapon raised, but a fleeting thought crossed his mind: this mist wasn’t just an obstacle. It was aware, almost watchful. It encircled him like a predator toying with its prey, seeking to cloud his senses.

  At the edge of his vision, he thought he saw something move—a shadow, or perhaps a form even darker than the mist itself. But every time he tried to focus on the movement, it vanished, swallowed by the white expanse. Was it his imagination, or was the mist deliberately deceiving him?

  He remained still, his muscles taut, as the air around him seemed to grow heavier. It felt suffocating, not from a lack of oxygen, but from the oppressive weight of this malevolent atmosphere. Yet he refused to move further, his senses sharpened to their limit, waiting for the slightest sign. Something was approaching, and he knew he wouldn’t be alone for much longer.

  At last, a silhouette emerged. At first blurry, it gradually grew sharper, its contours cutting through the shifting haze. A hunched old man, dressed in a black top hat, advanced with a slow but deliberate stride. His movements were so measured they seemed almost calculated, and his face, etched with deep wrinkles, bore gray spots that appeared and vanished with the flicker of the shadows.

  Morven.

  — "I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Rouis," said Morven, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth.

  His gaze locked onto Rouis’s, but it wasn’t just a simple exchange of looks. It felt probing, as though Morven were digging into something deeper, rifling through his very thoughts. Rouis felt a tension building in his chest, the unsettling sensation of being examined from within, but he betrayed nothing.

  — "You’re lucky to meet me in the flesh," he retorted with a light, almost mocking smile. Yet the faint tightening of his fingers around the hilt of his sword betrayed his heightened alertness.

  — "I need you for a mission," Morven said, his voice resonating through the mist.

  There was something hypnotic about his tone—a softness, almost musical, each word rolling off his tongue with a captivating fluidity. Yet beneath that perfection lurked a subtle discord, an imperceptible tremor or strange resonance that sent a shiver through Rouis. It wasn’t a natural voice; it felt crafted, engineered, like an auditory mask meant to charm or manipulate. And yet, something was off—an anomaly, difficult to pinpoint but impossible to ignore.

  Morven tilted his head slightly, a movement of mechanical precision, almost too fluid to seem natural. Then, without a word, he turned slightly, revealing another figure in the mist.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Draxis.

  The albino giant stepped forward with a heavy tread. Each step landed with a faint resonance, absorbed by the thick, shifting air. His massive form seemed to emerge from the mist itself, a spectral figure in the endless whiteness. His skin, so pale it was nearly translucent, reflected the last traces of light, giving him the appearance of a statue carved from living marble—smooth, yet deeply fissured.

  The scars crisscrossing his face etched irregular, unsettling lines, as if some cruel artist had tried to reshape him, only to abandon the work in a fit of senseless rage. His lips, stitched shut with thick black threads, formed a grotesque and unmoving line—a mask of silence betraying no words, no emotion.

  But it was his eyes that captivated. Bright and unblinking, they seemed to absorb everything: the light, Rouis’s gaze, and perhaps even a piece of his confidence. Those narrow sockets radiated a cold, disarming intensity, like a void pulling in any attempt to understand. Rouis turned his eyes away, more out of survival instinct than conscious choice.

  Draxis didn’t utter a word. He extended a massive hand, gnarled and rough, as if carved from ancient bark. With a slow but precise motion, he tossed a leather pouch. The dull thud it made upon landing in Rouis’s hands echoed faintly, stretching unnaturally, the sound reverberating in the air like something unreal.

  The pouch’s leather, cracked and worn, bore the scars of a long journey or many trials. A faint scent of heated metal and damp earth wafted from it.

  Rouis opened it. A golden glow spilled out, briefly dancing across his tense features. The coins inside, radiant and pristine, gleamed with an intensity that seemed too perfect, almost unreal in the suffocating gloom.

  — "Consider this an advance," Morven said, his voice smooth as velvet. "You’ll receive three more once the mission is complete."

