The wind died.
The only sound left was the slow crumble of the griffon's massive form, twitching erratically as the black fire devoured what remained of its divine, corrupted flesh. One last shudder rolled through its body like a dying spasm of the old world, and its feathers peeled into ash—dissolving into threads of smoke that rose toward the storm-dark sky. Everyone stood still, breath caught in their chests. No one spoke.
Terra broke the silence first. Kneeling near the dying heat, her scythe planted reverently in the ground, she closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you for your protection… Godfrey." Her voice was soft, but it rang like a vow beneath the weight of battle. She kissed the back of her hand, brushed it over her brow, then stood with theatrical grace, only to spin dramatically toward the others.
"Right then."
Anon stepped forward cautiously, the green flame in his lantern casting long, wavering shadows across the field. He eyed the scene—the carnage, the power, the impossible coordination that had just dismantled the griffon like it was a stubborn puzzle. Carmine walked beside him, bow at ease, eyes scanning the remnants with reverent disbelief. "They're not human," she muttered. "I thought we'd be saving some ragged survivors. Maybe a few half-dead wanderers. But this…"
"…was insane," added one of the other Bladed Order knights, voice hushed. "That one with the wrecking ball fights like he wants to kill the world."
"I heard the girl laugh when she cut its legs off," another whispered. "What the hell are they?"
Terra twirled dramatically, hand to her chest, lips curled in faux humility. "Please, do go on," she said, fluttering her lashes, "you're doing so well flattering us." She threw herself backward into Nero like a swooning maiden, landing roughly on his chest with an exaggerated gasp.
"Get off," Nero growled, shoving her sideways like swatting a cat off furniture. "Before you bite me again."
Streng grinned wide, arms crossed as he leaned toward Anon. "She did, you know. Right in the neck. It was hilarious. He screamed like someone yanked out his soul."
Nero grunted, "I did not scream."
Terra toppled from Nero's shove straight into Artemis, who caught her effortlessly. Artemis blinked, then gently rubbed Terra's head. "Are you alright?" she asked, calm and tender.
Terra pouted and pointed back at Nero with melodramatic offense. "He's a mean ass. A soulless, muscle-brained mean ass."
"You did bite him," Artemis said flatly, but still kept petting her.
"I swear I didn't mean to."
Then the light changed.
All eyes turned to Anon—still holding his lantern, now the sole source of color in the dim clearing. The green flame swirled and hissed inside, casting alien shadows that bent unnaturally but offered warmth instead of fear. It pulsed like a heartbeat—steady, old, alive.
He took a step forward, the flame bobbing. "Come to our camp," he said. "You'll be safe there. We have a perimeter sealed with lantern-flame. No Fog touches it. No corruption takes root. We've already rescued a few dozen survivors and brought them inside."
Cain scoffed. "Tch. I don't think so."
'We should be finding a way out. Just feels like a detour.'
Nero crossed his arms, smirking. "Yeah, what Cain said. Especially when you still haven't told us what the Bladed Order actually is."
Anon paused, then lifted the lantern slightly. Its green light flared—and behind his voice came something deeper. Like a whisper passed through centuries of broken stone.
THE BLADED ORDER
"When the Fog comes, we follow its breath. Where it feeds, we kill what it births."
— First Law of the Bladed Order
ORIGIN & HISTORY
Formed before nations. Forged after the First Fog.
The Bladed Order began over a thousand years ago, when the first recorded Black Fog swallowed the city of Varn-Kael, a river metropolis that vanished overnight. The only survivor—a dying monk named Aren Voss—staggered out of the ruins, blind, burned, and barely living. He carried a broken sword… and a green flame.
He spoke of demons made of sin. Of landscapes that folded like skin. Of a place beyond Death, where even gods had no names. No one believed him—until the second Fog came. Then the third.
Aren gathered the broken, the fanatical, the devoutly damned. They exposed themselves to runes carved before language existed—glyphs meant to unmake. And somehow, they lived. Changed. Hardened.
Those were the First Bladed. When the fourth Fog rose, they walked into it—and returned. With a Demon's head.
The Bladed Order is not a military. It is a ritual brotherhood. A sacred errant flame.
They are stationed in Silence Keeps, built atop Fog breach zones.
Twelve Major Keeps exist globally, forming the Fogward Circle, guarding tectonic points where the Dark World breathes through.
Wander-Blades roam beyond the Keeps—lantern always lit, tracking the Fog's whisper before it manifests.
Artemis stared, gaze sharpening. "There's more," she said simply. "That's not all is it?"
Anon smiled faintly, the lantern glinting off his pale face. "Of course there's more. But the rest you'll hear at camp. We swore an oath: never leave a bystander behind in the Fog. We keep that oath. You've seen what happens to the unguarded."
His voice echoed like the wind through the trees, and for a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, without another word, Anon turned, the green flame casting its pale light ahead of him—into the deeper fog.
"Come," he said. "Let the fire guide you."
