Chapter 08
Greyroar
Finn's breathing came in short bursts, laboured and rough.
What... what was that? He thought, the vivid images still painted in his mind.
The icy path that glistened under the faint light. The scattered, dismembered bodies that were drenched in crimson blood. The stench of death and decay, and towering over it all was an ancient beast that made mountains look small in comparison. What did it all mean? Did any of it mean anything? Or was his mind just playing cruel tricks on him?
And yet, this wasn't the first strange thing that happened today. Not by far. He had been... seeing things all day. Why didn't he take them seriously? Why had he shrugged them off like they were nothing? The déjà vu... the hallucinations... just what were they?
Finn clutched his head tightly. It was just all so... confusing. The visions were like long-lost memories, vivid, and real, and the feelings of déjà vu added to that strangeness.
His head throbbed, the mounting confusion swirling like a stormcloud. Finn pressed his palms against his temples, desperate for relief.
Headache... this is all such a headache, he thought to himself.
All he wanted was sleep.
Maybe he needed to see a doctor.
"Yeah... that's what I'm doing in the morning..." he whispered weakly, his voice almost inaudible. "Doctor... I'm seeing the academy doctor..."
And with that last word, he fell back into his bed. His exhaustion finally caught up to him, his body sinking into the mattress like a stone dropped into water. And he simply passed out.
At least in sleep, there were no visions, no worries. Just silence. Just rest.
Finn's body succumbed to exhaustion, his breaths steadying as his mind finally quieted.
The silence of sleep enveloped him, offering brief solace. But far away, beyond his reach, the world was far from still.
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The snowy path stretched before Lark and the ragtag group of survivors, the snow crunching under their boots. The icy mist swirled ominously, becoming thicker and thicker the higher they climbed. Every step felt heavier than the last, the biting cold gnawing at their resolve. The wind howled around them, carrying faint, eerie sounds that could have been distant howls or something much more sinister.
Lark tightened his grip on his weapon, his knuckles whitening. He looked back toward the group, their numbers hadn't dropped anymore since that man had turned, and that was a good thing. The problem, though, was everyone's moods. Plastered on their faces was a single, raw emotion. Fear. Everyone was terrified. The hope they once had was long gone, replaced by simple, unfiltered, primal terror.
The group trudged on in silence, their breaths visible in the frigid air, each puff a fleeting reminder of their fragile existence. Fear wasn't unfamiliar to Lark; it had clung to him like a shadow ever since the mist first descended on his homeland. But now, it was a tool, a weapon he used.
So what if he was scared?
Lark didn't blame the group for being scared though. How could he? They were marching toward death–toward it.
"Are you sure about this?"
The husky voice broke the oppressive silence. Lark turned toward the speaker, his eyes locking with the wary gaze of a large man trudging through the snow ahead. His breath came in laboured puffs, each one hanging in the freezing air before disappearing like a ghost.
Lark had known Rudd for a long time—long enough to call him a friend. They had fought side by side, facing impossible odds and surviving when no one else would have. Rudd was a formidable warrior, perhaps stronger than Lark in many ways. And yet, the look on his face now spoke volumes.
Rudd was scared. Maybe even more than the civilians behind them.
Lark swallowed hard, his heart heavy with the weight of the man’s unspoken fear. He wanted to say something, reassure him—but there were no words. Not now. Not when they all knew the truth.
The options still drifted through his mind like shadows, lingering in the corner of his thoughts.
He could run right now, leaving behind the hopeless civilians to their fate. He could–
I can't... I can't leave them...
Even if Lark left right now, he was certain he wouldn't be able to live with himself. How could he? Fighting a beast like Greyroar was almost suicidal. Almost.
Something in Lark's heart told him that they had a chance, albeit a slim one. It may have been a foolish thought, but he didn't care. A chance was a chance, and to him, that was all that mattered.
