The next day dawned bright and sunny, the previous night's unpleasantness put behind them as the group set out early. Ebonheim led the way as they trudged through the forest, her cheeks still a little pink.

Despite her embarrassment, her steps were buoyant and energetic. Ingrid and Serelle chatted amicably, exchanging stories as they walked, while Thorsten and Viviane joked and laughed with Lorne and Urien. The mood of the group was lighter than ever, and it felt as if they were all old friends reuniting on an adventure instead of newly-acquainted travelers.

Ebonheim continued using her 'Path of the Earthen Passage' to forge their trail, leading them further through the forest.

Their journey brought them to a vast, sweeping meadow blanketed with wildflowers, its colorful blossoms swaying in the breeze.

Vivid orange foxgloves waved gently in the wind, their tall stalks standing proudly among the shorter, more delicate blooms. Bluebells carpeted the ground, their azure petals lending a cool contrast to the warm hues of the surrounding plants.

On the outskirts of the field lay a group of white-trunked birch trees, their leaves rustling in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the flowers below. A faint, sweet scent lingered in the air, emanating from the nearby patch of heathers that stretched up to the group's ankles.

In the distance, the horizon was a jagged line of mountains, their peaks capped with snow that reflected the sunlight, making them shimmer like pearls.

On the other side of the meadow, a waterfall thundered down the rocky cliffs, sending a fine mist spraying into the air, glittering in the sunlight. Its cascade crashed into the stream below, churning the water into a frothy, silvery foam. A series of small rapids carried the stream through the meadow, creating a babbling brook that meandered through the verdant valley.

"It's so beautiful here," Viviane breathed, taking in the idyllic scene. "Almost doesn't seem real."

"Aye, it's bonny, I'll grant you that," Thorsten agreed, his eyes roaming the vista before them.

Even Urien, who would normally be complaining about the rough terrain, stopped and took a moment to marvel at the view. "Not bad."

As they traveled onward, the landscape changed drastically.

Where once had been a vibrant meadow, now they found themselves at the threshold of an ethereal realm, where tendrils of mist curled around the feet of ancient trees, as if they were attempting to pull the very earth into the sky.

The ancient titans of wood and leaf stretched upwards, their trunks shrouded in a clinging vapor that moved with sentient grace. The afternoon light, filtered through the mist, cast the world in a spectral glow, as if the very air they breathed was woven from dreams and half-remembered tales.

There were no birdsong or animal calls to be heard, just a deafening silence that wrapped itself around them.

Ebonheim paused at the threshold of this otherworldly expanse, glancing back at her followers who regarded her expectantly.

"I've...never gone this way before," she confessed. "So, I have no idea what's ahead of us."

"It looks like we're going to have to stick closer together than ever," Thorsten commented. "Are you sure it's a good idea to build the road through here?"

Serelle pulled her robe tighter, as if to protect herself from the chill in the air. "It's the best route," she asserted, nodding. "There are too many impassable areas and obstacles to the south, so through here is the only viable option."

Thorsten rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, how far do you think this goes?"

"A day and a half's travel at most, with luck," Serelle replied. "It's hard to tell with the fog, but from what I can make out, the terrain ahead appears to be relatively flat and easy to traverse. At least for now."

Thorsten frowned and shrugged. "Alright then."

The party began walking single-file, the narrow pathway forcing them to stay close together. As they pushed on, the mist grew denser, enveloping them in a pale fog.

Ebonheim took the lead, her divine aura flaring to illuminate the area. Ingrid stayed close behind, her sword and shield drawn. Her footsteps, normally silent, sounded loud to her ears, echoing through the air as though the fog absorbed all other noises. The others followed in a loose group, their weapons also at the ready, and their nerves on edge.

The mist rose from the ground like wraiths, twirling in an intricate dance with the gentle breeze, swirling the fine white vapors in lazy eddies.

She extended her hand towards the vaporous veil, her fingers tingling as if they brushed the hem of a specter’s garment. It was an impulse, a vain attempt to command the mist to part before her divine will. The tendrils of vapor recoiled slightly at her touch, only to embrace her hand once more, indifferent to her power.

A murmur of awe rippled through the group, for the mist shimmered with a luminescence that seemed to be born from within rather than cast by the nascent light.

As they delved deeper, the mist grew thicker and colder, pressing in around them with an oppressive weight. The dank air smelled of moss and decay, and the faint, muffled sounds of their footfalls and the rolling wagon wheels reverberated through the stillness.

She continued using the 'Path of the Earthen Passage' to carve a trail through the fog, creating an opening in front of them large enough for a carriage to travel through without losing the way.

But unlike before, she couldn't get a lay of the land.

No matter how her path cut through the landscape, the mist dulled her senses, even obscuring the distant horizon. She had to rely on Serelle and Lorne to guide her on how the trail should continue. Both would move ahead of the group to scout the way while Ebonheim and the rest of the party tracked them by the light of Serelle's staff.

