A shadow emerged from the fog behind them, slow and deliberate, moving across the bridge.
His frame was tall, shoulders broad, yet age had etched cunning lines into his face.
The whispers of the mist seemed to curl around him, wary and obedient.
He stopped at the center of the bridge, surveying the kneeling figures with a slow, deliberate smile.
"Is the outsiders dead?" he asked, voice deep and cold, cutting through the fog.
Sinatara lowered her gaze, solemn, letting the silence stretch like heavy stone.
"Yes," she said at last, measured and even, her words carrying weight.
"They have thrown him into the mist," she continued, voice steady as ice.
"He will soon join the treacherous creatures of the damned, the lost whisper , as fate demands."
Taravan Mount chuckled softly, a sound sharp as splintering wood in the mist.
His eyes swept over the bridge, lingering on each kneeling figure with deliberate cruelty.
"Has everyone here completed the ritual?" he asked, voice low, dangerous, awaiting her reply.
A slow, deep smile spread across Sinatara's face, terrifying in its serenity.
"Yes," she said, calm yet triumphant, her words slicing through the cold air.
"The bridge is ready, and the ceremony has ended. Now at your call Sir Taravan . All is as it should be."
The bridge stretched before them, appearing fragile, wooden, but steady underfoot.
Mist curled beneath it, hiding the true abyss, keeping the illusion intact and safe.
The Veil wove its deception, shielding the eyes of those not meant to see below.
The mist over the lake thickened, swallowing sound and sight alike.
Gareth stood at the edge of the shore, his boots sinking into the damp earth, eyes narrowing at the endless white.
Behind him, the others waited — tense, silent — the faint shimmer of their Veil-sense flickering like dying embers.
No wind stirred. No ripple touched the black surface. Only the faint hum of the unseen current below.
"How do we cross it?" Brennar muttered, voice hoarse, his scarred face ghostly in the haze.
"Swim?" Doran scoffed quietly. "The mist will choke us before we're halfway through."
Gareth said nothing. His gaze traced the horizon, searching for anything — a sign, a path, a whisper of the impossible.
Then — the air shifted.
A sound, faint but deliberate, like wood groaning under invisible weight.
From within the fog, shapes began to emerge — long, curved beams of pale wood arching out of nothing.
Each plank shimmered faintly, wet with condensation, the faint golden sigils pulsing beneath the surface like veins of light.
The bridge rose from the mist — silent, sacred, and wrong.
It looked fragile, impossibly thin, yet steady beneath the ghostly shimmer of the Veil.
Mist coiled around its edges, hiding where it truly began or ended, giving the illusion that it simply hung in the air.
Brennar stepped forward, awe and dread in his eyes. "It's… calling to us."
Gareth's hand tightened on his blade. "No," he said quietly. "It's waiting."
The bridge waited — silent, suspended over the black water like a memory that refused to fade.
One by one, the warriors stepped forward. Their boots touched the pale wood, and the sigils pulsed faintly beneath their feet — like the bridge itself was breathing.
The mist thickened around them, swallowing the sound of their footsteps. Only the creak of the planks echoed softly, too soft, too deliberate.
Gareth moved near the center, every instinct sharpened, the Veil humming faintly in his veins.
The Kharuun girl stayed close beside him — her dark braid damp with mist, her amber eyes wary but unflinching.
She whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. "It feels… alive."
Gareth didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed ahead, watching the bridge vanish into the fog.
The others followed in silence — Brennar, Doran, and the remaining Vaelmir — their forms faint outlines swallowed by white.
Below, faint whispers stirred — soft, broken voices rising from the depths.
Each step forward felt heavier, as though the bridge itself resisted their presence.
The mist pressed close now, brushing their faces like unseen hands.
The Kharuun girl's grip tightened on Gareth's arm. "Don't stop," she murmured, fear trembling beneath her calm.
He nodded once. "Keep moving. Don't look down."
They moved as one — shadows crossing a dream that didn't want them there.
And somewhere deep below, the mist shifted — as if something watched them pass.
They reached the middle of the bridge.
The fog began to thin, just barely — enough for faint silhouettes to appear through the veil of white ahead.
Figures. Kneeling. Silent.
Gareth slowed his pace, raising a hand for the others to halt. The air felt heavier now, thick with the pressure of unseen eyes.
The shapes grew clearer — a line of warriors kneeling on the far side, their armor marked with black and silver.
Brennar's voice was a whisper. "That… that can't be right."
Then a voice broke the silence — deep, commanding, echoing across the mist.
"Are you from Kharuun?"
The sound rolled like thunder over the water, sharp and deliberate, scattering the silence.
Gareth's hand moved to his sword. The Kharuun girl stiffened beside him, her breath quickening.
The fog shifted again — and they saw him.
A tall man standing at the far end of the bridge, cloak dragging through the mist, eyes cold as winter steel.
Taravan Mount.
Even from this distance, his presence pressed against them — calm, dangerous, assured.
Gareth met his gaze across the void. "And if we are?" he called back, voice steady, cutting through the fog.
The mist coiled tighter between them, whispering like something alive.
Taravan's faint smile was visible even through the haze. "Then the bridge has chosen its final toll."
Taravan's hand moved slowly beneath his cloak.
Something small and wrapped in crimson cloth slipped from his grasp, cutting through the mist as it sailed across the bridge.