The group looked at each other, and Nero said, "Might as well. Need to learn all we can. We're basically aliens."
Cain, Terra, Artemis, and Streng asked all at once, "What's an alien?"
Nero planted his own hand on his face, saying, "Right. We're not from the same world."
….
The Bladed Order camp rose out of the frost-bitten dark like a half-buried scar, stitched together from the remains of war-torn caravans, salvaged bonewood, and old Fog-resistant canvas. Its border was a jagged ring of green fire—lanterns of eldritch make hanging from spiked poles, whispering faintly in tongues no one dared translate. The flame did not brighten the night so much as push it back. Barely. The black snow still fell, slow and ghostlike, melting instantly when it touched the flames, but clinging cold and wet to everything else. The sky above was a starless sea, suffocating and heavy.
Within the fire-ring, the camp was alive.
Figures moved everywhere—shadows passing by with layered cloaks, horned hoods, soot-slick armor. The Bladed Order's ranks were unmistakable among the crowd. Higher-ranking knights strode like slow phantoms, clad in blackened rune-steel, armor etched with chaotic demon-sigils designed to confuse Fog-born things. Their neck guards flared like spines, their capes dragged like living shadows, stiffened by old rites—soaked in dead Fog, baptized in blood-oil. Their helmets bore narrow green slits in the visor, each line a mark of survival. Some wore one. Others had eight. One knight had ten. No one spoke to him.
Their symbol was stitched onto tents and leathers: a downward-pointing sword piercing an eye, wrapped in tendrils of fog—truth through torment.
Civilians—if that word even still applied—clustered around firepits, inside makeshift shelters, or gathered near the mess wagons where boiled fungus and hardroot stew were being ladled out by the dozen. Beast-kin from distant tribes sat beside gaunt pale merchants from shattered cities. Children huddled in the arms of strangers, hollow-eyed but quiet. Not because they were at peace—because they were too tired to cry.
"You think this is food?"
"My son ain't eaten in hours, he don't care what it is…"
"They saved me… dragged me out from under my house. Whole thing turned inside out like it remembered something…"
"My wife's livestock went mad. Killed her. Killed her. And then they smiled."
"That ain't snow, you know. That's something else. I-I didn't think thjs would ever happen to me."
"My daughter hears singing in the dark now. Says it sounds like her dead father."
The weight of the place pressed inward like a second sky, tight and unbearable.
Anon led Nero and the others through the twisting maze of flickering corridors. His lantern, pulsing with steady green light, marked their path like a breath in the dark. Carmine walked beside him, bow slung across her back, cloak pulled tight.
Nero glanced sideways at Anon, narrowing his eyes at the faint green firelight. "What are those lanterns, really?"
Anon didn't break stride.
"They're called Lanterns of the Wyrdlight. They glow when the Black Fog's breath is near. They vibrate. Flicker. Whistle, sometimes. Each is bound to the bearer's soul. If we die—" he gestured, "—they shatter."
He held it up slightly. The flame inside coiled like a serpent's eye.
"The flame's not normal. It's the last remnant of Faelyne, the first Fairy Spirit who gave herself to protect mortals from the Fogs whispers. It anchors our minds. Keeps us from falling into delusion. From remembering things that never happened. From forgetting sins we never committed."
There was a pause.
"Every hour it's lit, it burns a day of our lives. Slowly. Quietly. The Order's not known for long retirements." Then he whispered, "Then there's the Dark World."
Terra, walking just behind, raised a brow. "Dark World?" she echoed. "That some fairy tale or some shit?"
Carmine snapped quietly, "Lower your voice."
She glanced around—some of the survivors had heard. A few looked over with tight faces and haunted eyes.
"No one likes hearing about that damned myth," Carmine said, voice low. "Across Kalhalla, the Dark World's got a thousand faces. A world in ours. A place made of sin. A wound where gods used to live. Depends who you ask. Too many myths and rumors surround it, but we believe the Fog comes from there. Best not to speak on it loudly. Especially here."
They kept walking.
Nero thought, 'So this world has spirits, demons, and myths. Now there's a Dark World. Where most of the myths are surrounded by. No one knows what it truly is, but they know of it.'
Eventually, the camp split wide ahead of them into a clearing where the fires blazed brighter. Order knights moved through the smoke like wolves through mist, barking orders, checking gear, speaking in a language Nero didn't recognize. Anon finally turned, stopping at the edge.
"Find something to eat," he said. "There's fresh beds near the south ward. For now… rest."
Then he and Carmine disappeared into the fog of flame and armor.
Nero turned, glancing around.
Artemis let out a slow breath. "There's… so many," she whispered, watching a family cry near a broken wagon. A father was holding a daughter who stared blankly past him, blood crusted on her shirt like it had bloomed from inside. "We should help." she said.
"We can't lump ourselves in with this crowd," Streng growled, arms crossed, eyes never still. "They're weak. They're lost. We're on a mission."
