The eerie laughter echoed endlessly from the mist, like a mocking woman toying with hapless wanderers. Gwayne's first strike had scattered the phantom in two—but almost instantly, it reformed elsewhere in the fog.
This mist... had a will of its own.
The realization sent a cold sweat down Hestia's spine.
At first, the mist had feigned mindlessness, lulling them into a false sense of security, tricking them into hoping for a straightforward escape. Yet as the minutes dragged on, the fog steadily sapped their strength. When they finally tried to break free, they would already be weakened—and the spirits within the mist would spring the trap.
Fortunately for Gwayne's group, the entity's arrogance had undone it. The mocking laughter had betrayed the presence of an intelligent, hostile force.
But even with that slip, their situation remained grim.
Ordinary soldiers were nearly helpless against such a foe. All they could do was cling desperately to their discipline, trying to withstand the creeping fear and despair that seeped from the fog. Little Betty, defenseless, was shielded at the center of the group. Ser Byron's longsword blazed with searing heat, cutting through spectral limbs and keeping the worst of the chill at bay. Under his protection, Hestia and Rebecca carved out a fragile sanctuary for spellcasting.
Hestia weaved spell after spell, her magic seeking to weaken the mist. Rebecca's approach was... less sophisticated.
She hurled fireball after fireball into the mist.
The explosions roared, lighting the fog in bursts of orange and red—but the mist swallowed most of the force. Ghostly fog lacked the mass to be truly harmed by normal attacks.
"Stop throwing fireballs!" Gwayne roared as he cut down another flickering wraith. "You need wide-area spells! We need spread, not brute force!"
Rebecca, flustered, shouted back, "But all I know is fireball!"
"What?!" Gwayne nearly dropped his sword.
"She's telling the truth!" Hestia added, voice half-mortified. "Five years of study, and that's all she can cast!"
Rebecca's face turned scarlet with shame. Gritting her teeth, she poured everything she had into a colossal fireball, barely keeping the volatile energy contained. She hurled it at the densest part of the mist.
The blast was impressive, thinning the mist in one great surge... but almost immediately, it reformed. Worse, Gwayne heard a terrible, strangled scream from behind him.
One of the Seawright soldiers had succumbed.
His eyes were blood-red, his skin dry and cracking like old parchment. With a wild scream, he swung his sword madly at his comrades.
The other two soldiers, still clinging to sanity, dodged his frenzied attacks and pinned him down. But even as they did, Gwayne saw the telltale red mist beginning to cloud their eyes as well.
They were moments from breaking.
Gwayne gritted his teeth, slammed his sword into the earth, and channeled one of the ancient knightly arts burned into his body's memory:
Mindshock.
A surge of iron will swept outward, buffeting friend and foe alike. It crushed the insidious tendrils of fear burrowing into their souls and steeled their hearts.
The two soldiers blinked, gasping as clarity returned to them—but the poor soul they had pinned was beyond saving. His struggles ended with a final, shuddering gasp.
Gwayne quickly scanned the battlefield. The mist, disturbingly, was growing thicker, not weaker, despite their attacks. And worst of all—
"Where's Betty?!" he shouted, heart seizing.
"I saw her!" Amber's voice rang out nearby. "She just... wandered off into the mist! Like she was sleepwalking!"
"Dammit!" Gwayne cursed. "She's lost her mind! But this mist... why hasn't it weakened at all?"
"I don't know what's wrong, but it's bad!" Amber hissed, dagger flashing in her hand.
"No—listen," Gwayne said quickly, piecing it together. "The mist should've started to break apart after all our attacks. And we already checked—the magic nexus here shouldn't be powerful enough to sustain something like this. Something else is feeding it!"
Amber's quick mind caught on immediately. "You mean... there's a source? Some artifact? A magical anchor?"
"Maybe not artificial, but something is keeping it alive," Gwayne said grimly. His gaze pierced the mist. "It's hidden—our spells can't see it."
"But Hestia already cast Distortion Detection—" Amber began, then cut herself off, eyes widening.
"...It's not in this layer of reality, is it?!"
Before Gwayne could answer, Amber sprang backward—and disappeared.
Not truly vanished—Gwayne caught the glimpse of her shadow flitting across the ground, tree trunks, rocks. She was weaving through the planes themselves, slipping between the material world and the veiled boundaries of another realm.
Shadow-walking.
Gwayne had never seen anything like it outside of myths.
This half-elf thief... what was she, really?
Before he could think further, Amber reappeared in a swirl of mist. She grabbed his arm tightly, yanked hard—and suddenly, Gwayne felt himself tear through an invisible barrier.
The world twisted.
Everything around him turned black and white. The trees were gone, replaced by an endless field of dry, brittle stumps. The ground itself was shrouded in a pale mist—cold but not soul-stealing like before.
Hestia, Rebecca, Byron, and the soldiers stood nearby—but frozen, as if trapped in time. They were colorless statues, their faces locked in expressions of tension and fear, their bodies cracked like ancient pottery. Black wisps of mist rose from the ground, snaking into their forms, deepening the fractures.
Gwayne instinctively checked his own hands—still flesh, still alive.
Before he could rush to help them, Amber grabbed his arm again. "Don't," she whispered fiercely. "Outside interference will only make it worse."
Gwayne turned to her—and for a moment, forgot how to breathe.
Here, in this monochrome world, Amber had changed. Her hair floated weightless behind her. Her amber eyes glowed faintly gold. Black, smoky flames curled around her feet, shifting and dissipating in an endless cycle.
Gwayne's borrowed memories of Gwayne Seawright offered no explanation.
Amber, noticing his stare, sighed. "Don't ask. It'll just make it awkward. Especially since, uh, I did rob your grave not long ago. Guilt's a bitch, you know?"
She shook her head quickly. "We don't have much time. I've never gone this deep before—and dragging you along is pushing it."
Gwayne swallowed. "What is this place?"
"The Shadow Realm," Amber said simply. She pointed toward the frozen figures of Hestia and the others. "Look."
There, at the group's edge, one of the soldiers had collapsed into a heap of pale shards, like shattered porcelain.
The others still stood frozen—but at Betty's feet, a trail of tiny glowing footprints led away into the mist.