Mist drifted low across the lake, curling around roots and broken stones.
The Vaelmir warriors sat scattered across the shore — quiet, their breath steady, their cloaks heavy with dew.
Janus leaned on his knee, the faint hum of the Veil still pulsing beneath his skin.
He looked down at the water — endless, silver, and strangely still.
"How," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "are we supposed to cross this thing?"
The woman beside him — the bronze-eyed Vaelmirian from before — lifted her gaze from the rippling surface.
Her expression was calm, almost reverent.
"There's a bridge," she said softly. "Old as the first dawn. But you can't see it — not yet."
Janus frowned. "Because of the fog?"
She nodded once, slow.
"The Heartroot hides it until it's called. The mist you see isn't just air — it's the breath of the world's root. We must ask permission to walk through it."
Janus stared at her, skeptical but curious. "Ask permission from a tree?"
The others around them stirred, forming a loose circle, their cloaks brushing against the soil.
The woman smiled faintly. "Not a tree. A god that remembers being one."
She stood, lifting a hand toward the lake's faint glow.
"The bridge will appear when we honor the pact — the Rite of Passing."
Janus straightened slowly, watching as the others began to prepare, setting small carved stones in the dirt — each one marked with the sigil of a serpent coiled around a crescent.
The mist began to shift.
It thickened, whispering against the surface of the lake like a thousand unseen voices.
The mist rippled.
Then — silence.
From the still water, shapes began to emerge — low, heavy, and silent as shadows given form.
Black tigers.
Their coats shimmered faintly under the pale Veil-light, not striped but veined with streaks of silver that pulsed like veins of living metal.
They moved with impossible calm — paws gliding over the wet earth, eyes glowing faintly blue like distant stars.
None of them growled. None roared.
They simply stood there, a dozen or more, forming a loose half-circle before the Vaelmir camp — their tails flicking slowly through the mist.
Janus froze, every sense tightening, his hand sliding to the hilt at his side.
But the Vaelmirian woman didn't move. She lowered her head instead, voice quiet as the lake's breath.
"The Black Tigers of the Veil," she whispered. "Guardians of the Heartroot."
Janus glanced at her. "Guardians? Of that tree?"
She nodded. "They appear when the Rite begins — to judge if we are worthy to cross."
The nearest tiger stepped forward — massive, its shoulders taller than Janus's chest, breath steaming softly through the fog.
Its eyes met his — and for a heartbeat, Janus felt weight press against his soul, as if the world itself looked back through those eyes.
The woman spoke again, her tone steady now.
"They do not attack," she said. "Not unless the mist finds doubt in your heart."
Janus swallowed hard, forcing a grin. "Then let's make sure it doesn't look too deep."
The others chuckled nervously, but no one moved.
The tigers waited — calm, unblinking, patient.
The Rite was about to begin.
The mist stirred — then, in an instant, broke.
One of the tigers lunged.
A blur of black and silver, faster than sound — claws flashing like blades drawn from night itself.
Janus barely turned before the strike landed.
The impact sent him crashing backward, air torn from his lungs. A line of red bloomed across his chest — deep, raw, spilling warmth down his ribs.
He hit the ground hard, the world tilting. The fog spun, heavy with iron and pain.
"Janus!"
The Vaelmir woman was on him in a heartbeat, arms catching him before he hit the dirt again. Her hands pressed against his chest, her eyes wide with shock.
The tiger stood over them, silent, tail swaying. Its eyes weren't furious — just watchful. Testing.
Janus's breath came ragged, half a laugh, half a curse. "Great… first test failed, huh?"
"Idiot," she hissed, voice trembling between anger and fear. "You moved too fast! They don't forgive sudden motion—"
He winced, blood smearing her hands. "Could've… told me that before it decided I was lunch."
Her jaw tightened, guilt flashing in her eyes. "Stay still. If you move again, it'll finish it."
The other Vaelmirians stood frozen — none daring to draw a blade.
Janus's gaze lifted, meeting the tiger's burning eyes.
Annoyance flickered beneath the pain — not fear, not despair. Just annoyance.
He gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, "Damn beasts. Always the dramatic ones."
The tiger blinked slowly — then stepped back, melting into the mist as though satisfied.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Janus exhaled, sweat and blood mingling across his skin. "...Guess that means the Rite's started."
