In the following morning, the veiled sunlight illuminates the room Atticus and Zyra are sleeping in. Like clockwork, the knight is the first to stir awake, his body having gotten used to becoming active at the same, consistent time in the early hours. In his grogginess, he notices that they've shifted a bit in their slumber, his chest pressed against her back, his right arm draped over her, and her fluffy auburn hair inches from his face. For a brief moment, he considers forcing himself to continue sleeping, but today is an extremely important day – the most important one of the group's journey: the final one. Today, the Mistwalkers hope to finally reach Armasstadt and discover the source of the mist that plagues the land and continues to spread by the day.
Atticus, now fully awake but not yet dressed for the day's trek, goes down to the first floor, where he sees only Veros sitting at a table, eating a small breakfast of rationed foods leftover from their Terrance stay. The knight notices a bedroll near the fire pit.
“Did you sleep down here?” He asks.
Veros nods. “I did. I felt like at least one person had to stay down here, just in case. So, I grabbed my bedroll and slept.”
“The beds are quite comfortable here. You missed out.” Atticus comments as he grabs the large mug he drank from last night and approaches the water keg behind the bar counter.
“How's your neck?” The veteran asks as he examines the wound from where he's sitting, squinting his eyes.
“It's still a bit tender, but nothing serious.” The knight answers as water fills his cup. He closes the tap and joins his teammate at the table.
“Doesn't seem infected, at least.” Veros remarks with contentment, satisfied with his work of cleaning the injury. “Is anyone else awake?”
“Zyra's slowly waking herself up. Not sure of the others; I didn't see any other open doors – aside from the vacant rooms.” Atticus brings his stein to his lips for a long sip, but it's cut short by a throbbing sensation in the sides of his head. He lets out a low groan as he rubs his temple.
“Hung over?”
“A little.” The knight clenches his eyelids shut for a moment to try and overcome the sharp pain.
“I guess we should've held ourselves back, considering the importance of today. But it's hard to pass up free drinks in such a dull place.” Veros comments with a shrug. “Just drink some water and eat breakfast – keep yourself hydrated, and you'll be fine.”
Taking his comrade's advice to heart, Atticus continues to down a significant amount of water through the morning to wash down the adequate helpings of fruit that constitute his breakfast. Soon, the loud thuds of feet coming down the stairs are heard. Royd and Kellar reach the first floor to start their day, too.
“You should've seen this fuckin' lug.” Kellar says, pointing to the brawny man behind him after finishing a yawn. “I went into his room to wake him up, and he was practically sleeping in a puddle of his own damn drool. Disgustin'.”
Irritated, Royd twists his face in displeasure. “When I go to bed drunk, I usually end up sleeping with my mouth open, alright? Leave me alone. I just want to sober myself up before we head off.”
“You can take your time.” Veros says. “We're not in too much of a hurry. As long as we go while the sun's still on the rise, we should reach Armasstadt sometime in the afternoon.”
“Gods, I wish we had meat.” The woodcutter gripes as he fills his huge mug with water. “I know I always whine for meat, but right now is serious. I always eat a big serving of it to help clear my head after a night of drinking, and I drank many mugfulls.”
His stein full, Royd closes the tap, but Kellar reopens it to fill his own. “I'm not much of a drinker, really – save for certain circumstances.” The rogue remarks while Royd takes a long chug of his water. “I'm not too hung over, but my mouth sure is dry.” He closes the tap and brings the mug to his lips. Royd opens the tap again to fill his again.
Erik joins the men as they proceed eat or finish their meals. Unlike the others, he seems relatively unaffected by the previous night's heavy drinking, as he lacks a groggy expression or half-conscious mannerisms. This doesn't stop him from grabbing his mug and drinking water like them, however.
“You have some pep in your step, Erik.” Royd states with a tinge of envy.
“I'm actually a rather frequent drinker.” The noble admits as he watches the surface of the water in his stein continues to slowly rise. “When I'm alone, reading or practicing my archery at home, it's not uncommon for me to be accompanied by a bottle from my family's extensive selection of wine.”
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“So you're a drunk?” Kellar snidely summarizes.
“It's not necessarily a daily occurrence.” Erik rebuts as he closes the tap. “A person who owns many bottles of wine is an enthusiast. A person who owns many empty bottles of wine is a drunk.”
Zyra is the last one to come down the first floor, covering her mouth mid-yawn before looking around at the others.
“Sorry.” She says, feeling guilty for taking a generous amount of time before coming down. “I fell back asleep for a bit.”
“We haven't been up for that long.” Veros replies, then points to the remaining mug sitting on the short barrier of the fire pit. “Grab your mug and drink some water, sober yourself up a bit before we get going.”
