The silence that followed the battle was heavier than any scream.
Ash walked among the survivors, counting them mentally as they gathered around the leader.
There were ten now. Of the twenty-five who had begun the journey, only ten remained.
The veteran knight —the leader, whose name Ash still didn't know— stood on a rock, his armor dented and covered in that grayish residue left by the Spawn. Beside him, another knight, younger, with a pale face and an arm wound that someone was hastily bandaging.
The veteran woman, the same one who had given him advice about the lamps the first night, leaned against a wagon, her bloodied axe resting on her knees. She had a distant look, as if she were still seeing something others couldn't.
And then there were the mercenaries. Dren, of course, with his scar and stoic expression. Four others, faces Ash vaguely recognized from the days of travel. All wounded. All exhausted. All alive, for now.
Ash leaned against the wheel of a shattered wagon, observing the disaster around him.
The wooden wagons, which had transported supplies for days, were overturned, destroyed, some reduced to splinters. The provision crates lay open, their contents scattered on the ground, trampled during the battle.
'We won't be able to carry all this,' Ash thought. 'Not even half.'
The leader confirmed his thoughts a moment later.
"Listen," he said, his voice grave but firm. "The situation has changed. We cannot continue as before."
The survivors looked at him in silence.
"These attacks are getting stronger. The creatures are smarter. More organized. If we continue like this, we won't reach the camp. None of us will survive."
A murmur ran through the group. No one said anything aloud, but Ash could see the fear in their eyes. The same fear he felt, no, that everyone felt.
"So we change the plan," the leader continued. "We'll take only the essentials. Food, water, weapons. Whatever fits in our packs. The rest... we leave behind."
"Leave the supplies?" one of the mercenaries asked, incredulous. "That was our entire cargo! The reason for this journey!"
"The reason for this journey was to reach the camp," the leader replied coldly. "And supplies are useless if we're dead."
The mercenary clenched his jaw, but said nothing more.
"We'll move fast," the leader continued. "Without the wagons, without the weight, we can advance much quicker. If all goes well, in one day we'll reach the safe zone. The mist doesn't reach there. We'll be safe."
"And if it doesn't go well?" asked the veteran woman, not lifting her gaze from her axe.
The leader looked at her for a moment.
"Then may the gods protect us."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"Rest for an hour," the leader ordered. "Tend to your wounds, eat something, prepare your packs. Then, we move. And we won't stop until we reach the camp."
The survivors nodded and slowly dispersed. Some sat where they were, closing their eyes. Others began rummaging through the remains of the wagons, looking for something useful to carry.
Ash stayed where he was, observing.
One day, he thought. Just one day. If we can survive one more day, we'll be safe.
But inside, a voice told him it wouldn't be that easy. Nothing in this damned place was easy.
"Hey, kid."
Ash looked up. Dren stood before him, holding out a canteen.
"Drink," he said. "You look pale."
Ash took the canteen and drank a mouthful. The water was warm and tasted of metal, but at that moment it tasted like glory.
"Thanks," he said, returning it.
Dren nodded and sat down beside him, leaning his back against the shattered wagon.
"How are your ribs?" he asked.
"They hurt. But I can walk."
"That's all that matters."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the mist. The sensation of being watched was still there, but Ash had learned to ignore it. Or at least, not to let it paralyze him.
"Dren," Ash said. "Do you think we'll make it?"
The veteran looked at him for a moment. Then he let out a dry laugh.
"I don't know, kid. But I'm going to try. It's all we can do, isn't it? Try."
Ash nodded slowly.
Try.
Yes, that was all they could do.
He then remembered the spell's voice. The Memory. In the chaos of battle, he had completely forgotten about it.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, summoning his runes. The air before him swirled, and the gray light letters began to form.
First, his attributes. Then, his Aspect. And finally, a new line that hadn't been there before.
Memories: [Mist Blade]
Ash held his breath. A Memory. I have a Memory.
He focused on that line, and a new description appeared before his eyes.
Memory: [Mist Fang]
Memory Rank: Awakened.
Memory Level: I
Description: [Forged from the essence of a Mist Spawn, this weapon retains part of its ethereal nature. It is said that those who wield it can sense the presence of the mist before it appears. Or perhaps it is just the imagination of the dying.]
Enchantments: [Ethereal Edge]
[Ethereal Edge] Enchantment Description: [This blade can pierce physical defenses with ease, as if the mist itself guides it.]
Ash's eyes widened in shock.
A weapon. He had obtained a weapon.
Without a second thought, he summoned it.
He watched as small sparks appeared in his hands for a brief moment, and the next second he was holding a longsword.
It was a curved-blade sword, of a grayish color that reminded him of the mist itself. Its hilt was simple, wrapped in dark leather, and at the base of the blade was a small gem of the same gray color that seemed to glow faintly.
Ash held it for a moment, feeling its weight. It was light. Lighter than he expected. Almost as if it weighed nothing.
"What is that?"
Dren's voice startled him. Ash turned his head and saw the veteran looking at the sword with curiosity.
"It's... something I found," Ash said, not knowing how to explain it.
Dren raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask further. In the Misty Mountains, people learned quickly not to ask unnecessary questions.
Ash stored the sword, which disappeared with a thought, something he found quite curious.
He knew the sword was many times better than his simple steel sword. With this blade, he could cut through the Mist Spawn more easily.
An hour later, just as the leader had ordered, the survivors were ready to depart.
Each carried a pack with the essentials: food, water, bandages. Weapons, of course, always in hand. The wagons were left behind, along with the supplies they couldn't carry and the bodies of those who hadn't survived.
Ash looked one last time at the makeshift camp. The remains of what had been a caravan. The corpses that no one had had time to bury, so they had thrown them over the slope into the mist-covered void.
Kael is among them, he thought. And I don't even know where he fell.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to look forward.
"Move out!" ordered the veteran leader.
And the ten survivors began to run.
They ran for hours. The mist enveloped them, but now, Ash could feel it differently. Not as a threat, but as a presence. Something that watched him, yes, but also something that recognized him.
Child of the Void, he remembered. The Void recognizes you as one of its own.
Did that mean the mist also recognized him? That this was why the illusions didn't work on him? Why he could sense the creatures before they attacked?
He didn't know. But he was determined to find out.
If he survived.
When he survived.
He corrected the thought as his feet pounded the ground again and again, moving away from death, moving toward life.
Or at least, toward what he hoped was life.
In the Misty Mountains, you could never be sure of anything.