The woman's hand cracked across his face — sharp, echoing through the mist.
Janus's head turned with the hit, blood still dripping down his chest.
Her eyes blazed, voice shaking. "You think this is a joke? You nearly died!"
The others froze, the tigers watching silently from the fog. Even the mist seemed to still.
Janus blinked once, slowly turning back to her. The faint grin was gone.
He sighed — tired, quiet. "...You don't get it."
Her hand hovered midair, uncertain now. "What do you mean?"
Janus's gaze dropped to his palm — still stained red, trembling slightly. He clenched it.
"I don't use the Veil," he said flatly. "Haven't for a long time."
A ripple went through the Vaelmirians — a few whispers, disbelief.
She frowned. "That's impossible. Every warrior—"
"Not me." His tone cut through her words. "I stopped feeling it years ago. Whatever connection I had… it's gone."
The fog swirled between them, slow and heavy. The tiger's eyes glimmered faintly in the distance — as if listening.
He looked up again, eyes hard, voice low. "So if you're counting on me for your Veil rituals or divine visions, don't."
Her expression faltered — the anger fading, replaced by confusion. "Then why are you even here?"
Janus exhaled, gaze drifting toward the hidden bridge beneath the fog.
Janus exhaled slowly, the air leaving his chest with a faint tremor.
He looked down at his bloodstained hand, then back at her — the edge in his tone softening, but only slightly.
"I'm here," he said quietly, "because there are people who still believe I can do something."
The mist rippled faintly around his boots, catching the dull red of his blood.
"I can't fail them. Not here. Not when I've been the underdog everywhere else."
His voice deepened — steady now, carrying through the silent fog.
"I've been at the bottom too long. If I die, I'll make it mean something."
The woman's anger faded. She looked at him for a long moment, lips parting, but no words came.
Even the tigers lowered their heads — quiet, almost reverent.
The fog curled tighter around them, glowing faintly with unseen light, as if the Wildzone itself had heard.
Janus staggered, the words barely leaving his lips before his knees buckled.
Blood poured freely down his chest — dark, thick, steaming in the cold mist. It soaked through his leathers, dripping onto the pale stones beneath him.
He tried to steady himself, one hand pressed hard against the wound, but the strength was already leaving him.
The other Vaelmir warriors just stood there — silent, eyes wide, faces pale. The mist hung still, heavy, watching.
Then the woman moved.
"Don't just stand there!" she screamed, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze. "Start the ritual — now!"
Her hands flared with Veil-light, veins glowing faint blue as she pressed her palm against Janus's wound.
The others jolted into motion, kneeling in a circle around them, their hands tracing old, jagged runes into the stone.
The fog shifted — tendrils coiling upward, drawn toward the spreading blood.
It began to pulse. Once. Twice. Then the air itself seemed to breathe.
The lake beyond them stirred — faint ripples spreading outward as if something vast had heard their call.
And through the rising mist, the faint shape of a bridge began to take form — carved from light, flickering between existence and dream.
The mist thickened — twisting, breathing, alive.
It coiled around the Vaelmir warriors, curling into their mouths, their eyes, their wounds.
One by one, they gasped as the Veil filled them — veins glowing white-blue, breath turning cold and sharp.
Janus stayed on his knees, chest torn open, blood soaking the soil beneath him. His vision blurred — all he could see was the glow of their eyes in the fog.
"Help…" he rasped, voice shaking. "Please… I'm bleeding out—"
The woman turned to him slowly.
For a heartbeat, her expression was unreadable — and then she smiled. A cold, sharp thing.
Her laughter rang through the mist — low, cruel, echoing.
"The law of the strongest," she said softly, almost tenderly. "You should've remembered it before stepping into the Wildzone."
Janus froze. His throat tightened. The betrayal hit harder than the wound itself.
He looked up at her, eyes wide — not in fear, but disbelief.
"After everything…" he whispered. "You're just going to let me die. You bastard how could you do this?"
She didn't answer him.
Instead, she turned to the others, her tone calm, commanding.
"The bridge won't form until the mist chooses," she said. "And it only chooses strength. The only way he lives…"
Her eyes flicked to Janus, hard and distant.
"…is if his emotions spike high enough to wake the Veil inside him. Pain. Rage. Despair — it doesn't matter. He either burns… or he's nothing."
