She waited.
The mist thickened as time passed, settling low over the water and swallowing the far bank entirely. She stayed near the broken pier, standing still, listening. The river made no sound beyond a slow, steady movement, as if it were breathing in its sleep.
Minutes stretched. Then longer.
Just as doubt began to creep in, something shifted within the fog.
At first, it was only a shape. A darker smear moving against the pale mist. Then came the sound. Wood against water. Slowly walloping deliberately. A single oar dipped and rose, barely breaking the surface.
A ferry emerged from the fog.
Elizabeth watched the ferry approach, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword.
It was a small, narrow thing, barely more than a flat wooden boat, its sides darkened by years of damp and wear. A lantern dangled from it, the wood etched with strange markings. At the stern stood a man swathed in heavy cloth, his face hidden beneath a hood and the drifting mist. He rowed unhurriedly, as if certain the river would wait for him forever.
The boat reached the pier and stopped on its own, nudging softly against the wood.
The ferryman did not look at her.
"Crossing," he said. His voice was flat, neither inviting nor hostile.
Carefully studying him, she took a moment to analyze. Then she stepped closer. "How much?"
The ferryman finally turned his head. His eyes were pale and unfocused, like glasses in rain.
He stayed silent, simply raising his open palm toward her. Perplexed, she asked again, but still no response came.
She reached into her pouch and held out the red mushrooms she had.
In the mist world, all currency consisted of things that kept people from falling asleep, as sleep comes with death in this city. So, she guessed the currency the ferryman asked for was the mushroom. After all, even he had to stay awake, she thought.
The ferryman glanced at it, then shook his head once.
"Not that."
A pause lingered as the river stayed calm, the lantern's reflection shimmering gently on its surface.
Slowly, she withdrew a different object and placed it in his open palm.
The ferryman closed his fingers around it without comment and stepped aside.
"Get in."
She did not hesitate.
Giving a firm nod she stepped on the board.
The moment her weight settled into the boat, the ferry pushed away from the pier on its own. The shore slipped back into the mist, and the river carried them forward, silent and cold, toward a bank she could not yet see.
The ferry moved without haste.
The ferryman dipped his oar only when necessary, guiding the boat more than rowing it. The water remained unnervingly still, as if the river itself had decided not to play mischief today. Mist pressed in from all sides, thick enough that the world beyond the boat ceased to exist.
She kept her eyes on the dark line of the ferry's edge, focusing on its steady presence beneath her boots. The cold seeped upward through the wood, numbing her feet despite her boots. Each breath felt heavier than the last.
They were halfway across when the river started to change.
The surface beneath them darkened, not from shadow of some behemoth underneath, but from abyssal depth this riverbed had. She sensed it rather than saw it, a weight beneath the water, vast and unmoving. The mist above grew thinner, yet she felt more exposed than before.
Suddenly, she felt like something brushed the side of the boat.
The ferry rocked gently. She stiffened, hand moving to her sword, but the ferryman did not react. His grip remained loose, his posture unchanged.
"Do not," he said quietly.
He didn't even turn around, his soft voice fading into the mist.
The water stirred again, this time closer. A shape passed beneath the surface, long and indistinct.
'It's a creature?!' she thought, though she wasn't entirely sure, as the ferryman was just as quiet as he had been at the start of the journey. There was no threat, there shouldn't be, she told herself inwardly, trying to remain calm.
But remained vigilant as ever.
She swallowed and checked the grip of her hand.
The crossing continued in silence. The presence below faded, sinking back into the depths, leaving only the slow glide of water against wood.
At last, a darker smear appeared ahead. The far bank emerged, vague at first, then solid. The ferry slowed and came to rest against the shore.
"End," the ferryman said.
Elizabeth turned around to see the river, perfectly still, with no sign of movement, as lifeless as it could be.
She shook her head, as she stepped onto the bank. The ground here was firmer, colder, untouched by footprints. When she turned back, the ferry was already drifting away, the ferryman fading into the mist without a word.
The river closed behind her, as calm as it had ever been.
She felt a shiver run down her spine.
'Might be the cold,' she thought to herself.
