A single, distant cry echoed faintly through the mist, shrill and jarring, like metal grating against stone. Then another scream joined in, then another, until the air was thick with a cacophony of agony, the sounds weaving together like some twisted melody of suffering.

Henry’s smile vanished, his eyes darting toward the village square as shadowy figures staggered into the torchlight. A group of men lurched forward, their bodies bent and twisted, barely holding themselves upright. Dark red lines slashed across their skin like jagged cracks in fragile porcelain, spreading from their faces down to their chests. Their skin appeared to pulse, almost bulging, as though something dark and toxic crawled beneath the surface.

They clutched at their chests, their fingers digging desperately into their flesh, nails piercing through skin, as though trying to rip out the agony that burned inside them. Blood trickled from their clawed fingers, thick and dark, leaving smeared trails across their torsos. Their faces contorted in pain, eyes bulging as they gasped for air, their mouths opening and closing in silent, desperate pleas.

One of the men’s hands plunged deep into his chest, his fingers vanishing beneath his own skin. With a shuddering, wrenching motion, he dragged his hand downward, pulling his fingers through layers of flesh until they hooked into something deeper. Henry’s stomach turned as the man’s fingers clenched around the bloody coils of his own intestines, his hands trembling as he pulled them out inch by inch, the glistening, twisted loops spilling from his body like grotesque ribbons.

The man’s mouth opened in a strangled, soundless scream, his face a mask of horror and resignation, as if he had no choice but to obey whatever sick impulse had driven him to this. His trembling hands shook as he pulled the glistening mass from his abdomen, the tendrils of his own organs dangling and slipping from his grip as he staggered forward.

Another man joined in, fingers clawing at his stomach with brutal force until his belly opened, spilling dark, viscous blood onto the ground. He reached into the gaping wound, his face twisting into a grotesque facade of pleasure, and he began yanking out chunks of his own liver and tissue, tearing them free with frenzied desperation. Blood poured from him in sickening waves, soaking the earth beneath his feet as he continued, as if compelled by some dark force he couldn’t resist.

The others followed, each man driven to the same horrifying ritual. Hands plunged into their own bodies, pulling out organ, intestines, clumps of muscle and sinew, all in a gruesome, rhythmic pattern that seemed both deliberate and mindless. Their faces were contorted in agony, their lips stretched over teeth in silent screams as they worked, lost to whatever twisted magic had overtaken them.

Henry’s vision blurred, nausea churning in his stomach as he watched. he relieved himself, and then he took a step back, but he couldn’t look away, horrified and helpless as the men’s bodies continued to tear themselves apart, shedding pieces of their own flesh and organs in pools of blood. One by one, they dropped to their knees, their arms sagging as the last remnants of life drained from them.

Nearby, children stood like silent sentries, their faces also marked with dark lines, but their expressions hollow, wide-eyed, as if caught in some nightmarish trance. They watched the men writhe, frozen, as if they’d been rooted to the ground by some unseen force.

Henry took a step forward, hand outstretched, but Elara darted in front of him, blocking his path with a wild grin. Her eyes gleamed, and she laughed—a high, manic sound that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she cooed, her head tilting as she watched the men clawing at themselves, her expression one of fascination, as though admiring a particularly gruesome painting. “The Mists know what they want, oh yes. They only want those who’ve tasted too much of life. They’re picky, picky, picky!” She punctuated each word with a sharp jab of her finger in the air.

Henry stared at her, horrified.

“Beautiful? Elara, they’re…they’re dying! Look at them!”

She leaned in close, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Dying, living—who’s to say which is better? The Mists certainly have their opinions.” She straightened up, eyes wide and darting, her mouth twitching into a strange, crooked smile. “But not children! No, no, no. Children don’t taste right. Not enough regret. Not enough weight. The Mists only want the good stuff. The rich, juicy bits. The adults!”

“Whose side are you even on?” Henry screamed he turned away trying to get away from her but she just teleported.

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Henry took another step back, but her hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength.

“Don’t you see?” she hissed, eyes wild, darting back to the men with an eerie, almost feverish intensity. “They’re just…so heavy, Henry. All those years, all those choices…” Her voice dropped to a guttural whisper, as if she were savoring each word. “Delicious.”

The men let out a final, choking gasp, collapsing to the ground in limp heaps. The children remained, silent and still, eyes wide and fixed on the bodies. One of the younger boys reached out, almost touching the blood-soaked ground, his small hand trembling.