Nero rubbed his chin, looking over the field. His tone was cooler now, measured. "These people aren't weak. They just aren't strong enough for what the hell they came across out there. We already fought a taste of one thing out there. But it also doesn't mean we can't learn from them. We spread out. Ask questions. Any scrap of truth about this world could save our lives."
Artemis turned toward him. "And what are you going to do?"
"I'm gonna find whoever's in charge," Nero said, eyes glinting. "See if they're willing to talk. Learn all we can about this world."
"I'll come," Cain said gruffly, stepping forward.
Nero scowled. "Why? I honestly don't really need a companion going with me."
Cain glared. "Because you're a reckless brat who doesn't think before he moves."
Nero's eye twitched. "I don't need a crappy babysitter with half a face."
"Heard that too many times, it doesn't affect me."
Streng chuckled. "If I were you, I wouldn't let him say that to me."
"Shut up," Nero muttered.
Streng leaned forward, grin spreading with a villainous snarl. "No, really, I wouldn't. Sounds like he's calling you weak. Again. Are you REALLY gonna let him talk to you like that?"
"I hate you both," Nero groaned, turning on his heel and stalking off into the dark.
Cain followed. And Nero turned to look at Terra, and Terra was looking at him, but Nero looked away fast.
Terra crossed her arms. "Whatever. Artemik, you're with me."
"It's Artemis.." Artemis nodded gently. "Can we tend to the wounded while we talk to people? Lend the knights an extra hand if they see fit?"
"Yeah, yeah," Terra said, waving a hand. "Do whatever you want. If it's to your robot hearts desire, I won't stop you."
As they started to leave, Streng stayed behind. His eyes swept over the field like a knife deciding where to cut.
'Guess that leaves me alone to do whatever. Should I go start some drama? Nah. The group would get annoying and scoff at me like they're my parents. Maybe someone here can direct me into getting rid of my condition..of immortality.'
He turned, his smile widening, and melted into the crowd.
They scattered like seeds into a strange harvest. And the night burned slowly on.
….
Terra and Artemis moved through the firelit haze of the camp like figures from a cracked old story, gliding between tents of patched hide and smoke-stained canvas. The wind carried that cold ash-fall down in fine drifting strands, like strands of mourning hair. All around them, the camp breathed—loud with grief, whispers, prayers, commands, and the low clatter of salvaged life being put back together by exhausted hands. The snow on the ground was black where feet had churned it to slush, and the only color came from the green-glowing lanterns of Wyrdlight swaying from their poles, casting warped shadows across worn faces.
Everywhere they walked, people stared.
A pair of beast-kin women, one with braided fur and the other with a blindfold of prayer-cloth, paused in their quiet soup-line talk, murmuring at the sight of Terra's white horns and glowing red tattoos. Her arms were bare despite the cold, the symbols like molten lace trailing down her skin in tribal spirals and jagged script, glowing faintly with her mood.
"That ain't human, is it?"
"Looks like one, but those marks… like blood kept talking after it was spilled."
"And those horns. Maybe one of the deepkin? Or a flame-touched?"
"Flame-touched don't look like that. I seen one once. He was still smoking."
"I heard of a tribe from the Hellrim that branded themselves to keep demons out."
"She ain't keeping them out. She looks like she feeds them."
Terra tilted her head just enough for them to shut up. She gave them a look like a smirk made of knives, and they quickly found their interest in the stew again.
'I feel so unwelcome here, I mean, I know I'm a random person. But still…it's odd walking somewhere and I'm being observed and discerned. I felt welcomed at home.l
Meanwhile, Artemis drew a different kind of awe. Her tall frame glinted like morning sun on golden ruins, metal plating etched with artful filigree and winding cables like vines turned to jewelry. Where her face should have been a mask of cold artificiality, she wore something almost serene—a constructed empathy that felt too perfect to be false. People didn't know what to make of her.
One man muttered, "You think she's wearing that? Like… under there's a real face?"
"Nah," a teenage girl said. "Look at her joints. That's not armor. That is her."
"Or maybe… the Dwarves made her."
That stopped them cold.
"Dwarves?" Terra repeated, turning toward the voice. "You talking about real ones? I heard about 'em back home."
A Bladed Order knight nearby, one with four eye-slits in his visor and a cape stiff as bark, turned his helmet toward her.
"You mean the Thronghewn? Stonebreath Clans? They're real. Stocky bastards, smell like rust and cave-moss. Veins laced with ore. You can hear their hearts when they walk. Boom. Boom. Like forges."
Terra raised an eyebrow.
"They live under Korrundal," the knight went on. "City under a dead volcano. Time moves heavy down there. Heavy like regret. They believe fire's meant to be caged. That their dead gotta be buried standing, hammer in hand, to keep the world from falling over."
"Sounds charming," Terra muttered.
Terra gave Artemis a sideways glance. "You hear that, shiny? We learned about Dwarves! Bet we have more information than the others right now."