But deep down, she knew it was fear. The dread that awaited any swimmer foolish enough to venture into the misty chill. The fog clung to skin, the water freezing, while the creature lurking beneath waited to feast on the warmth the fool had brought.
She moved up the bank slowly, putting distance between herself and the water. The cold lingered, clinging to her clothes and skin, but the mist here was lighter, less suffocating. Shapes began to form where before there had only been haze.
A narrow path stretched ahead, worn into the earth by repeated passage.
From what she'd learned, there were mages in the southern sector, and if she wanted to plan ahead, she needed their knowledge. The problem was she had almost spent most of her mushrooms in the northern sector. If she wanted to trade, she'd need more. For now, she decided to make do with the little she had and see what the mages could offer.
'Let's see what the nerd can bring to the table.'
She held her head high as she followed the narrow path.
The land sloped gently away from the river, giving way to a line of low buildings and leaning posts. Slogans and chants for strange gods and deities adorned them, but she didn't pause to read. She already knew what they signified.
Someone in the southern sector had already sold her information about them, especially about the Mistress of Head, the hidden ruler of the north.
Halfway up the path, she noticed the smell.
'Blood!'
Her hand rested on her sword again.
Her eyes moving frantically trying to locate movement.
With debris scattered everywhere and yellow fungus creeping over them, spotting any figure among it all was nearly impossible, they were hidden with impressive skill.
Finally, she saw him, a figure stood where the path bent, half-hidden by a cluster of crooked stakes.
She slowed, heart steady but alert.
"Hello?" she called, her voice sounding thinner than she expected.
The figure did not respond, didn't move. Just stayed still like before.
As she got closer, she saw it wasn't a living person at all, but a body, propped upright and loosely tied to the stakes. The flesh was gray and withered, the face locked in an expression—etched with fear.
Around its neck hung a small wooden doll, with loose black strings trailing from it toward his heart.
She had heard about it. It was a death ritual performed in praise of the God of Death. However, in the Mist City, it was a strange thing to witness. The conventional deities worshipped there, according to the person who sold her the information, were the Mistress of Head and the Dark Messiah.
Though the Mistress of Head was not a god, she was revered as one in the Mist City.
As for the Dark Messiah, his divine status was not truly substantiated.
But also, the person who sold this information never strayed from the safety of the Northern sector, under the rule of Gordon of Might.
Her gut told her this was a place best left alone. The doll hanging from the corpse's neck swayed in the light breeze, tapping gently against bone. She edged past, making sure not to touch the stakes, and continued along the path as it bent away from the river.
More markers appeared the farther she went.
Some were plain posts, others rough frames tied together with rope. Not all carried bodies—some stood empty, as if waiting for one. A few held scraps of cloth, personal belongings, or a small wooden doll.
The path widened into a clearing.
At its center stood a low structure of stone and wood, partially buried. There were no doors, no windows, only a single opening facing the path, inside was dark and felt unwelcoming.
She stopped at the edge of the clearing.
A man sat near the entrance, hunched over, his back to her. He wore plain clothes, stained and worn thin, and held a ledger across his knees. A quill moved slowly in his hand, scratching soundlessly across the page.
She cleared her throat.
The man didn't turn. "Name," he said quietly.
Elizabeth wanted to ask why, but something inside her told her it was better not to. Her intuition screamed that the man before her wasn't what he appeared to be.
She hesitated.
After all, there were countless forms of ritual magic that used names. Curses, too, often relied on them, obscure yet frighteningly effective when a name became the subject.
After a moment, she finally spoke. She was not confident she could win against the person before her, and trying to outrun him now, when she was utterly exhausted, would be a death sentence. It was better to hear what he had to say than to die without knowing.
The quill paused.
The man wrote something besides an archaic symbol.
He flipped the page. The sound was sharp in the stillness.
"You are allowed to continue," he said.
Elizabeth did not wait any longer. She stepped into the strange structure. Darkness swallowed her at once. She could see nothing ahead, and moments passed in complete blackness.
Then she saw it.
The other side. A faint light stretching across the tunnel.
She quickened her pace. The light grew nearer, and the heavy mist slowly closed around her figure.