She complies with no apprehension, following the example of the others by pouring herself some water and eating some fruits. Once the Mistwalkers have all finished overcoming the lethargic side-effects of the last night's drinking, they begin their usual procedure of reequipping themselves and re-saddling their horses. A somber silence shrouds them as they prepare for the ride ahead, an atmosphere of deep contemplation of what might be expecting them at their destination, and quiet second-guessing of whether they're properly outfitted to truly solve the problem that curses Yhordran.
They eventually depart the Hand of Armas headquarters and begin following the road north yet again. As always, the grey curtain enveloping their immediate vicinity is nigh impenetrable, severely limiting their field of view and sapping away the colors of the flora along the roadside, despite their lushness.
Step by step, they progress northward for miles. Encounters with stray undead are thankfully very few and far between, however a bigger issue is starting to become apparent: the density of the mist growing more substantially in the final sixteen miles leading up to Armasstadt than in the hundreds of miles preceding. Since leaving Ervine, their visible radius has been severely cut, going from two hundred feet in all directions to about one hundred – shaved down by half in only about two hours' time, and the shrinkage shows no sign of slowing.
“Is it going to be like this all the way up to Armasstadt?” An uneasy Kellar complains while examining the colorless wall that continues to slowly swallow the group. “Is the mist gonna keep closin' in on us until we can't even see our own hands in front of our face?”
“I don't know.” Veros, also growing frustrated with the fog, answers bluntly. “If it does reach that point, then it would be very easy for us to become lost – or worse: ambushed.”
“I sure hope we turn around if that happens.”
“If it shows no signs of clearing up, possibly; it'd be a fool's errand to continue in that case. But for now, we'll press on for as long as we can handle it. We didn't come this far just to stop on the final day without at least a bit of pushing.” The veteran, as determined as ever to press onward, guides the group deeper into the unknown.
The journeyers continue to persevere for another couple of hours, but unfortunately, the increasing thickness of the mist has finally reached a troubling point. Visibility has become borderline nonexistent, with the Mistwalkers barely able to even see the teammates next to them.
“This is bad, Veros!” Kellar speaks up again, growing more and frantic with each step. “I can't even fuckin' see you up there!” He yells at the grey wall in front of him.
“Should we turn back?” Royd asks aloud, hoping the men at the front hear him. “I don't know if this mist will let up as we get any closer to Armasstadt.”
“No!” Veros's voice answers back from behind the miasma ahead. “I think I see light ahead; it's becoming brighter! It might clear up soon, so press forward just a bit more.”
“What kind of light?!” Kellar calls back. “Seriously, this mist is so damn thick, it practically hurts to breathe out here!”
“Just keep the usual pace, Kellar! Don't slow down or you could be left behind! Make sure Erik and Zyra don't leave your area of visibility.”
The rogue heaves a long, irate sigh. “You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me...” He utters, the anxiety and insecurity of the group's current predicament burdening him more and more as they inch forward.
At the front of the group, Atticus and Veros are almost as equally nervous about the potential dangers of their nearly blind path, but maintain a quiet, stone-faced resoluteness to push through the nebulous veil. Ahead of them is a wall of light in the mist, growing brighter and larger as they slowly approach it. Veros turns his head around to look towards the rear of the group. Zyra and Erik are barely close enough to be seen, but the wall shuts out anything immediately behind them.
“Kellar! Royd! Are you two still there?!” The veteran calls out.
“Yeah, we're here!” The ex-mercenary's agitated voice is heard. Satisfied, Veros faces forward again, resolute in proceeding forward.
“What do you think that light is?” Atticus asks without facing away from it. “We shouldn't be reaching Armasstadt yet, should we?”
Veros shakes his head. “We're close. I think we should still be about three miles off from its walls, if my math is correct.”
“Then what could that light be?”
“I don't know, but if we can see it from here, then it could mean that the mist clears up some.” Veros theorizes, adamant on seeing if the impregnable fog manages to let up.
Gradually, they advance towards the eerie illumination, and when they draw close enough to seemingly touch it, the horses take an extra few steps forward, crossing the cloudy threshold. For a short moment, their eyes are assaulted by a sudden flash of overwhelming light. They hold their hands to their face so they can take a moment to adjust their vision, and finally look ahead to see a sight most magnificent and foreboding.
About three miles into the distance, across the wide green valley, was the outer walls of Armasstadt, clear as day, no longer obscured by the dense grey barrier. The city lies against the base of Mount Armas, underneath its highest, northernmost peak. About another mile behind its high walls, at the top of a steep road, was the archduke's castle. A giant, dark stream of miasma was erupting from the interior of the huge building, reaching miles into the sky before hitting an invisible ceiling that causes the stream to spread outward in all directions, creating a gargantuan dome around the area. The base of that dome was now immediately behind them.