The line moved as if it had always been moving. Fifty figures stretched through the fog, footsteps pressed into damp stone, the sound half-swallowed by the air. In fogtime, words were costly, and silence was safer than coin.
At the front walked the leader. He wore no crest, no mark of command, yet his pace held the authority of inevitability. The fog shifted around him, curling, pausing, parting, as if reluctant to touch. His shoulders were square, his stride steady, his silence deeper than the hush of the tunnels. Behind him, every step aligned to his rhythm, though no order had been given.
The two sisters walked near the middle of the line. Their eyes were covered in smooth strips of black cloth, tied with deliberate care, not ragged binding. They were not blind. The set of their mouths betrayed awareness, the tilt of their heads answered questions before they were asked. They walked unhurried, confident, each footfall landing with a strange certainty. The taller of the two swayed slightly as she moved, chin raised, as if listening to something overhead. The shorter touched the walls with the backs of her fingers when the tunnel narrowed, whispering softly under her breath. The words were not for others, but they traveled all the same, thin threads woven into the fog.
Some looked at them with unease, others with reverence. No one spoke to them. Every expedition carried two priests of the Mother Earth, to bless its path and remind the living of the goddess who still dreamed. But the sisters' presence was not comfort. They were not guides. They were reminders of debt.
Behind them walked a man with a scar running pale across his left eye. The mark pulled faintly at his mouth when he frowned, and he often frowned. A bone spear rested across his shoulders when his arms tired, balanced by habit. His eyes never left the edges of the fog, watching corners and cracks where shadows lingered too long. He had the look of someone used to counting companions and coming up short.
Beside him limped another. His left leg dragged, shortened by some old wound, but he carried a pack heavy enough for two. Sweat soaked the cloth at his neck. He breathed harshly but never faltered. The scarred man glanced at him once.
"Still keeping up, Bren?" His voice was a rasp, low enough that the fog almost ate it.
The limping man snorted. "I'll be the last one standing, Garrick. You'll see."
A faint smile tugged at the scarred man's mouth. The line moved on.
Further back walked a boy too young for the spear he carried. The weapon's tip bobbed with each step, nearly catching the fog like a net. His arms shook with the weight, but he held it as though letting go would cost more than his strength. At his side, a woman with glowing tattoos beneath her sleeve guided him with a light touch. The marks writhed faintly under her skin, demon script branded by potions long past. The fog made them burn brighter. She hissed softly, clenched her hand, then steadied.
The boy whispered, "It's heavy."
"Better heavy than empty-handed," she replied, her voice a whisper sharpened by pain.
Another hunter, carrying a pack of herbs, glanced at her. "He'll grow into it, Mara."
The woman—Mara—nodded once, eyes forward, her grip never leaving the boy's shoulder. His name was not spoken, but his small, stubborn steps said enough.
An elder with a broken staff clicked his way at the rear. The staff had snapped once, bound back together with leather strips, and it clicked against stone out of rhythm with the others. His lips moved constantly, muttering words lost in the fog. Some were curses, some prayers, some nonsense. Those close enough to hear did not interrupt. The underground had ways of listening, and sometimes mutters were better left untranslated.
The fog thickened, sudden as thought. It curled higher, brushing thighs, sliding into cloth, clinging like damp breath. The tattooed woman's marks flared brighter. She gritted her teeth, jaw trembling. Another man near the back groaned, clutching his arm where script coiled dark beneath his skin. No one slowed. To falter in fogtime was worse than pain.
The taller sister tilted her head slightly, listening. The shorter hummed faintly, her fingers brushing stone. Their blindfolds caught the lichen-light, two black pools in the dimness. A voice muttered low in the line.
"They can see if they want to. That's what unsettles me."
The elder snapped his head around, eyes sharp. "Mind your tongue. They walk for all of us."
The man lowered his gaze, silence returning.
The procession reached a narrowing, walls pressing close. Shoulders brushed damp stone. Cloth scraped, bone tapped against rock. The taller sister's blindfold snagged on a jagged edge, but she did not pause. She tilted her head and the cloth slid free. The shorter sister brushed the wall lightly, whispering a word that disappeared into the stone. The scarred man's spear scraped, leaving a pale mark already fading.
