The Mist and the Fighter
The forest was quieter the next day. Too quiet.
Elias noticed it first. The whisper of leaves was gone, the faint hum in the air muted. Even the glowing moss seemed to dim as they walked. The silence pressed close, heavy as fog.
"Kaelen?" Elias whispered. "Why does it feel different?"
Kaelen slowed, scanning the trees. Their hand brushed the hilt of their sword, fingers flexing. "Because we are being watched."
Elias's stomach knotted. He forced a laugh, thin and nervous. "Watched? By what?"
Kaelen didn't answer. That alone was enough to make Elias's throat go dry.
It began as a curl of smoke between the trees. Elias thought it was mist, just morning fog seeping low, until it drifted against the wind. It slid along the ground, tendrils reaching, spreading. More tendrils rose, thickening, gathering, until the entire path ahead was swallowed.
Elias froze. "That's just fog… right?"
"No." Kaelen's voice was flat, deadly. "It is the Mist."
The way they said it—with reverence, with hatred—made Elias's skin crawl.
The Mist thickened, coiling like a living thing. Faces flickered inside it—faces Elias half-recognized, though twisted, wrong. His mother's smile turned sharp, his childhood friend's eyes gone hollow. Whispers seeped out, curling into his ears: Elias… Elias… come closer…
He clutched his head, staggering. "It's calling me!"
Kaelen's hand gripped his shoulder, grounding him. "Do not listen. It is not them. It is shadow given hunger."
The Mist surged forward. Kaelen shoved Elias back. "Stay behind me."
What happened next was unlike anything Elias had ever seen.
Kaelen drew their sword in one fluid motion, and silver light flared along its edge, threads wrapping the blade like living fire. They lunged into the Mist, slashing wide arcs. The tendrils shrieked, recoiling with a sound that was not sound but the tearing of fabric.
Elias stumbled backward, heart hammering. He could barely see Kaelen through the shifting fog. Their movements were swift, precise—every step calculated, every strike landing with terrifying grace. The Mist writhed, twisting itself into shapes, arms that weren't arms, claws that weren't claws, reaching for Kaelen.
"Behind you!" Elias cried.
Kaelen spun, blade flashing. The tendril fell apart, unraveling into threads of shadow that dissolved into the ground.
But the Mist was vast. For every strike Kaelen landed, three more tendrils reached forward. One darted toward Elias. He screamed, tripping over a root, throwing his arms up.
The tendril stopped inches from his face. It had formed into a figure now—his father, or something that looked like him. The shadow's mouth opened, whispering words Elias had longed to hear: You don't belong there. You never did. Come back. Come home.
His chest tightened. Tears stung his eyes. He almost reached forward.
Then Kaelen's voice cut through, sharp as steel. "Elias! Hold to yourself!"
The figure wavered, and Kaelen's blade cleaved through it, scattering the shadow like torn cloth. Kaelen grabbed Elias by the collar, yanking him upright. Their face was inches from his, eyes blazing.
"Do not give it a name," they growled. "Do not give it power."
Elias nodded frantically, trembling.
The fight raged on. Kaelen's sword carved light into the darkness, but the Mist did not relent. It pressed closer, suffocating, filling the clearing with its whispers. Elias clapped his hands over his ears, but the voices slithered in anyway: You are nothing. You are weak. You will break the weave.
"Stop," he begged, tears streaking his face. "Stop!"
A tendril wrapped around his ankle, cold as ice, pulling him toward the fog. Elias thrashed, kicking, clawing at the ground.
"Kaelen!"
The fighter spun, eyes wide. With a roar, they drove the blade into the tendril, severing it. Shadow blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the moss. Kaelen hauled Elias to his feet, shoving him behind their back again.
"You cannot fight it," Kaelen barked. "But you can defy it. Do not believe its voices."
Elias clutched at his chest, trying to steady his breathing. His whole body shook.
Kaelen stepped forward, sword raised. "Enough."
The Mist surged, as if mocking the declaration. It towered higher, forming a monstrous shape—many faces, many mouths, all whispering at once.
Kaelen planted their feet. The sword's light grew brighter, threads weaving tighter around the blade. "By oath sworn, by threads unbroken, you will not pass."
They struck.
The clearing lit up as the sword cut through the heart of the Mist. The shadows shrieked, unraveling, folding in on themselves. Tendrils snapped, faces dissolved. The fog writhed violently, then split apart, fleeing into the forest like smoke torn by wind.
Silence crashed back.
Elias sank to the ground, shaking. His ears still rang with whispers, his skin cold where the tendril had touched. He stared at Kaelen, who stood with sword lowered, chest heaving. Their cloak was torn, their arms streaked with cuts, but their eyes burned fierce, unbroken.
"You…" Elias's voice cracked. "You fought that like—like it was nothing."
Kaelen sheathed their sword with steady hands. "It was not nothing." They looked at Elias, gaze softening. "And it will not be the last."
Elias hugged his knees, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. That thing—it almost—"
Kaelen crouched before him, gripping his shoulder firmly. "Listen to me. Strength is not never faltering. Strength is standing even when you falter. You endured. That is enough."
Elias blinked at them, breath ragged. "But you—without you, I—"
Kaelen's voice softened. "You will learn. And I will not let you be taken."
The words rooted in Elias's chest, steady against the trembling. For a moment, the fear eased.
They camped that night beneath a fallen tree. Kaelen cleaned their blade in silence, the silver threads along it dim but unbroken. Elias sat nearby, staring into the small fire Kaelen had coaxed from glowing moss.
The whispers of the Mist still echoed faintly in his ears. You are nothing. You are weak. He shuddered, pressing his palms to his temples.
Kaelen glanced at him. "They fade, with time."
Elias nodded, not trusting his voice.
After a long silence, Kaelen said, "The Mist is born from unraveling threads. It feeds on doubt, on memory, on desire. It wears the faces of those we love to make us give in. But you must remember—it is not truth. It is shadow."
Elias swallowed hard. "What if… what if I can't tell the difference?"
Kaelen's gaze held his, steady and fierce. "Then trust me to strike it down."
The firelight flickered between them. For the first time, Elias felt a thread of safety in the storm of fear. It was thin, fragile, but it was there—woven between himself and Kaelen.
And though the memory of the Mist haunted him, Elias found himself thinking: if Kaelen could stand unbroken, perhaps he could too.