The grasslands accepted them.
Not warmly.
Not violently.
It simply did not resist.
The moment the Patron's foot pressed into the pale grass, the fog rose.
It did not surge like a storm or crawl like smoke. It seeped–thin as breath on cold glass–then thickened until distance lost meaning. Sound dulled. Color softened. The world narrowed until only weight, contact, and forward motion remained.
No one spoke.
They walked.
Each step felt measured. Not by the land–but by something listening beneath it. The grass bent under their boots with deliberate resistance, as though memorizing their balance, their hesitation, their intent.
The fog did not blind them at once.
It waited.
Temptation came first.