It landed with a soft thud at Gareth's feet — a sealed scroll, bound in red wax and marked with an unfamiliar sigil that pulsed faintly with Veillight.
Doran bent, hesitating only a moment before unrolling it. His eyes flicked quickly across the symbols — his breath faltering halfway through.
"It's… a blood contract," he muttered, voice tight. "Signed by… by the Valemir and the Vaelmir orders. It names both sides as witnesses."
Gareth's gaze stayed on the shadowed man ahead. "So it's true then," he said coldly. "You're the Valerians we were told to face."
Taravan chuckled softly, the sound carrying clean across the mist. "Face?" he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. "No, boy. You were meant to fall."
His smile widened, cruel and effortless. "You're the one they call Gareth Valven, aren't you? The young brat who walks with borrowed light."
Gareth's eyes narrowed, his voice low and even. "That's me."
He stepped forward once, the mist curling around his boots. "But you'll regret saying it out loud."
The bridge creaked beneath them — long, slow, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Taravan's smirk didn't fade. "Then come, boy. Let the mist decide which of us it keeps."
Taravan's chuckle deepened, low and cruel, echoing through the mist like breaking wood.
"Worthy?" he said finally, tilting his head. "You mistake your place, boy."
He took a step forward, boots silent on the bridge, cloak trailing through the vapor like a living shadow.
"You are not even worth my sheath."
The words struck cold — sharp enough to cut through the fog itself.
Taravan turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting down the line of kneeling Valerian warriors. His hand rose, finger pointing lazily toward one at the edge.
"You," he said. "Face him."
The chosen warrior flinched. He was young — barely older than Gareth — his armor mismatched, his grip on his spear trembling just enough to show it.
"Name," Taravan commanded.
The boy straightened quickly, swallowing hard. "R-Rynel, sir."
"Then fight, Rynel," Taravan said, his tone bored, almost amused. "Show the brat what it means to stand on our bridge."
Rynel hesitated, eyes darting to Gareth, then to the abyss below.
The mist curled between them, whispering like laughter.
Gareth's gaze hardened. "He doesn't want this," he said quietly.
Taravan smiled. "Then end it quickly, brat. Or die as slow as your pity."
Rynel lifted his spear with both hands — his breathing ragged, his fear clear as daylight.
The bridge creaked once more, the air tightening — as if the Veil itself waited for blood to touch its surface.
Gareth exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as the bridge groaned beneath their feet.
He turned slightly, his gaze meeting the Kharuun girl's.
"What's your name anyway?" he asked.
She tilted her head, a grin flashing through the mist. "Nessy," she said, tone teasing, proud. "Why? Planning to remember it when you fall?"
Gareth smirked. "Just making sure I know who'll have to drag my corpse back if I lose."
Nessy laughed — a rough, warm sound that cut through the chill air.
Then she leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Think you can win this first round, outsider?"
Gareth's grin widened. "I'll let you know after I stop yawning."
She snorted, then reached up and smacked his head — hard enough to ruffle his hair.
"Cocky brat," she muttered, though the corners of her lips twitched.
Her own hair was a wild mess now, strands whipping around her face in the canyon wind.
She pouted for half a heartbeat — then smiled anyway, sharp and fearless.
Gareth straightened, brushing his hair back lazily.
"I'll win," he said, eyes narrowing toward the trembling warrior ahead. "Even without using the Veil."
He gave the other Kharuun warriors a look — half challenge, half grin — before stepping forward.
The bridge creaked under his boots, the mist swirling tighter around his legs.
At the center, Gareth drew his blade — red and black, its edge alive with faint, sleeping light.
He lifted it high, pointing the blade toward the sky, and laughed — a bright, reckless sound that carried across the canyon.
"Alright," he said, eyes gleaming. "Let's make this quick. I'll win."
Rynel stepped forward, each footfall uncertain against the wooden bridge.
The mist clung to his boots, trembling as if even it feared the weight of his steps.
His hands shook faintly around the spear.
He swallowed, breath unsteady, eyes darting between Gareth and the abyss below.
Taravan's voice cut through the silence, smooth and cold.
"When the sound of the explosion fades," he said, holding up a small, dark sphere, "the battle begins."
Without another word, he tossed it high into the air.
The sphere burst with a blinding flash — a deep roar that rolled through the canyon like thunder.
Flames scattered into smoke and shimmer, the echo twisting into the fog until it vanished.
Gareth blinked, eyebrows raising. "Well… that's one way to start a fight."
He looked back at Rynel, who was staring wide-eyed, still gripping his spear like it was the last solid thing in the world.
"So…" Rynel asked weakly, voice trembling, "should we, um… begin fighting now?"
Gareth tilted his head. "That was the idea, yeah."
From behind the mist, Taravan's laugh rang out, sharp and mocking.
"Try not to trip over your own fear, boy," he said.
"I'd rather not waste another explosive on a corpse that hasn't fallen yet."
Gareth smirked faintly. "You talk a lot for someone hiding behind smoke, old man."
Taravan's grin widened, voice dripping with cruel amusement.
"And you talk boldly for someone who'll soon be under it."
The bridge went still.
Only the wind moved — carrying the faint hum of the Veil beneath their feet.
Gareth lifted his sword slowly, the red-black steel catching the fractured light.
Rynel's spear trembled once, but he raised it all the same.
The First duel of the Lake of Forgotten dreams had begun.