The mist swirled around Janus's body, pressing closer — whispering, crawling under his skin like cold fire.
And somewhere in that choking silence, the world itself seemed to wait — to see if the broken boy beneath the blood would rise… or vanish.
The girl's voice cut through the silence — calm, detached, as if she'd done this a hundred times before.
"The ritual," she said quietly, "isn't something we perform out of choice. It's what the mist demands."
Her gaze swept across the others — warriors standing still beneath the eerie glow of the lake.
The black tigers circled them slowly, silent guardians, their eyes reflecting silver light.
"Our ritual is simple," she continued, her tone eerily even.
"Eerie, almost emotionless. First — we still ourselves. We think of nothing. We let the guardians watch. If they sense fear… we're already dead."
Janus could barely focus through the pain — but her words felt heavy, cold, like the mist itself had given them shape.
"The next step," she said, tracing a slow circle in the dirt with her blade, "is to form the ring. The position must be exact. The stronger the formation, the cleaner the flow."
She lifted a vial — clear glass swirling with pale, ghostlike vapors.
"And then comes the third step. We absorb the mist's energy — let it move through our bodies. The absorption depends on your Veil capacity. If you're weak… you drown in it."
She turned the vial in her hand, watching it glow faintly. "The side effects aren't serious," she said with a dry smirk, "unless you value your sanity."
Then, without hesitation, she uncorked it — the cold vapor spilling out like a living thing.
"The final process," she said, voice almost reverent now, "is the injection of distilled mist essence. A liquid that numbs emotion, sharpens focus."
She looked at Janus as if measuring him. "It's what separates the strong from the Lost. The weak lose themselves — their minds wander into the fog forever. We call them the Lost Whispers."
The mist around them pulsed faintly, responding to her words.
"The survivors," she went on, "emerge pale, calm — voices muted, eyes glowing white.
The mist chooses them… and through them, the bridge is born."
Her expression darkened slightly, as if recalling a story too old to question.
"At least," she said, almost whispering now, "that's what our forefathers from the East claimed. No one truly knows if the mist chooses us… or consumes us."
The black tigers growled lowly, their breath like smoke, as the first drops of distilled essence began to glow in the warriors' hands.
The black tigers growled lowly, their breath like smoke, as the first drops of distilled essence began to glow in the warriors' hands.
Mist coiled around their feet, threading into the air like silver veins.
One by one, the warriors closed their eyes — their bodies growing still, their hearts slowing, their minds emptying.
Janus watched them through dimming vision, clutching his chest.
Blood streamed down his ribs, staining the cracked dirt beneath him.
He tried to breathe — but every breath drew in more mist. It crawled down his throat, burning cold, sinking into his lungs.
He coughed violently.
Nothing came out but vapor.
"Help… me…" he rasped, hand trembling toward the Valemirian woman.
She turned slowly. The soft white glow of the mist lit her sharp cheekbones, her expression unreadable.
Then — she laughed. Low. Cruel. Almost beautiful.
"The law of the strongest," she murmured.
Janus froze, disbelief and betrayal flickering across his face.
His voice broke — "Why…?"
She didn't answer him. Instead, she raised her voice to the others.
"The ritual begins now! Focus your Veil! Don't break your calm!"
The circle tightened. Mist surged. Janus's body convulsed, veins blackening as the fog tore into him.
His chest heaved, his heart fighting the emptiness consuming him.
There was no Veil within him — no light, no anchor.
Only the void.
He tried to reach for something — anything. But the mist swallowed his hand whole.
His eyes glazed. His lips quivered with fading strength.
"Just… save the cadets… we captured… for me…"
Silence.
Then — his body went still.
The woman stepped close, crouching beside him. Her face softened just for a moment, then curved into a smile — slow, strange, fanatical.
"My name…" she whispered, voice like the edge of a blade, "is Sinatara."
The bridge behind her began to form — vast and ghostly, emerging from the fog as if carved from moonlight and sorrow.
Sinatara rose, her robes trailing mist.
She glanced down at the corpse of Janus Valemir.
"It has been forty-five deaths already , since the beginning," she said softly.
"And your whole batch will be killed and fed to the god of the East."
She turned and walked into the fog.
The tigers followed him for an unknown reason.
And the mist closed over Janus's lifeless body — until only silence remained.
Janus had died.