Lark’s grip on his weapon tightened further as his thoughts swirled like the mist around them. The weight of the decision continuously gnawed at him, as heavy as the snow that seemed to fall endlessly, suffocating everything in its wake. His eyes flicked to Rudd again, the unease in the larger man’s posture mirrored by the fear rippling through the survivors behind them. Every step seemed to take them deeper into the unknown, toward something that could very well be their doom.
The icy mist thickened as the group trudged on, the path narrowing, swallowed by the shadows of the mountain. The snow beneath their boots seemed to deepen with every step, dragging them down, and testing their will to move forward. There was no sound now, no eerie wind howling through the trees or the distant rustling of beasts. It was as if the world itself had fallen into a suffocating stillness, an unnatural silence that pressed against their eardrums, making each breath feel louder than it was.
Lark’s heart thudded in his chest, heavy and erratic. Something was wrong. The air had changed—the biting cold, the silence—it was too still, too calm.
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Then, it came.
A roar. A deep, bone-shaking sound that split the silence like a thunderclap. It rattled the air, vibrating through Lark’s bones, and in that moment, a cold knot of fear tightened in his gut. The sound was primal—something ancient, something beyond the reach of any living creature.
He didn’t need to see it to know. The beast was here. The master of the mountains had descended upon them. And they were the trespassers it had come to stop.
It struck without warning, like a cannonball descending from the heavens. The ground trembled beneath them as something massive landed with a crash. The snow exploded, shards of white flying in all directions, and the beast was upon them.
Lark didn’t have time to react—only to watch in horror as the shadowy creature’s claws tore through the group. One by one, they were struck down, thudding down against the icy snow.
Rudd was one of the first to fall. The massive warrior who had honed his skills over several decades didn’t even have time to raise his weapon. The beast’s claws raked through his chest in a single, brutal swipe. Rudd’s scream was cut off as he was thrown aside, his body crumpling into the snow, blood staining the pure white like a splatter of dark paint.
Stop...
Panic swept through the others. Screams filled the air as the survivors scattered, trying to flee, but it was hopeless. The shadow of the beast was everywhere at once—its sheer size and speed making it impossible to outrun. Lark could only watch, helpless, his heart pounding in his chest as another scream echoed through the silent mountain. One of the civilians—just a boy, no older than fifteen—was torn apart, his body barely recognizable as it was flung aside with a sickening crunch.
Stop...
Another. And another. The beast seemed to move through them with terrifying efficiency, like a hunter culling its prey. Lark’s eyes were wide, his body frozen in place, too paralyzed with fear to do anything but watch.
Stop...
The blood sprayed across the snow in dark, horrific arcs, painting the once-pure white landscape in shades of crimson red. It splattered on Lark’s face, cold and wet, but he barely felt it. He couldn’t look away, as though the very act of turning would mean he had abandoned them—abandoned all hope.
And then, there was Rudd.
The large man, once a formidable warrior, was on the ground, his back arched in agony, blood pouring from his wounds like a crimson river. His eyes met Lark’s, and for a brief, agonizing moment, there was recognition—a silent plea for help, a desperate wish that things could have been different.
But Lark couldn’t help him. He was powerless. How could he fight... that?
Lark’s breath caught in his throat. He remembered the last time they had stood side by side before the mist had torn everything apart. Rudd had cracked a joke, his deep voice full of warmth, and they had shared a laugh amid their fight, just two men facing impossible odds, yet still finding a flicker of light in the darkness.
Now, that light was gone.
Stop...
Rudd’s hand twitched, reaching out for Lark, as though asking him to fight, to do something, anything. But it was too late. The beast loomed above him, its jaws open wide, a terrifying maw filled with razor-like teeth. Rudd’s final breath escaped him in a strangled gasp as the beast’s jaws closed around his body, crushing the life out of him in an instant.
The snow around them was no longer white. It was soaked in blood—splattered, stained, a grim testament to the slaughter that had just taken place. And Lark, the last one left standing, could only stare as the beast loomed over him, its eyes gleaming with the same hunger that had devoured them all.