Serelle would then light a signal for Ebonheim to cast her path, following the direction where the light was shining. With each step, Ebonheim's power expanded, covering more and more ground. The combination proved to be slow, but effective, and gradually they made progress through the strange realm.

They continued traveling through the eerie vapors, keeping a wary eye out for anything lurking in the surrounding mists.

Ebonheim began to detect subtle changes in the texture of the fog surrounding them. She paused, trying to discern its source.

It was faint, but unmistakable; a subtle, rhythmic cadence that pulsed and swirled through the milky whiteness of the haze.

It almost reminded her of an incantation, but there were no voices to be heard, just a quiet, disembodied muttering that drifted in the stillness.

She felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were both a part of the world and apart from it. Like a dreamer trapped between sleep and wakefulness, not fully aware of either state.

Thorsten’s hand drifted to his axe again, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I don’t like this," he muttered, his warrior instincts on high alert. "It feels like we're being watched. Keep your eyes peeled."

The others murmured in agreement.

As Ebonheim continued carving her path through the fog, a creeping sense of unease began to build in the pit of her stomach.

The mist had become thick enough to obscure even her own hand from her face, and she knew that the others must be similarly blinded by its opaque cloak. She reached out her hand, searching for the comforting warmth of Ingrid's presence, but found nothing but the cold, dank air.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Ingrid? Thorsten? Can anyone hear me?!" She called out, hoping that her voice would carry through the fog.

No reply came, save for the eerie echo of her own words reverberating back at her.

She searched frantically for a sign, any sign, of her companions. She squinted into the dense wall of swirling white, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of Serelle's robes, Lorne's armor, or Urien's towering figure.

Nothing.

She was alone.

"Everyone, can you hear me?! Where are you?!" She tried again, but the answer was the same. Silence.

----------------------------------------

The dense mist enshrouded Thorsten, its tendrils curling around him like ghostly fingers. He could barely see his own hands before him, let alone his companions who had been by his side moments ago.

"Ebonheim! Anyone!" He bellowed, his voice swallowed by the endless fog. "Don't worry, I'm coming to find you!"

His eyes darted about wildly as he strained to search the empty white void for any sign of his friends. He strained his ears for the sound of a footstep or the snap of a twig. But no sound came. Just the monotonous drone of his own breathing.

He marched forward through the mist, his boots sinking into the spongy loam beneath him. The ground was uneven, and he found himself stumbling as he struggled to keep his balance on the shifting surface.

Time seemed to stand still as he plodded onwards, and his frustration grew as he was forced to a halt yet again by the treacherous terrain.

"Damned fog." The mist pressed in on him, smothering him with its clammy embrace. It was like being surrounded by an ocean of cotton wool, drowning in its suffocating thickness.

Suddenly, the mist around Thorsten began to shimmer, its ghostly tendrils transforming into something else entirely.

The air rang with the clamor of swords clashing, the dull thud of shields colliding, and the desperate cries of men in battle.

Thorsten's heart leaped into his throat, his warrior instincts kicking in as he spun around, hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his axe.

But his fingers closed around empty air. His trusty weapon was not at his side. Confusion furrowed his brow, his gaze darting about in search of the familiar haft of his weapon. The din of battle grew louder, almost deafening, as if he were standing in the midst of a skirmish.

The mist swirled and coalesced into spectral images of warriors locked in combat. The apparitions were blurred and indistinct, like the flickering silhouettes cast by a roaring fire, but the outlines of weapons and armor were unmistakable.

Specters clashed, their shadowy figures intertwining as they traded blows. They danced through the mists, their phantom forms flitting to and fro like ghosts, their movements driven by the momentum of the melee.

Thorsten ducked instinctively as a ghostly sword swung at his head, the blade passing through him without harm.

"Thorsten, to arms!" A voice pierced through the chaos, sounding eerily like his old mentor, a man long since fallen in battle. "Hurry, there's a great battle ahead! We need you!"

The figure of a warrior broke free from the fray, his outline wavering as he brandished a sword at Thorsten.

"Come, lad! Your father awaits!"

A second, deeper voice joined the first. "We are all lost without you, son!"

The ghostly warriors parted, allowing Thorsten a clear view of two armored men, their features indistinct but instantly recognizable. The hair on his arms bristled, a chill running through him.

"Father!" The word slipped from his lips, but his mind struggled to comprehend the impossible scene before him.

"Quickly, follow us!" The warriors beckoned, their ghostly forms dissolving back into the fog.

Thorsten hesitated, his body rooted to the spot, unable to react.

"Don't delay, boy!" The two specters urged as they vanished into the swirling mist. "You must hurry! This way!"

A multitude of ghostly voices called out to Thorsten, imploring him to follow them. The din of the battle grew ever more fierce as he stared blankly into the miasma.

The clang of swords clashing, the beat of war drums, the screams of dying men. He was no longer in Eldergrove, but back on a battlefield from his past, a place of blood and steel where he had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brethren.

He shook his head, dispelling the illusions that gripped his mind.

