The road changed before they noticed it.
One moment, they were passing through a stretch of forest where dawn still struggled to lift the mist from the ground; the next, the air grew colder — heavier — as though the world itself had drawn a long, slow breath and forgotten to release it.
The horses grew restless first. Their ears flicked, their hooves faltered on the dirt. The wheels of the carriage sank deeper into damp soil, and the mist began to curl higher, thick as breath against glass.
The wind that once hummed through the leaves stilled into something heavy — breathless. Even the horses began to sense it, tossing their heads and snorting as though trying to shake off an invisible weight.
Zelene drew her cloak tighter around her. The hood cast a deep shadow over her face, and her silver-lilac hair was hidden beneath its fold. She'd been careful since leaving the Duke's lands — careful not to draw attention, not to be recognized.
The world was changing too quickly. Every precaution mattered.
Finn sat up front beside Ray, lazily chewing on a piece of dried fruit but glancing warily at the mist beginning to gather between the trees. "Is it me," he murmured, "or did the air just decide to stop moving?"
Zelene leaned forward, peering out the window. "Ray… stop the carriage."
He reined in the horses, and the sound of movement stilled — no wind, no birds, no sound at all except the soft, uncertain snort of the lead mare.
Finn glanced around, his usual humor dulled to something cautious. "I don't like this. Feels like we've stepped into someone's dream."
The fog thickened. It crawled over the ground like something alive — not drifting but creeping, deliberate, swallowing the path ahead. The world dimmed, shapes melting into silhouettes.
The carriage shuddered to a halt.
Ray exhaled slowly. "Something's wrong."
Before Zelene could ask, shadows emerged. Figures, half-swallowed by mist — moving with the silence of hunters.
"Bandits?" Finn whispered, reaching for his dagger.
"Not sure," Ray muttered. "Stay behind me."
They turned sharply, but the shapes that emerged were not soldiers.
Nor were they bandits.
But they were already surrounded. Dozens of them — lean, strong, their clothes made of leather and fur, marked by travel and sun. Not soldiers, not nobles. Nomads.
Their faces were half-covered with scarves, and the little that showed was smeared with the color of earth and ash. They carried longbows and curved blades that gleamed faintly even through the fog.
"Lower your weapons," one of them barked — a man with a voice like gravel.
Ray raised a hand slightly, steady, his other hand still near the hilt of his sword. "We don't want trouble."
"Then you should not have entered our land," the man replied coldly.
The circle tightened.
And then — chaos.
A sharp whistle cut the air, followed by the sudden snap of a bowstring. Ray blocked the arrow with his blade, and in an instant, the forest burst into motion.
Shouts. Steel meeting steel.
The clash of boots on damp earth.
Finn swore under his breath, parrying a blow and countering with practiced precision.
Zelene stumbled back, gripping the side of the carriage, her cloak twisting as she ducked an incoming strike. The wind caught it — tore it.
Her hood slipped.
And for the first time, the silver-lilac of her hair spilled into the light.
It caught the faint glow of the mist — shimmering like frost touched by flame. Her violet eyes flashed as she lifted her head, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.
Someone shouted — a startled, almost reverent sound — and everything stopped.
The red-haired warriors froze mid-motion, their weapons still raised but their gazes transfixed on her. One by one, they lowered their blades, murmuring words in a tongue she didn't know.
"By the old flame…" one whispered, stepping back. "It's her."
The man who had first spoken — their leader, tall and broad-shouldered — lowered his sword slowly. His eyes were sharp, searching, almost afraid.
"Stop," he commanded, voice steady now but trembling at the edges. "No one touches her."
Ray's breathing was heavy as he turned toward him. "What's going on?"
But the man didn't answer. He only looked at Zelene — really looked — as though seeing a ghost long whispered about in stories.
Figures began to appear one by one — silhouettes at first, then clearer as the mist parted just enough to reveal them. Their clothing was rough-spun, layered with fur and leather, the marks of those who lived far from courts and crowns. Their faces were half-covered with scarves or painted cloth, leaving only their eyes visible.
But what drew Zelene's gaze — what struck her silent — was their hair.
Every single one of them bore the same color: a deep, burning red. Like the heart of a flame made flesh.
They surrounded the carriage in a quiet, practiced circle — no words, only watchful stares. There was no aggression in their posture, but something older, something wary.
One stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, his scarf bound tighter than the rest. His eyes were the color of rusted gold, sharp and discerning.
He looked first to Ray, then Finn, before his gaze fell on Zelene.
A murmur rippled through the group, low and startled. Words she couldn't understand passed between them, fast and reverent, as though they were speaking a name they weren't supposed to say aloud.
The tall man gave a short command in their tongue, and the circle broke open.
Then he approached her — not with hostility, but with something closer to awe.
He removed the scarf from his mouth and bowed his head slightly. "Come," he said, his voice accented but clear. "You must come with us."
Zelene glanced at Ray, who instinctively stepped closer, his hand on his sword. "And if we refuse?"
He met her gaze. "Then the mists will not let you leave."
It wasn't a threat. It was a truth.
Finn leaned toward Zelene and muttered, "For the record, I vote we go with the mysterious flame-haired people. They seem friendly… in a terrifying sort of way."
Zelene hesitated, then nodded once. "Lead the way."
They followed through the fog — winding down a narrow path that seemed to breathe with light. The mist thinned as they descended, revealing glimpses of wooden homes, riverbanks lined with crimson flags, the hum of life hidden deep within the forest.
So, with cautious glances between them, they followed.
And then, the valley opened before them.
A hidden settlement — vibrant and alive. Smoke rising from chimneys, laughter echoing between homes built from stone and timber. Children ran barefoot through the mud, women hung dyed fabrics the color of embers, and the air smelled of spice and smoke.
Wooden homes built around rivers of steaming water. Market stalls strung with herbs and dyed fabrics. The air filled with smoke and laughter and the clang of metal against stone. It was not grand, nor rich — but it was alive. Every person she saw bore the same burning hair, the same quiet resilience.
Children darted between stalls. Women hung crimson-dyed cloth to dry in the wind. Men worked at the forge, the sparks rising like fireflies into the dimming light.
And for the first time in weeks, Zelene felt something that resembled warmth.
Ray muttered, half to himself, "A hidden tribe…"
Finn's eyes were wide, drinking in the color, the rhythm, the scent of it all. "No wonder no one's ever found this place."
Their escort led them through narrow paths until they reached a clearing at the heart of the settlement. There, beneath a canopy of woven red banners, stood a woman — older, her presence commanding, her hair a deep copper streaked with gray.
When she turned and her gaze met Zelene's, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The woman's lips parted in something between awe and sorrow. "Silver hair… eyes of twilight…" She stepped forward, her hand trembling slightly. "After all these years… it's true."
Zelene blinked. "You know me?"
"Not you," the woman whispered. "But your blood."