Elise didn't remember leaving the sheriff's office. She only knew she was outside, the night air sharp in her lungs, the fog clinging to her hair like damp fingers. The parchment with the list of names felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in her coat pocket. Each step she took down Briarwall's crooked lane echoed as though she were walking into her own sentence.
Her thoughts reeled. Jonas, gone. Others marked. Herself, written down like a lamb to slaughter. And the bell—it hadn't finished its tolling. Six more would be taken before the fog was satisfied.
A shadow moved ahead of her. Maris Dyer emerged from the mist, lantern in hand, its faint circle of light bobbing like a will-o'-the-wisp. Her expression was pale, set, but her eyes widened when she saw Elise.
"You've spoken to him," Maris said, voice low. "The sheriff told you."
Elise's hand brushed the parchment in her pocket. "You already knew."
Maris gave a brittle laugh. "Of course I knew. I hear them before anyone else does. The whispers. They come to me in the fog. This time… it said your name too."
Elise froze. "Mine?"
Maris stepped closer, lantern light catching the haunted hollows of her face. "I tried not to believe it. I told myself it was just the madness of solitude. But no—your name, as clear as the church bells. The fog has chosen you."
For the first time since arriving in Briarwall, Elise felt the full weight of dread settle into her bones. "How long… how long until—?"
"No one knows." Maris' grip on the lantern tightened. "Sometimes the chosen vanish within hours. Sometimes weeks. The fog is patient, and cruel." She leaned closer, her voice trembling but urgent. "But this time feels different. There are more voices than I've ever heard. It's as though the fog hungers."
Elise shook her head. "There has to be a way to break this. If a bargain was made, bargains can be undone. We can't just—wait."
Maris' eyes flashed with something fierce, almost desperate. "You speak like someone who hasn't lived with it all her life. Do you think I haven't tried? I've scoured every book, spoken to every elder. The Watchman's pact binds us. The sea doesn't forget, and the fog doesn't forgive."
"Then maybe it needs reminding," Elise said, surprising herself with the steel in her tone. "Maybe the fog isn't invincible. Maybe it can be fought."
Maris stared at her as though weighing the measure of her defiance. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curved into a weary smile. "You're either brave or foolish, Elise Harrington. Perhaps both. But if you truly mean to stand against Briarwall's curse, you won't do it alone."
The two women stood in silence, their lanterns casting overlapping halos of fragile light in the sea of fog. Somewhere distant, a gull cried, its voice ragged, almost human.
Then, faintly, Elise heard it.
Her name.
"Elise…"
It slithered through the fog, a voice without a mouth, a breath without a body. She stiffened, every hair on her neck rising. Maris' hand shot out, gripping her arm.
"You hear it now, don't you?" Maris whispered. "That means it has truly marked you."
Elise swallowed, throat dry as ash. "Then we have no time to lose."
Maris nodded slowly, lantern swinging between them. "The Reverend may know more. He guards the chapel archives like a dragon over its hoard. There are books in there that predate Briarwall itself. If anyone has written down the truth of the pact, it will be there."
Together, they turned toward the shadowed spire of St. Crowthorne's Chapel, its steeple barely visible through the choking fog. The bell rope hung within like a noose, waiting for its turn to toll again.
As they walked, Elise glanced back once. The lane behind them was empty, yet she couldn't shake the certainty that unseen figures walked in their wake—shadows shaped by the fog, patient, silent, waiting for the next toll of the bell.