"Perhaps I can seek them out when we have the time if they can help me," Artemis replied softly, her voice as warm as ever. "But it's fascinating."
"Help you? With what?"
"It's nothing.."
They kept walking, slipping deeper into the camp. Cries and conversation wrapped around them like fog-drenched cloth.
"Still can't sleep. My bones shake even when I sit."
"The fog took her voice. She tries to scream, but it's just air now."
"No sleep in the marrow," someone whispered as they passed.
Terra stopped beside a man sharpening a jagged sawblade and asked, "Hey. That phrase—what's that mean? No sleep in the marrow?"
The man gave her a haunted smile without looking up.
"Means your dreams ain't yours no more. Fog gets in your bones. The part of you that sleeps stays awake."
Soon they reached the healer's tent. The flap hung open like a wounded mouth, and the smell of burnt herbs and coppery blood clung to the air. Inside, light was dim, coming from soft glowshards set in bowls, pulsing like hearts. The Rings—healers of the Bladed Order—moved quickly but gently, men and women in ashen robes laced with silver thread, some with rune-etched gauntlets, others with tattoos swirling like ripples down their arms.
Their magic was alchemical and ruin-born. One ground dried serpent-root in a stone bowl, fingers glowing faintly with ruin-sigils as he sprinkled bone-dust and breathleaf, then poured red oil over it. The mixture sizzled, shimmered, and was pressed into the wound of a soldier whose leg had been half-eaten by something unseen. The flesh responded, not by knitting back—but by hardening, becoming like tree bark, protective and strange. Another healer poured thin silver water across a child's chest while chanting broken hymns, watching it sink in and pull the fever out with ghost-smoke.
"Ruin answers when asked right," one of the Rings muttered. "Just don't ask twice."
Then came the shouting.
A man near the center of the tent was weeping, voice cracking, his hands shaking as he gripped a blood-stained blanket.
"They're still out there! My kids, they're still out there! You said you'd find them! You said—!"
Bladed Order knights nearby tensed, hands near weapons.
"Control yourself."
"You're disturbing the wounded."
But the man didn't stop. "I saw them run! They were running toward the white trees! I saw—I saw—and then the fog—" He dropped to his knees, hands in his hair. "I keep hearing them in my dreams."
"The fog remembers," someone whispered.
And Artemis moved.
She walked past Terra without a word, a soft hush following her golden steps. She knelt beside the man, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Your grief is real. So is your love," she said, voice as calm as a lullaby, but clear and commanding. "Let it breathe. But don't let it consume you."
He looked up, startled, caught in the softness of her expression.
"I don't know what you are," he whispered, trembling. "But your eyes don't lie."
"I'm not here to lie," she said, helping him rise. "I'm here to listen. And to help."
The Bladed Order watched her carefully. One moved to speak—then stopped, seeing the way the man had calmed. There was still terror in him. But the panic had stopped feeding it.
Artemis glanced back at Terra.
"Stay with me?" she asked.
Terra crossed her arms and nodded. "Yeah, alright. Guess we'll play nurses for a bit."
Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the fire burned low.
And then Terra overheard two Bladed Order knights talking. And she listened closely.
"They haven't found Adam yet?"
"You haven't heard, rookie? He's holed up in some cave. Since he's the son of Bladelord Yenne Ohl. She's a high ranking member of ours, remember that. But she used a crow to deliver a message to send out an order to another group here that's getting ready to head out, to intercept her son and bring him back to her."
"INTERCEPT HIM? Isn't he corrupt now? How is that possible? I heard those who are influenced by the demons almost never go back."
"Almost never. Meaning it's not impossible. But the squad is about to head out anytime now, they're just getting prepared."
"Man. It's crazy what happened to him. I didn't think anyone was able to mate with a demon..woman…?"
"Eh. He's hot headed. Yenne told him not to go out and hunt the demon himself. But word from a survivor, said Adam was damn near different. Killing their entire squad in less than second, and when the survivor sent the crow messengers to Yenne, Adam was declared to be an enemy. And she's depending on us to acquire him."
"I'm not getting anywhere near him. Mated with a demon woman and he's super strong and possessed? Yeah no."
"You don't have to worry about that, rookie. You're staying here anyway, you would piss your pants at the sight of a demon. Why even sign up?"
"I have nowhere else to go, haha."
Suddenly, Terra's voice popped up behind them. "Whatcha talking about?"
The rookie Knight almost screamed in fear as she came out of nowhere, and the other one just stood there. And he answered, "Perhaps you can go escort our squad into getting Adam? Since you heard a lot anyway."
"Eh? Why me? I don't know Adam."
"We heard about what happened back against the Griffon. Once a beautiful creature warped to a grotesque creature due to the Fogs darkness."
"So not all Griffons in this world are like that then."
"Of course now. But once they're touched by the Fog, berserk becomes their nature."
"Oh okay. But you know I'd have to talk to my group about that. I'll get back to you."