Then the tunnel opened. A vast chamber stretched ahead, ceiling lost in haze. Their footsteps rang hollow, carried upward, returned altered. No one dared speak. The air shifted, bringing with it a sound half stone, half claw. The scarred man adjusted his spear. The boy stumbled, steadied by Mara's hand. The leader at the front never broke stride, pace steady as stone's memory.
They passed ruins half-swallowed by the earth. Pillars bent under invisible weight. Rusted beams jutted like ribs from collapsed walls. Shadows crouched in corners, too still, too thick. The limping man glanced once at the wreckage, then fixed his eyes forward. The scarred man muttered, "I've seen that place before."
"You've seen every place before," Bren said, his limp sharper with the incline.
"Not every place," Garrick replied. He tapped his spear softly against his shoulder. "Just the ones that don't like being looked at."
Time stretched, bent, folded. Steps lost count. The fog thickened, thinned, thickened again. The sisters' whispers rose and fell with it, one like reeds swaying in water, the other like stone worn down by rivers. A child stumbled. Strong arms lifted him before he could cry. A pack shifted, bones inside knocking together like teeth. Silence pressed down heavier than any burden.
The leader paused. One boot scraped against stone. The line froze, fifty figures turned to shadow statues. He stood at the mouth of a side passage, still as a carved idol, head tilted slightly. For a heartbeat, two, three, he did not move. Then his hand lifted, palm open. The line shifted with him, slow, cautious, obeying without thought.
Ahead loomed a ruin. The fog curled inside its edges, sliding down cracked concrete, coiling into broken beams. Pillars leaned like drunks, metal vines rusted and sagging. The floor sloped, scattered with rubble. Shadows gathered in the hollows, waiting. It was a shape from another world, a husk of something the surface had once known.
The scarred man muttered, "I don't like it."
"Better stone above than claws outside," the elder snapped, leaning heavier on his staff.
A nervous laugh came from a younger hunter. "You've never liked anything, Garrick."
The scarred man's head turned, eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.
The fog outside stirred. A ripple moved through it, low, heavy, like many feet passing unseen. The ruin's shadows, though thick, were safer. The leader entered without hesitation, his steps echoing faintly. The line followed, fifty shadows filing into the carcass of another age.
Inside, the air was stale. Dust clung to throats, to skin, to breath. Water dripped from cracks high above, staining the walls like veins. Shapes leaned in corners, half-machines, rusted carcasses. Pillars stood bent but unbroken, holding the weight of years. The fog drifted in thin, curling around ankles, vanishing into cracks.
Some collapsed at once, dropping packs. Bone spears clattered faintly. The scarred man sat with his back to a pillar, testing his spear point against stone. The limping man lowered his pack with a hiss of relief, his chest heaving. The boy curled small beside his too-long spear, his eyes wide. Mara sat beside him, her glowing tattoos dimming slowly, pain easing but not gone. The elder leaned against his broken staff, muttering into the dust, his eyes sharp as ever.
The sisters began to walk. Their steps were slow, deliberate. The taller swayed, chin tilted toward unseen corners. The shorter brushed her fingers against walls, her whispers sinking into stone. They circled the camp's edges, marking its boundaries, blessing its hollows. The black cloth over their eyes caught the faint glow of lichens, two dark wells moving through the ruin.
People watched them. Some with reverence, some with unease, none with comfort. The ruin's dust shifted beneath their feet, the sound of their whispers threading through the camp like smoke.
The leader leaned against a pillar, arms folded, eyes following their path. He said nothing. His silence was enough.
A drip fell into a hidden pool, the echo too long. The shorter sister turned her head slightly, listening, then moved on.
Outside, the fog stirred again. A low rumble passed through the tunnels—many feet, moving as one. Ghouls, perhaps, though no one said it. The ruin held its breath with them. The sound faded, and the fog settled once more.
Inside, the camp exhaled. Packs shifted into pillows. Bone spears stacked near sleeping forms. The fireless circle of weary travelers quieted into half-rest. The sisters' steps continued, whispers sliding into the ruin's old bones, weaving prayer or warning—it was impossible to tell which.
The ruin allowed them. For now.