  This time, his tone slipped into Rouis’s ears with a silkiness that sent a shiver down his spine. Yet it left behind a strange sensation, like a dissonant note hidden within an otherwise flawless melody. The echo of his words lingered in the air, swirling with the mist.

  — "I accept," Rouis replied firmly, though his thoughts remained alert, swirling as restlessly as the mist around him.

  Morven inclined his head again, the gesture as precise and identical as before. The repetition, almost unnaturally perfect, carried an enigmatic weight, like a puzzle with no solution. Without another word, he turned away. His movement was so fluid it seemed as though he floated, as if the laws of physics held little sway over him. Draxis followed, his immense bulk advancing with a measured slowness, each step leaving a vibrant imprint in the air, like an echo etched into the mist.

  The mist came alive immediately. It didn’t just surround them—it embraced them, coiling around their figures with deliberate slowness, almost lovingly. Each wisp seemed to caress, test, before fully enveloping them. As it thickened, their outlines blurred, dissolving into this spectral shroud. It was like watching a canvas fade, its lines vanishing under an invisible, silent rain.

  Morven disappeared first, his body fading gently, as though drawn into an unseen abyss. Draxis, larger and more imposing, lingered a moment longer, his shadow defying the mist until the very end. Then, only his eyes remained—two glowing points, suspended in the air like isolated beacons. They flickered faintly, seeming to regard Rouis one last time, before extinguishing, swallowed by the void.

  The mist closed over them with a solemn slowness, like the waters of a lake swallowing a thrown stone. But something lingered. Rouis thought he heard a sound—a faint murmur, barely a breath. Was it a final message or just a remnant of the moment?

  Impossible to tell. The sound faded quickly, leaving behind an oppressive void, a silence so heavy it seemed to crush the space around him.

  Frozen in place, Rouis didn’t move immediately. His fingers brushed the pouch, as though to confirm it was real.

  The air suddenly felt lighter, but the sensation wasn’t comforting. It felt hollow, artificial, as if masking a void, an absence. Rouis inhaled slowly, his breath briefly mingling with the mist before vanishing.

  His movements were slow, almost cautious, as he fastened the pouch to his belt. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it was just a facade. Beneath the surface, a dull tension gripped his spine. His thoughts wandered to Falk’s tavern, where he could already imagine the comforting burn of alcohol.

  Yet a cold shiver crept up his spine, lingering at the base of his neck like an invisible hand. It wasn’t just the chill of the night or the strangeness of the moment. It was something else. The mist itself seemed to have left a mark on him, an invisible imprint.

  He inhaled again, trying to dispel the unease, but it clung to him.

  Falk, once a feared highwayman, had traded his sword for an apron. Yet despite his new life, a part of him remained perpetually alert. Every movement, every glance betrayed a man accustomed to watching, assessing risks, and reacting before things spiraled out of control. He didn’t need words or weapons to command respect. Even when scrubbing burnt pans or lining up tankards on the counter, a quiet tension radiated from him—a tacit reminder of who he had been.

  The idea of Falk playing the perfect homemaker drew a mocking smile from Rouis.

  The tavern was a squat block with blackened walls, standing like a bastion defying time. Inside, the lantern light fought against the ambient darkness, casting shifting shadows on the weary faces of the patrons. The smells of roasted meat and warm beer filled the air, while conversations and laughter created a din that was almost soothing.

  But as Rouis crossed the threshold, something shifted. The laughter faltered, glances darted away, and a subtle tension settled over the room.

  Two men seated at the table he aimed for immediately left when their eyes met his. Rouis dropped into the chair with a heavy thud, a smug, almost insolent grin playing on his lips. He surveyed the room. The serving women bustled between tables, but none dared meet his gaze. Eventually, one approached after he called her over, dragging her feet with palpable nervousness.

  — “Two whiskeys and the day’s meal,” he ordered without looking at her.

  — “Yes… right away,” she stammered before hurrying off, nearly running.

  Falk appeared soon after, emerging from the crowd like an imposing shadow. His clenched fists and piercing glare betrayed a simmering anger.