"Of course."
Terra turned away fast, as she could see Artemis looking over at her.
'Nope nope nope, if Artemis heard that, she wouldn't hesitate to go help these people with their issues. Whoever this Adam is, it has nothing to do with us. At all.'
As the last of the commotion died down and Artemis returned to calmly assist the Rings—pressing soothing words into cracked hearts, handing over cloths and tinctures without needing to be asked—Terra found herself leaning against a beam just outside the tent. The wind bit at her exposed arms, but she didn't flinch. Her red tattoos pulsed faintly like smoldering coal, mirroring her idle thoughts. She was watching the snow twist in slow spirals when a nearby Bladed Order knight caught her gaze.
He was tall, wrapped in black-and-steel armor with a fur mantle soaked in ash, helm off, revealing a face etched by frostbite and time. He was watching her with curiosity—not distrust, just the sort of squinting wonder reserved for falling stars or talking animals.
"What continent is this, anyway?" Terra asked, arms crossed over her chest.
The knight blinked, head tilting slightly. "You serious?"
Another nearby knight, younger and less grizzled, let out a short laugh. "She's new here. You can tell. Keeps asking about everything. She even asked about the Thronghewn. Like they're storybook monsters."
"She's that woman," a third one muttered, stepping closer. His voice held a faint note of awe. "The one Anon and Carmine brought in. Said she and a few others helped them kill some cursed beast from the Fog. Out in the Blisterwood."
The older knight's eyes sharpened. "That true?"
Terra shrugged, flashing a lopsided, too-confident grin. "Yeah. Beast had too many teeth, not enough neck. Bit ugly, but it screamed pretty when it died."
He nodded slowly. "Then where are you from, exactly?"
Terra opened her mouth. She was just about to say where she was from and that she was sent to kill gods, But she felt Artemis' gaze from the side. That calm look. That quiet, unspoken no. Terra sighed through her nose, glanced at her golden companion, and rolled her eyes.
"Alright," she said, standing straight and cracking her neck."
She stepped forward dramatically, gathering a few more knights nearby who had been half-listening. They turned their attention to her now, like kids near a campfire about to be lied to beautifully.
"I come from a land far to the east, past the Rusted Spines and the Acid Lakes of Dendrah. A place called Knife-Eye Gorge. Ever heard of it? No? Course not. Not many leave. We're born with blades in our hands and venom on our tongues. You learn to fight by your fifth winter or you get swallowed by the sentient horses."
"Sentient Horses?" one knight repeated, incredulous.
"Oh yeah," Terra continued with a smirk. "Big things. They steal your lungs when you're asleep. Real bastards."
Another knight leaned in, clearly entertained. "What do you do there?"
"We duel lightning for breakfast. Wrestle scorpion bears for coin. I used to run with a gang called the Split-Eyed Moths—half thieves, half poets. We had a motto: 'Die screaming, or don't die at all.'" She grinned wider, almost proud of how stupid it sounded. "I was their youngest champion. Broke a priest's jaw once for looking at me funny. Then the ground opened up, a flaming tree yelled at me in Old God Tongue, and now I'm here. World cracked and I fell through."
The knights were laughing now, shaking their heads, one even clapping her on the shoulder.
"Split-Eyed Moth, huh?" one chuckled. "If that ain't the worst name I've ever heard…"
"Best name," Terra corrected. "Don't be jealous."
"Alright," the elder knight said, once the chuckling settled. "You wanted to know the continent?"
Terra nodded, regaining a bit of composure.
"You're standing in the borders of Vraelund. Northern continent. Frost-raked, full of metal and dead men. The kind of place where names are etched into stone cliffs and storms speak louder than kings."
He stepped closer, gesturing with a gloved hand.
"There are three main kingdoms here. First's Kaelvag. Coastal. Brutal. Their rulers duel beneath stone arches, and they carve their cities out of blackwood on fjords. The warriors dye their beards with sea-ink, and their longships cut waves like blades. They raise beasts called Cragwool—goats built like boulders."
"Sounds cuddly," Terra said.
"Then you've got Drengarth. Deep in the glacial valleys. They're isolationist, cold-blooded. Nobles soak in alchemical brine to keep their bloodlines pure. Their capital, Hevrskaal, sits in a glacier lit by mirrors. Only way in is with a Namebone—a carved piece of your ancestry. They're not fond of guests."
"Last," the knight said, "is Vulskarholt. More populous, and ruled by a chancellor-king they elect every thirteen years. Their soldiers ride horned bison the size of carriages—Trample Legions, they call 'em. Their priests wear mirror-masks and don't speak. Say they only talk to gods, and even then, only with their hands."
As he spoke, Artemis had returned, her hands clean, her movements quiet, but her golden body still softly humming with life. She was listening, too—logging every word in perfect clarity.
"Frost. Beasts. Wars. Creepy mirror priests." Terra crossed her arms. "Sounds like home, actually."
