The first week on the open road was a sharp wake-up call for Lira. The silver-tiled floors of the manor were replaced by damp moss and jagged roots, and the gourmet meals were traded for dried rations and whatever Alhen could catch.
"You're remarkably good at skinning a rabbit for someone who grew up in a library," Lira remarked, sitting by their small campfire. She was rubbing her sore feet, her high-quality leather boots showing their first signs of wear.
Alhen didn't look up from the fire. "My father didn't just teach me how to swing a sword. He taught me that if you can't feed yourself, your sword is just a heavy stick."
Quon, the small snow-white hound, was curled up near the warmth of the Heart of Boreas, which Alhen kept wrapped in a special insulated cloth in his pack. Even dampened, the artifact pulsed with a soft blue light that seemed to keep the nighttime predators at bay.
"Where exactly are we?" Lira asked, looking into the dense fog that had begun to roll in.
"The Glimmerfen," Alhen replied, checking his compass. "It's a massive wetland that separates the Northern Highlands from the Southern Coast. The books say the trees here are older than the Kingdom itself. They also say the fog... talks."
As if on cue, a soft, melodic hum drifted through the trees. It wasn't the wind. It sounded like a thousand tiny glass bells ringing at once.
Suddenly, Quon stood up, his ears twitching. He didn't bark, but a low growl vibrated in his chest. His eyes, usually a soft brown, flashed with a faint silver spark—a remnant of the Essence he had absorbed in the Frost-Bound Crypt.
"Alhen... the fog is changing color," Lira whispered, drawing her rapier.
The grey mist was turning a sickly, bioluminescent green. From the shadows of the massive willow trees, figures began to emerge. They weren't monsters, but they weren't human either. They were Mist-Walkers—spirits of travelers who had lost their way in the fen, their bodies made of swirling vapor and glowing embers.
"Don't breathe it in!" Alhen warned, pulling his cloak over his mouth. "The fog is a hallucinogen. If you inhale too much, you'll walk right into the deep water."
One of the Mist-Walkers drifted toward them, its face shifting to look like Baron Kaelen. "Lira… come back to the manor… the tea is getting cold…" it hissed in a perfect imitation of her father's voice.
Lira stumbled back, her eyes glazing over. "Father?"
"Lira, no! It's an illusion!" Alhen grabbed her shoulder, but the fog was thickening, pressing in on them.
Alhen tried to ignite his Essence, but the dampness of the fen was heavy, smothering his flames. He felt a cold lethargy spreading through his limbs. The Mist-Walkers were closing in, their translucent hands reaching for his throat.
Just then, a sharp, piercing bark echoed through the clearing.
Quon stepped forward. The small dog's fur began to stand on end, and a shockwave of pure, white Essence erupted from his tiny body. The white light acted like a lantern in the dark, carving a hole through the green fog and causing the Mist-Walkers to shriek and dissipate into nothingness.
Lira gasped, her vision clearing instantly. "What was that?"
Alhen looked at Quon in shock. The dog wasn't just a pet; he was a living conduit for the ancient Essence of the Crypt.
"He's a guardian," Alhen realized, breathing a sigh of relief. "He's protecting us."
But the danger wasn't over. As the green fog cleared, they realized they weren't in the clearing anymore. While they were hallucinating, they had wandered onto a giant, floating island of peat in the center of a black lake.
And in the water, something much larger than a mist-spirit was waking up.
A massive, moss-covered eye opened beneath the surface of the lake, staring up at them. The entire island began to shake.