Henry wrenched his arm free from Elara’s grip, a chill racing down his spine.

“We have to help them,” he said, his voice shaking. “There must be something we can do!”

Elara’s head snapped toward him, her eyes alight with an almost feral gleam.

“Help?” She cackled, spinning in a quick, jerky circle, her hands thrown wide as if embracing the madness around them. “Oh, Henry, sweet Henry! You think you can help? You’re just a tiny star, flickering, flickering! The Mists don’t care about little stars!” She leaned in close, her mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “The Mists want the sun.”

Henry’s stomach twisted as he watched her, heart pounding. “You’re…you’re not making sense,” he muttered, but a part of him wasn’t so sure. The manic glint in her eyes, the unsettling grin on her face—they made a twisted kind of sense, a terrifying logic that burrowed deep into his bones.

Elara released him, stepping back with a sudden, exaggerated bow.

“Oh, don’t worry, little star,” she whispered, her voice soft and singsong, like a lullaby gone wrong. “The Mists haven’t found you heavy enough. Not yet.” She looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes, her smile stretched too wide. “But maybe one day you’ll shine a bit brighter. Maybe one day, you’ll be ripe enough. Just like them.”

The final screams faded, leaving only the sound of Henry’s own shallow breaths and the eerie silence of the children staring down at the lifeless bodies. The air was thick with the sickly, metallic tang of blood, mingling with the damp, heavy scent of the Mists.

Henry swallowed hard, fighting the nausea churning in his stomach.

“What…what do we do now?” he whispered.

Elara gave him a slow, crooked smile, her eyes glinting with that familiar wildness.

“Now?” she repeated, voice high and lilting. “Why, we wait, Henry. We wait for the next act in the Mists’ little game. Isn’t it marvelous?” She clapped her hands, spinning on her heel and skipping off, humming a tune that twisted and turned, dissonant and haunting.

Henry stared after Elara, unable to tear his eyes away as she flitted around the aftermath of the battle, dipping her tiny fingers into pools of blood with a kind of morbid fascination. She hovered over one of the corpses, tapping a finger to her chin, then dipped both hands into a sticky smear of blood across a fallen soldier’s chest, drawing little spirals in the gore with an innocent smile.

“Oh, this one has such a rich hue,” she murmured, as though discussing paint shades. She smeared her fingers together, creating a trail of crimson across her cheeks like war paint, giggling softly. She turned to Henry, her face lit up with glee. “Do you think it makes me look fierce?”

Henry’s stomach churned. He took a step back, his skin crawling as he watched her dart to another corpse, where she poked at a disemboweled wound with disturbing curiosity. The viscera squished beneath her touch, but Elara only laughed, watching the entrails slip through her fingers as though she were handling silk. She caught his horrified expression and tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Oh, come on, Henry! Look at this!” She held up a piece of what might have been a liver, dangling it from her fingertips as if showing off a prize. “The insides are so… squishy! Like jelly!” She gave it a little squeeze, causing dark droplets to ooze down, splattering onto the ground.

“Elara, please,” Henry stammered, his face pale, unable to look away. “That’s—just… stop.”

Elara rolled her eyes, tossing the liver piece aside with a shrug. “Oh, fine. You mortals and your squeamishness,” she said, wiping her bloody hands on a piece of torn fabric from one of the fallen, as if it were nothing more than spilled ink. She hovered closer to him, her tiny face still painted with streaks of blood, her smile wide and unbothered. “Honestly, Henry, a little blood never hurt anyone. Well, except…” She gestured to the corpses around them with a vague, sweeping motion. “Except them, obviously.”

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, the chill of the Mists closed in around them. The air grew heavy, as if the darkness itself had come alive, watching him with invisible eyes.

Just then, the elder burst from his small hut, slamming the door shut behind him. His eyes widened as he took in the gruesome scene—the bodies, the blood, the children standing motionless like statues. His voice rang out urgently, a note of fear and command mixed in his tone.

“Kids, quick, get away from there!” But the children didn’t move. They stood slack-jawed, staring up into the bright sky as if they could see something no one else could—a horror only visible to their haunted eyes.

The elder’s gaze fell on Henry, his expression twisting into one of fury and disgust.

“You! This is your fault!” His finger trembled as he pointed at Henry. “I’ll have you hanged for this!”