The Nameless Woods.
Out here, far from the heart of civilization, places like this were common. Every scrap of land technically had a lord, but that didn't mean every scrap was settled. The Kingdom had neither the manpower nor the will to push deep into these lands near the ancient Gondor Wastes. And thanks to the Elves' mighty gift—the Sentry Towers and the Grand Barrier Wall that now sealed the taint within the Wastes—the borderlands needed fewer soldiers with every generation. And so, little by little, the frontier was forgotten.
From the ruins of the Seawright estate, the fastest way north to the town of Valewatch was through these woods. Other routes existed, but they were longer, rougher, and far more dangerous. Best to cross the Nameless Woods.
The deeper they went, the dimmer the light became. Thick layers of rotting leaves muffled every step. The forest, wild and untouched, seemed a different world entirely. Once, centuries ago, Gwayne Seawright had only known the forests of concrete and steel; later, he drifted across this new world for untold millennia from a place far above. But walking it—feeling the damp air, the crunch underfoot, the living pulse of the wild—this was something different entirely.
At least the body he now wore was strong, seasoned, and hardy. Without it, the trek would have been far worse. Byron and Amber—the seasoned mercenary-turned-knight and the roguish half-elf—both had enough wilderness sense to make progress bearable. Hestia, on the other hand, suffered more. Though she had the grit of an old bloodline noble, the true rawness of the wilds had never been her domain. Nobility prepared you for court games, not mud, briars, and biting insects. Rebecca surprised him. The young lady, who looked no older than a schoolgirl, kept up without flagging. She scrambled over roots and brambles with the ease of a born woods-runner.
"I used to run wild when I was younger," Rebecca said, slightly embarrassed when Gwayne asked. "Father once hoped I'd be a knight before my magic showed up. Even now, I try to keep fit—the old family maxims said a lord must have a strong body to protect their people..." Gwayne nodded silently. Straightforward and earnest, even after all that had befallen their house. In the circles of nobility, such sincerity was a rare treasure.
He glanced at Hestia, who was half-wheezing behind a tree. Some lessons, it seemed, came harder.
"There might be creatures deeper in," Byron said, lifting his sword and flicking something—a glob of dark matter—off the blade. It shimmered and faded into the air.
"Shadow energy," he muttered. "There's a weak mana nexus here, but nothing strong."
"Yeah," Amber chimed in, spinning a small dagger through her fingers. "If there was a real nexus, the mages from the Arcane Brotherhood or the Astral Collegium would've staked their claim centuries ago. And look at the plants—no mutations, no twisted growths. It's just spooky, not cursed."
"You two seem well-versed," Gwayne noted.
"Byron was a mercenary before he took service with House Seawright," Rebecca offered.
Byron grunted and said no more.
"And me," Amber said proudly, "well, let's just say I've had my share of... field experience."
Gwayne wisely chose not to ask.
They pushed deeper, the trees thickening, the canopy above slicing the daylight into thin, pale beams. In the broken lattice of leaves and branches, the colossal sun—the world's massive, glowing "Great Light"—looked fractured and cold.
Betty, the scullery maid, sneezed. The chill bit through her simple clothes.
Amber crouched suddenly, her pale eyes scanning the mist ahead. She exhaled, and her breath clouded visibly.
"Something's wrong," she whispered. "It's too cold."
Hestia, alert despite her weariness, slammed her staff against the ground, chanting a harsh, sharp spell.
"Distortion Detection!"
The spell flared to life—and reality peeled open. The forest filled with a pale, shrouding mist. Not natural mist—this was thick with spirit energy, bleeding from the cracks between worlds. Shapes flickered in the fog, and the air grew colder. Betty whimpered—then opened her mouth to scream—but Gwayne slapped his hand over her mouth just in time.
"Quiet," he hissed. "Noise draws them." She nodded, tears brimming.
"What...what is this?" Rebecca's voice shook, her knuckles white around her staff.
"Wraith Mist," Hestia said grimly. "Gods help us."
Gwayne's memories confirmed it. A deadly phenomenon where dense shadow energy and wandering spirits fused. Normally invisible, the mist preyed upon the living—sapping heat, flooding minds with illusions, and luring victims deeper until death took them. And only in death would the victims finally see the mist that killed them.
Gwayne drew his blade but held his hand steady. No sudden moves. Wraith Mist wasn't aggressive—unless provoked.
Then—a whisper. A lilting laugh from deep within the haze. The mist had already turned hostile.
"Damn it," Gwayne cursed under his breath.
With a roar, he swung his ancient sword toward the sound. The blade blazed with red light, slicing through the mist—and through the faint outline of a figure garbed in white.
"Focus fire!" he shouted, his voice sharp as a whip. "Hit the one dressed in white, darting through the fog!"
The battle for their survival had begun.