The horses thundered through the mist, hooves pounding mud and stone, their breath like smoke against the bitter dawn. All night they had ridden—two shadows tearing northward, away from the burning kingdom of Yainna. The fog rolled thick as wool, swallowing sound, swallowing light, until it seemed as though the world had shrunk to nothing but the pounding of hooves and the frantic beating of hearts.
William's armor rattled faintly with each stride. His hands gripped the reins hard, knuckles pale beneath leather gloves. His eyes, though reddened by exhaustion, burned with something deeper—grief sharpened into defiance. Beside him, Vincent rode hard, his cloak whipping, his jaw clenched against the cold. He had barely spoken the entire night, save for the occasional curse or grunt to keep William moving.
But when the fog parted just enough to reveal a wide-open field, William's horse slowed. He pulled at the reins until the beast came to a stop, its sides heaving, nostrils flaring. Vincent, caught in the momentum, swung his horse back with irritation.
"Oi!" he barked, his voice hoarse, breath visible in the damp air. "Why've you stopped, mate?"
William sat tall, though his face betrayed his turmoil. He looked back south, into the thick grey veil behind them—the direction of Yainna, though now it might as well have been another world. "My father… and the princess," he said, voice raw. "They're back there. I think we must return."
Vincent blinked at him, then let out a laugh so bitter it stung the air. "Are you mad?" he snapped. "Didn't you see those things? They'll eat you while you still draw breath. You can't go back."
William's hands tightened on the reins. "I have to."
Vincent leaned forward, eyes wide, almost pleading. "No, listen to me. I hate to say it, but they're probably already dead—your father, the princess, the whole bloody kingdom. We can't go back. The only hope we've got is to push north. Gentle Frost, Emberlyn, maybe further. Anywhere but Yainna."
The words struck William like a blade, and for a long moment, only silence stood between them. Then William turned sharply, his stare piercing. "You say that so easily. Like you've swallowed death before and it no longer chokes you."
Vincent looked at him with pity, then sighed. "I know this is hard to swallow, but Yainna is gone. It was said it would be, long before tonight."
William froze. His voice dropped low, dangerous. "So you knew. Didn't you? You knew, and what did you do with this information? Nothing?!"
Vincent recoiled slightly, more from the fire in William's eyes than the accusation itself. He dismounted in one swift movement, boots sinking into wet earth. Without warning, he slapped his horse's flank. The beast neighed sharply, then bolted into the mist.
"Vincent!" William shouted, pulling his horse around, panic rising. "What are you doing?!"
Vincent strode toward him with grim purpose. He grabbed at William's saddle, tugging at the straps with sharp, angry jerks. The leather groaned, then slipped loose. In the same motion, Vincent slapped William's horse hard, sending it sprinting into the fog. William toppled, armor clattering as he hit the mud.
He scrambled to his knees, furious. "Why did you do that? How will we ever make it back?"
"We aren't going back, you idiot!" Vincent snapped, standing over him, cloak dripping with dew. "There's nothing there but streets of blood!"
"My father is a fighter! He—"
Before William could finish, Vincent stepped closer, almost nose to nose, his breath hot with rage. "Your father was mortal. A man. Those things weren't men—they were shadows and poison and seven hundred devils stitched into flesh. You saw it. I saw it. Yainna is gone, William!"
William's chest heaved, rage and grief twisting him inside out. His voice cracked. "If my father is dead, and the princess… what of the king? If he is gone, then I am next in line. I must take command."
Vincent scoffed, the sound sharp and cruel. "Take command? Over what? A graveyard? What are you, some kind of undertaker?"
William froze. The insult stung, but not because it was cruel—because it rang with truth. He was a knight without a kingdom, a son without a father, a soldier without an army. His eyes dropped, shoulders heavy. The fog pressed in on him like a shroud.
For a long while, neither spoke. Only the sound of distant thunder—though whether from storm or war, neither could tell.
Vincent studied him in silence, arms crossed, his anger fading into something quieter. He's still just a boy, Vincent thought. A boy drowning in fire and ash.
William finally whispered, voice trembling but steadying with each word. "I haven't accepted it."
Vincent tilted his head, squinting. "What?"
William lifted his face, streaked with mud and wet from more than rain. "I haven't accepted that they're all gone." His voice broke, but then returned stronger, his jaw set. "I can't. If I do… then I have nothing left."
Vincent exhaled sharply, tipping his head back toward the grey heavens. Rain began to fall then, soft at first, then heavier—sheets of it, drumming the field, soaking them through. It was as if the earth itself mourned Yainna.
Vincent turned away, muttering curses at the sky, then put two fingers to his lips. He whistled, loud and clear. Within seconds, their horses returned, galloping from the mist as though answering an old friend's call.
William blinked in surprise. "You… you called them back?"
Vincent smirked faintly, shrugging. "Aye. I may be a bastard, but I'm not about to leave us stranded in the bloody fog."
Vincent mounted his horse again, then gestured to the treeline ahead. "We'll take shelter there, wait this storm out. When it passes… we'll decide whether we return."
William hesitated, but finally nodded, gripping the reins once more. His heart was still heavy, his eyes still burning, but something in Vincent's steadiness—rough as it was—kept him moving.
The two rode on through the rain, two shadows bound not by choice but by survival, their bond yet unspoken but already forged in grief.
And behind them, far to the south, Yainna burned.