"No wonder you fit right in," the knight said.
Terra smirked. Artemis offered a polite nod. Behind them, inside the healer's tent, the wounded stirred, soothed by her presence and the low murmurs of the Rings at work.
Streng sat cross-legged in front of a weather-beaten tent that reeked of boiling herbs and scorched antiseptic. A knight crouched before a low iron brazier, the flame beneath it wyrdgreen, casting sickly glows across the folds of his flared armor. His gauntlets were off, his scarred hands carefully sorting through dried leaves, roots, and curling tendrils of moss that hissed faintly when dropped into the simmering pot. The knight's visor was up—a rare sight—and his face was gaunt, eyes sunken with weariness, but gentle.
Streng leaned forward, unblinking. His teeth gleamed in the light like a row of pale knives.
"Is there a way to kill an immortal?"
The knight froze, fingers hovering above a stalk of bloodgrass.
He looked up slowly.
"…Come again?"
Streng's grin was gone. His red beast-eyes narrowed, burning with something far too human.
"Don't play stupid, steel-head. You heard me." His voice was gravel and venom. "Can someone like you kill someone who can't die? Or is there anyone in this world who knows how?"
The knight stared at him for a long moment, reading him like a torn book page. His shoulders sank. With slow, cautious hands, he reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a small bundle of soothing herbs. "Here. Chew this. For your nerves. Might help the—"
Streng smacked the herbs from the knight's hand.
"I'm not crazy."
The boiling pot hissed.
The knight blinked. His pity curled into something wary.
"I'm serious," Streng growled. "I'm not asking for fun. I don't want your tea or your pity. I want an answer. You ever hear of someone who was too strong for their own good? Got everything they thought they wanted… just to realize it was all a mistake?"
The knight didn't speak, only watched. Streng's eyes had drifted down to his own clawed hands.
"This 'someone'—he got strong," Streng continued. "Strong enough to protect his home. His little ones. A mate, a name. He had something to fight for. But strength's a bastard. It gets hungry. And then everything he touched burned. Everything he wanted got taken away, or it ran the hell from him, and now he can't die, and everywhere he goes, he sees them. Their shapes. Their laughs. Their little paws. Their scent."
His voice dropped low. Almost a whisper.
"And it's killing him slowly."
The knight watched, the air around them curling with heat and green mist. For a moment, the entire camp felt far away.
"…Sounds like he regrets it," the knight said softly.
Streng's lips twitched. "Don't get smart with me."
"Well," the knight murmured, reaching for a flask this time—not herbs, but something bitter-smelling and black. "If your 'someone' wants death, he won't find it in blades or poison. He should turn to the Wound-Saint."
Streng snorted, leaning back. "Who?"
"Veyrhaeth. The God with the Bound Hand. He suffered more than any creature in this world. Once radiant, once free. Then cursed. Chained. Skinned in spirit. Every wound he bears is a scripture. And in each scripture, a lesson. He's our god. The Bladed Order kneels to him."
Streng gave a slow blink. "…You're serious."
The knight nodded. He pulled a folded scroll from his pouch and unraveled it. The ink was red. The lines drawn were crude and reverent—a bleeding figure, blindfolded and nailed to the earth by thousands of threads. Beneath him: text in symbols that seemed to bleed.
"His doctrines teach that through suffering, one ascends. That the broken are closest to the divine. That ruin—"
"—I don't care." Streng stood suddenly, brushing his armor with a sharp motion. "Save your scriptures. I'll try my luck with someone less obsessed with crying gods."
The knight held the scroll tighter, his voice unwavering.
"Ruin made beauty, brother."
Streng stared at him with disgust.
'Ruin made beauty, huh. That's an odd way of looking at it.'
Behind him, the brazier cracked softly.
Streng shoved his way through the crowd. He wasn't three paces from the tent when a trio of little beast-kin children ran up to him, all tangled fur and wide eyes.
"Whoa! Look at him!"
"He's huge! He looks like a stuffed bear!"
"Can we play with him?!"
Streng froze.
The laughter was high-pitched. Innocent. Their eyes were like his sons'. Their tails flicked just like his cubs did when they were excited.
He sneered.
"Get away from me," he muttered. "You little snacks."
They giggled and ran. One reached to touch his clawed hand, and he flinched. Hard. The memory struck like a brick—tiny paws in his fur, warm eyes in the firelight. He gritted his teeth. Jaw clenched. Then, without another word, he shoved through them, the soft sound of their disappointed murmurs disappearing behind him like ghosts in the fog.
—
Elsewhere in the camp, Nero and Cain moved shoulder to shoulder between rows of heavy tents and shadow-walled lanes. Wyrdlight flames hissed beside them, casting green across their faces.
The air was tight. Their footfalls soft on mud and ash.
They said nothing.
Looking.
Searching.
Their eyes scanned every figure.
Waiting to find the one who ran this place.