  — “Get out, Rouis. You haven’t paid the last few times,” he growled.

  Rouis pulled a gold coin from his pouch and tossed it toward Falk. It spun in the air before landing in the innkeeper’s palm.

  — “Satisfied?” Rouis asked nonchalantly.

  Falk didn’t respond. He slammed his fist onto the table, making its surface tremble. Rouis opened his mouth to reply, but Falk had already turned away, leaving behind a palpable tension.

  Shortly after, the server returned with his meal and two glasses. Rouis downed them in one go, relishing the familiar burn of the alcohol, before turning his attention to the lamb on his plate.

  His respite was short-lived. An inebriated man, swaying unsteadily, placed a heavy hand on the waitress’s backside.

  Anger flared within Rouis, swift and unrelenting. He rose in a flash, crossing the room with determined strides.

  — “You’ve got a problem?” he asked, his voice sharp as a blade.

  The bald man turned, a mocking smile on his lips. But before he could answer, one of his companions placed a hand on his shoulder.

  — “That’s Rouis…” the man murmured, a warning.

  The bald man spat on the ground. Without hesitation, Rouis struck, his fist crashing into the man’s temple with a dull thud. The body collapsed, limp, a thin trickle of blood running from his ear.

  His companions sprang to their feet. Rouis dodged one blow and retaliated with a punch to the second man’s liver, folding him in half before he crumpled to the floor.

  A sharp crack sounded behind him. Pain exploded in his back, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His attacker lunged, but Rouis reacted instinctively, landing a brutal punch to the man’s jaw.

  Falk’s deep voice cut through the chaos.

  — “Out. Now.”

  He grabbed Rouis by the collar and dragged him to the entrance. With one powerful motion, he hurled him into the street.

  Rouis hit the ground hard, the biting chill of the night stinging like a whip. He lay still for a moment, watching the door slam shut with a decisive clack. The commotion of the tavern already felt like a world away, replaced by the oppressive silence of the street.

  Rouis drew a deep breath, the icy air mingling with his exhaustion. For the first time that evening, he felt a dull fatigue settle into his limbs.

  A hand extended in front of him, firm and steady. Rouis looked up. Kaldr, his golden curls tousled by the night breeze, smiled with feigned lightness, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  — "You’re a real clown," Kaldr said, his voice vibrating with genuine amusement.

  — "Three at once," Rouis replied, his voice hoarse, his breath still ragged.

  — "Impressive, jester. Next time, try staying on your feet," Kaldr added with a mocking grin.

  Despite his exhaustion, Rouis swung a clumsy punch, but Kaldr easily blocked it, his smirk unwavering.

  — "Still as predictable as ever. Come on, sit down before you collapse completely."

  Kaldr slipped an arm under Rouis’s shoulder and helped him walk. The park’s ground seemed to fight them with every step. A tangle of thick, gnarled roots jutted from the muddy earth, where dead leaves and debris formed an uneven carpet. The paved path, worn by time, was broken and disjointed, overgrown with wild grass. The trees, their bare branches like claws, rose against the black sky, casting a web of shifting shadows under the hesitant moonlight.

  — "Still as predictable as ever. Stand up straight, I’m not here to scoop you up," Kaldr teased with a lopsided grin.

  He offered Rouis a firm hand, grabbing it without hesitation and hauling him to his feet with strength. His other arm slipped under Rouis’s shoulder to steady him. Despite his teasing tone, every movement Kaldr made was precise, imbued with a near-fraternal care. Rouis grunted an inaudible thanks, his legs trembling under his weight. Each step reignited a fresh burst of pain in his ribs, but he clung to Kaldr, refusing to give in.

  They entered the park, each step a struggle against the treacherous terrain. Thick roots, twisted like frozen serpents mid-battle, rose from the muddy ground, ready to snare any careless foot. The clinging mud slowed their progress, sticky and insidious, while damp, heavy leaves formed a slick, uneven layer beneath their boots.