"This isn't real," he muttered to himself, clenching his fists. "It's the mist... playing tricks." But the knowledge did little to still the pounding of his heart or the cold sweat beading on his brow.

He turned in circles, searching for a way out, but the battle followed him, the cries of the dying echoing in his ears. Each shout, each clash of metal, dragged up another memory, another face of a friend lost to war's unforgiving maw.

"Where are you, Ebonheim?!" he called out again, but no reply came.

Had she too fallen victim to the mist's illusions?

Thorsten stumbled over a root, catching himself against a tree that materialized out of the fog. He leaned against it, closing his eyes, trying to shut out the chaos around him.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps—a stark contrast to the rhythmic breathing he'd maintained as a warrior. He fought to regain control of himself, willing his racing heart to slow, focusing on the steady thudding of its beating.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, the battle raged on. He saw himself, younger, more reckless, charging into the fray with a battle cry on his lips. He saw the flash of steel, the spray of blood, the fall of his friends.

These weren't mere memories—they were fragments of nightmares. Nightmares he thought he'd buried long ago.

The din of battle ebbed and flowed like the tide, rising to a crescendo and fading to a whisper before growing louder once more.

His mind drifted, searching for Ebonheim's aura, seeking the light of her divinity. But the mists clung to him, obscuring his senses.

Thorsten cursed under his breath and opened his eyes. He needed to escape, to get away from this madness. But which way? Which way was safe?

Every direction was the same as the one before—A uniform wall of white surrounding him on all sides, leaving him hopelessly lost.

He pushed off from the tree, stumbling forward into the unknown. Step after step, the misty walls gave way, but the spectral battle continued unabated.

As Thorsten marched onward, his doubts crept into the forefront of his mind.

Could the others have abandoned him? Were they even still alive? Had Ebonheim abandoned him as well?

Was he doomed to wander these haunted mists until he succumbed to the madness? Or worse, join the ranks of the ghosts that tormented him?

Dark thoughts plagued his mind, and Thorsten pressed a hand to his forehead, the feverish heat radiating from his skin alarming.

Something wasn't right. He knew he had to fight this unnatural sickness afflicting his body and mind.

Ebonheim and the others needed his help. If he could push through the fog, surely he'd find them eventually.

But the mists pressed in on all sides, confounding his senses, overwhelming his ability to think clearly.

He stumbled again, nearly falling, catching himself on a nearby trunk.

"Keep moving," he rasped, coughing into the back of his hand. A dark stain coated his palm, a crimson smear amidst the grey.

He spat onto the ground, a bloody glob staining the loam.

Thorsten took a few more unsteady steps before his knees buckled under his weight, sending him crashing to the soft forest floor.

His vision swam and his head throbbed, but he fought against the darkness threatening to overcome him.

"Damn it all!" He swore as he clawed at the soil, struggling to rise.

Eventually, he managed to push himself into a kneeling position, panting heavily from the effort.

"It's all lies," he growled, his anger driving him onward. "All lies! You cannot fool me with such feeble tricks!"

Thorsten stood and reached for his axe once more. This time, the weapon's familiar weight rested reassuringly in his hands.

The spectral battle still raged on around him, but he paid it no heed. Instead, he strode purposefully forward, eyes narrowed.

Then...another face appeared before him.

Lowering his axe, Thorsten froze.

Standing before him, seemingly unaffected by the supernatural miasma, was the god Nidur, his armored body shimmering in the gloom.

Thorsten could not tear his eyes away from the god's imposing figure. His massive bulk, his metallic beard stained crimson with the blood of his foes, his armor adorned with the spoils of countless victories—the sight of his former patron was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

"Thorsten Gustafsson. Son of Horst Gustafsson. Once my sworn champion." The god's deep, booming voice echoed through the mist, cutting through the battle's cacophony with ease.

His four arms that ended in wicked blades and axe heads spread wide, gesturing at the foggy battlefield. "Why do you hesitate? Look around you! Your people fight and die, and yet you stand idle in the forest! How can you call yourself a warrior? Come, join the fray, prove your worth!"

Thorsten didn't answer, his mouth too dry to speak, his knees trembling. The god's words seared into his soul, igniting a spark of anger within him.

"Speak, mortal! Your comrades beg for your aid! Show them what it means to be an Ulfhendar of Hrafnsteinn!" The god's taunts drew more angry shouts from the ghostly figures of Thorsten's people.

"Why does he falter in our time of need?"

"Ulfhendar? Hmph. Coward. Not fit to bear the title."

"Hrafnsteinn rejects the weak and craven!"

"Shut your damn mouths!" Thorsten snapped, raising his fist at the ghostly figures, their voices silencing instantly. He turned back to the god, his expression hardening. "Your words mean nothing to me, Nidur. My allegiance is no longer with you."

Nidur chuckled, his laughter booming like thunder. "Very well. You've made your choice, warrior. Now live with it, for all eternity!"

The god raised an arm, and a wave of black energy swirled around his blade, enveloping it in shadow. With a roar, the deity rushed forth, bringing it down in a brutal arc aimed right at Thorsten's skull.