The fog in Aethelgard did not just hide the world; it consumed it. It was thick, damp, and tasted faintly of copper—the scent of long-forgotten magic.
Elara pulled her cloak tighter, though it offered little protection against the chill that seeped into her bones. She walked the perimeter of the Forbidden Woods, her head bowed. She had learned long ago that the safest way to live was to be invisible. In a kingdom where touch was the gateway to memory and power, she was a walking void.
Don't look at them. Don't touch them. Don't let them know you exist.
The mantra played on a loop in her mind. But today, the woods felt wrong. The usual oppressive silence was broken by the sharp, metallic ring of steel against stone.
She froze. Footsteps, heavy and rhythmic, crunched against the frost-covered leaves.
"I know you're here, Shadow-Walker," a voice rasped. It was distant, but unmistakably cold.
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. She turned to run, but a figure emerged from the shifting mist like a predator stalking its prey. He was tall, clad in armor that seemed to absorb the dim light around him. A sword—the legendary blade of the royal inquisitors—rested at his hip.
It was Kaelen.
He didn't speak at first. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned her face as if searching for a reason to spare her, or perhaps, a reason to strike. He raised his hand, his fingers twitching toward his hilt.
"Elara of the Fog," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum. "Your existence ends tonight."
Elara backed away until her heels caught on a gnarled root. She fell backward, her hand instinctively reaching out to steady herself—right toward the outstretched gauntlet of the knight sent to kill her.
No, she thought. If I touch him, he will lose everything.
But as their fingers brushed, the world didn't go dark. Instead, it exploded into light.