Due to the grey mist, the beast had been barely visible. Until now. Lark could see the ancient murderer in all its agonising existence.
It was colossal, towering above him like a living mountain. Its grey scales were the size of heads, streaked with gore from its brutal rampage. Long claws, sharp as jagged blades, glistened in the faint light, stained crimson from the carnage it had wrought.
The creature’s eyes—wide, unblinking—were the colour of obsidian, deep and hollow like the darkest abyss, and they bore down on Lark with an unsettling calm, as if it had already decided his fate.
Its massive jaws, lined with rows of teeth like broken daggers, dripped with saliva, the foul stench of death clinging to its every breath. The air around it shimmered with a sense of malevolent power, an ancient evil that had survived far beyond the understanding of mortal men. The mist around it twisted as if the very atmosphere recoiled from the presence of such a creature.
Lark’s body trembled. His legs wouldn’t move. He wanted to scream, to fight, to do something, but his mind was too clouded with terror, too frozen in the face of this nightmare.
His heart hammered in his chest, louder than the wind or the beast’s low growl, the only sound in the world now.
For a moment, the beast seemed to pause, its eyes never leaving him. It was studying him—waiting, savouring the final moment before the end.
Images flashed in Lark's mind, fragments of a life long lost. His family—his mother’s warm smile, his father’s strong hands lifting him high, the sound of his younger sister’s laughter echoing in their home. His childhood friends, their faces full of promise and youthful ambition, their voices calling out to him in shared adventures. Even his first crush—her bright eyes, the way she’d laughed shyly at his clumsy attempts at charm.
And then, Rudd. Strong. Unyielding. Confident. Lark remembered the first time they had met, how Rudd had basically taken him under his wing. How they'd fought side by side, facing monsters and impossible odds with nothing more than grit and determination. Rudd had been more than a comrade. He had been a brother.
But it was all gone now.
The mist had come. It had taken everything. His family. His friends. His comrades. And now, it was taking Rudd, too.
The beast towered over him, the coldness of its presence cutting through him like a knife.
The memories seemed to blur and fade, swallowed by the monstrous reality of the moment. It felt as if the mist itself was in him now, erasing everything, suffocating all the warmth he had once known. The snow beneath him was stained with blood, with the memories of those who had fought beside him. But what was the point of remembering?
What was the point of anything anymore?
They were all gone. The beast had seen to that. The mist had seen to that.
It was like his life was flashing before his eyes.
Rage burned within him. Unfiltered, unrelenting rage. Who did this beast think it was? Did it think it could just take everything he had left from him? His family. His friends. His comrades. Did it think it could just tear everything apart without any consequences? The mist, the beasts, they thought they could do whatever they wanted to whoever was left, break everything until only emptiness remained.
Did they think Lark would just... do nothing?
No.
No, this wasn’t the end. Not yet. Not while there was breath in his body, not while there was blood still in his veins.
The image of Rudd’s face—his final plea—burned like a brand in his mind. He wouldn’t let this be the end. Not for Rudd. Not for anyone.
He had to fight back. He had to make them pay.
Fury swirled like a tempest within Lark. It filled him with heat, with purpose, with a blinding hunger to lash out, to rip the world apart and carve his vengeance into the very heart of this nightmare. His body trembled with the force of it, his hands gripping his weapon with a strength he hadn’t thought possible.
The beast’s eyes, cold and unblinking, met his—and for a brief, horrific moment, Lark wondered if it could see his fury. If it knew what he was about to do. But he didn’t care. It was just another monster. A force of destruction. Another thing that needed to be destroyed.
His thoughts became a blur of violence, of weapons, of blood, of endings. The world narrowed to the beast and him. Nothing else mattered. The mist, the snow, the emptiness—they were all just background noise to the storm of rage surging through him now.
Lark took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The pain of loss, the weight of grief—he cast it all aside. He would make this beast feel every ounce of his rage, every piece of his broken soul. If it wanted to destroy his world, then he would burn it to the ground.