  The paved path, a relic of some long-lost order, was now a shattered memory. Its fractured stones, overrun by wild grass clawing through the cracks, vanished into the chaos of nature. The surrounding trees, stripped bare and warped by the winds, stretched their gnarled branches skyward, forming tortured silhouettes. Under the faint moonlight, these mutilated giants cast shifting shadows. The cold, whistling wind wove between the trunks, carrying indistinct murmurs.

  Panting, Rouis looked up. The branches above seemed to lean toward him, watching silently and ominously, witnesses to their slow progress. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and each step roused a dull ache in his ribs.

  — "Looks like even the trees are mocking you," Kaldr said, his teasing smile lighting up his face. "But hang in there. I’m not carrying you the whole way."

  A tired smile tugged at Rouis’s lips.

  They finally reached the heart of the park, where a massive trunk stood—a relic both imposing and unsettling, a silent witness to centuries of trials. Its deep cracks, oozing dark, viscous sap, resembled gaping wounds that had never fully healed. Thick roots spiraled outward, sinking into the muddy ground as though holding the tree upright despite the weight of the years—or perhaps imprisoning it forever.

  — "I know you enjoy sleeping under the stars," Kaldr quipped, gesturing casually toward the trunk.

  Kaldr guided Rouis to the massive tree. With a mix of strength and nonchalance, he eased him gently against the rough bark.

  — "There you go. The tree will support you better than I will," he said with a sly grin.

  Rouis groaned, sliding slightly against the knotted wood, his breathing labored. The bark, rough and cold, pressed into his bruised back, amplifying his pain with cruel precision. Kaldr, meanwhile, settled next to him, his back against the same trunk. His relaxed posture stood in stark contrast to his friend’s battered state.

  A moment of silence passed, broken only by the whistling wind weaving through the bare branches. Then, without warning, Kaldr reached into Rouis’s pouch.

  — "You’re too slow, so I’ll help myself," he announced, his tone provocatively light.

  Rouis tried to stop him, but his hand only brushed Kaldr’s sleeve.

  — "Bastard," he growled, each word weighed down by effort. "One day, that’s going to cost you."

  Kaldr raised an eyebrow, as if seriously considering the warning, while the gold coin chimed softly between his fingers.

  — "Maybe," he finally replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But not today."

  The gold coin caught the moonlight, gleaming briefly before vanishing into Kaldr’s pocket with a fluid motion. Rouis attempted to push himself upright, but his body refused. A sharp pain flared in his ribs, forcing him back against the trunk with a muffled groan. His hands slipped over the gnarled roots, sinking into the cold mud. The gritty, damp earth beneath his fingers was a cruel reminder of his state—vulnerable, unable to defend himself.

  Kaldr stood, brushing off his clothes as if nothing unusual had happened.

  — "Rest up, Rouis," he added with unexpected gentleness.

  His footsteps faded slowly into the silence of the park, interrupted only by the sporadic creaking of branches. Rouis remained still, breathing shallowly. Each breath sent a jolt of pain through him, but he took a moment to assess himself. Nothing broken—just bruises.

  He rolled slightly onto his side, his muscles protesting each movement, and instinctively checked for his pouch. Frustration welled up as he realized it was noticeably lighter. He gritted his teeth, caught between irritation and a faint hint of resigned amusement. Kaldr…

  The trunk at his back seemed to watch him. Silent and imposing, its deep cracks oozed dark sap, like gaping wounds. Was it a protector amidst the chaos or a mute witness to his weakness? Rouis couldn’t decide, but he found it hard to look away from its unmoving silhouette.

  A tree wind slipped beneath his clothes, biting insistently at his skin. Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed above him, abrupt and distinct. A branch shifted ever so slightly, casting a fleeting shadow across his face. For a moment, he felt a presence—faint but undeniable—like something watching him from the darkness.

  Fatigue overwhelmed him before he could delve deeper into the feeling. Darkness claimed him, soft yet relentless. In that fleeting moment, he found an unexpected calm, as though the world, harsh as it was, offered him a reprieve.