The sky was a matte black bruise above, snow still falling in soft hisses against the soot-dusted canvas of the Bladed Order's great camp. Lanterns of wyrdlight swung gently from rusted hooks, glowing with sickly green halos that illuminated paths carved through canvas tents and makeshift stalls. The scent of blood-oil, steel, and damp fur clung to every breath, and the wind whispered through the capes of passing knights like a choir of hushed threats.
Nero and Cain walked through the artery of activity, surrounded by the bustle of survival. Campfires crackled low, sending thin trails of smoke spiraling into the cold. People turned to look as they passed—some murmuring under their breath, others staring outright. Not at Nero.
At Cain.
A little girl whimpered and buried her face into her mother's coat as Cain passed, her eyes having locked on the melted ruin of his cheek. A man clutched his wife's arm a bit tighter. A group of beast-kin hunters lowered their voices, watching him like a bad omen.
Cain turned his face slightly, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed beneath his dark hair. His boots moved with steady contempt, but his shoulders were taut. He caught the eyes, the flinches, the pity and the disgust, and he bore it like a sword strapped to his face.
He muttered, "Whatever.."
Nero didn't answer. Just looked at him from the corner of his eye. But Cain didn't need comfort. He hated it anyway.
They kept walking.
Then—thump.
A small, cackling shape collided with Nero's hip, bounced off him like a rubber ball, and kept sprinting with chaotic glee. Ember-lit eyes, small curled horns, and semi-charred skin flickering with glowing cracks across the arms and cheeks.
A Vulthari child.
"Outta my way, loser!" the kid barked with a wicked grin, barely glancing back.
Nero's hand shot out, sharp as a striking snake. He grabbed the kid by the horn. Not hard—but enough.
"Ow! Let go, you maniac!" the boy squawked, legs kicking at air.
"You better watch who you're trying to pickpocket," Nero said. "If I didn't have self control, I'd punt you to the moon."
The kid's embers flared a bit brighter. "Damn. You're too paranoid if you noticed that."
Nero smirked. "Not paranoid. Just been stabbed too many times not to notice grubby little hands."
Before the child could throw more insults, a woman rushed forward—her robes tattered and stained with volcanic soot, skin a darker shade of ash with deeper fissures along her cheeks. She grabbed the boy by both horns and yanked him back with all the practiced grace of a battle-weary mother.
"I'm so sorry," she gasped, pulling the child in close even as he struggled. "He's just… he doesn't understand danger. Please—he meant no harm."
"Yeah, right! I meant harm, Ma!" the kid snapped.
"Shut your mouth, Kethu!"
Before anything else could escalate, a Bladed Order knight approached. His armor bore the sigil of a downward sword piercing an eye wrapped in fog. His voice was flat, like a judge reading a verdict.
"That's the second time your boy tried to steal from people here."
The mother froze. She lowered her head, tail twitching anxiously.
"We don't tolerate theft here. If he does it again, you know what happens."
Her voice was brittle. "Please. He's just a child. I'll keep him close. I swear it."
"If it happens again," the knight said with finality, "he gets put outside."
She bowed low. Said nothing else. She clutched her child, who was still mumbling rebellious obscenities, and quickly walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Nero stared after them, then turned on the knight with a sharp frown.
"Put them outside?" he said. "With all the curses walking around out there? Are you out of your minds?"
The knight didn't flinch. "The Vulthari are a race marked for death anyway. Most end up as thieves. And when they're old enough, they march into volcanoes. That's their role in the world. They keep the fire alive. Their sacrifice is sacred."
"Are you serious..?" Nero said with an intimidating tone.
Cain grabbed his arm. Hard.
"Let it go. We don't need to be fighting here, brat."
"Let go of me."
Cain's voice was cold, low. "And this is why I came with you. You're a walking bonfire, looking for something to burn."
Before Nero could bark back, a shadow loomed at their side—massive, broad-shouldered, armored in rune-steel with the faded scorch-marks of countless Fog hunts.
Anon stepped forward, his voice rough but reverent.
"Bladelord Caiven Har."
Beside him stood a mountain of a man.
Caiven Har had the presence of a hammer waiting to fall. His scalp was bald, but a thick braided ponytail of blond hair hung behind his head, streaked with ash. His beard was a bushy, tangled thing, bound with three rings. His plate armor was worn like a second skin, crusted with old blood, dented by things most men never lived to speak of. Across his back—an enormous, curved sword that hummed faintly in the cold. Whistle Fang. The blade that sang through Fog.
Scars laced his face, crossing both lips and the bridge of his nose like a map of past wars. But his eyes—his eyes were calm.
Anon gestured toward Nero and Cain.
"Here they are. The ones that killed the cursed griffon in the Fog."
Caiven stepped forward.
And then—he knelt.
Right before them. Armor creaked, and steam lifted from his joints.
His head bowed, his voice deep and gravel-hewn.
Nero thought, 'This old man is bowing to two random men at first sight? Is this how the world honors people? Or just this Bladed Order cult?'
Carven Har "I can sense it. The weight in your bones. The flame behind your eyes. You've both bled for your strength. And only those who have bled enough can kill what the Fog has corrupted."
He looked up. And smiled.
"Knights Anon and Carmine filled me in. I'd like to hear the tale from your own tongues."
"It was in our way," Nero and Cain said in unison.
The answer wasn't dramatic, nor was it coated in bravado or awe.
Caiven Har blinked once, then a deep, gravelly smirk spread across his scarred face. He stood slowly, with the sound of leather and steel stretching across tired bones. His towering presence was wrapped in quiet reverence now, as if he were in the presence of something ancient—not boys, not travelers, but forces that had already survived what most would never dream.
"Aye," he said, voice low and almost proud. "That's the truest reason any of us ever need."
He stepped back, gaze still fixed on them, and began to speak—not like a recruiter, but like a priest giving confession to his dead.
"You've met our blades. Now meet the heart behind them," Caiven said. "We serve Veyrhaeth, the Wound-Saint. The God With the Bound Hand. His flesh is sacred ruin, and his spirit is the thread that binds our dying Order together. Once radiant, once golden—now, entombed in rot and memory. A god of what remains after the light fails. He is not as strong as he was before, but nevertheless, he is still powerful."
He lifted one hand, and with his thick, scarred fingers, traced a broken circle across his chest—a symbol of binding.
"He is not worshipped because he is powerful," Caiven continued. "He is loved because he suffers. Because he suffers with us."
His voice deepened with gravity, and he began reciting oaths—each one etched into the skin of every knight, burned by rune-fire or whispered into bone.
"I shall not run when the Fog screams."
"My blade shall remember the names I forget."
"Beauty lies in what is broken but still stands."
"I will carry ruin like a crown."
"I shall burn to light the way for others."
"No wound is without witness."
"If I fall, let my fall become a sword."
He paused, as if letting the weight of the words sink into the marrow.
"Our god," he said, "clings to the life force of every knight. He's dying, slowly, endlessly. His divinity is not eternal—we are his heartbeat now. We do not know how much time he has left. But until his last breath, we will plunge our blades into every demon the Fog births. We are not saving the world—we are dragging it, inch by inch, from the mouth of Hell."
He looked at Nero and Cain like a blacksmith inspecting forged steel.
"All knights serve a role."
Then he began, his voice ceremonial:
"To climb the Bladed is to die in pieces. First, you're a Fog-Thresh. An initiate. You shadow your elders, carry mock blades, burn raw runes into your skin until they seep into your dreams. Most go mad before their third march."
Caiven Har continued, "Then—Bladesworn. True knights. Each forges a sword from cursed ichor. They live in Silence Keeps, sleep upright in tombs, and dream only when the runes allow. Next, Iron-Watchers. Lantern bearers and officers. They lead others into the fog. Their minds are pierced by wyrd-sight. They see the cracks in the world. Then, the Fogmasters—our mystics. They write glyphs into our flesh, seal the soul-chains, and whisper curses into our armor. Without them, we die faster. With them, we die slower. Bladelords command regions. I am one. Each of us has slain at least three Demons within the Fog. Our blades bear the names of cities we've bled for—and the ones we failed. And above all… the Silent Blade. The Grandmaster. We do not know their name, only their blindfold—woven from fairy hair. They reside in the Obsidian Citadel, where the Fog first bled through."
Nero, who had been listening with a strange tension in his eyes, finally spoke.
"So… does your weak dying god know about us?"
Caiven smiled again, but there was something softer in it now—like reverence.
"He does. The moment you stepped foot near the camp, he stirred. He said… he sensed something familiar in you both. He knows your kind. He knows your strength."
Caiven's tone changed again, slightly more grounded, more direct.
"We need your help. There's a demon in the Fog to the north. If it dies, the Fog here breaks. Families go home. Our dead can be buried. Our watch can shift to new ground."
He stepped forward, eyes locked with Nero's. "Lend your strength. Let your ruin meet ours."
Nero replied, "Why us when there's plenty of capable Knights here?"
Cain narrowed his eyes. "We're not helping some random zealot fight his personal nightmares when we've got our own."
Nero crossed his arms. "How is your god even able to be dying?"
Caiven chuckled. "We don't know…but he's weakened. And that means for us, that we are weakened also. When a god finds favor in someone, he's able to pour his power into them, like a link. It doesn't make him weaker, it's still connected to him, but his chosen use it like it's a chain. Everyone in the Bladed Order shares a small fragment of his power. Ruin Magic."
Anon stepped forward then, firm and cool.
"Talk it over with your group. But do not linger. Every hour the demon lives, the Fog deepens. The sooner it dies, the sooner these people return to their lives."
He nodded to Caiven and Carmine.
Together, the three knights turned and walked past them, vanishing into the mist-heavy camp like memories made flesh.