Henry awoke to the soft golden light of dawn spilling through the grimy window, painting warm streaks across the walls of the small, cluttered room. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he stirred without the weight of a nightmare pressing down on his chest. The air felt lighter, cleaner somehow, as if the world itself had paused to give him a moment of peace. No nightmares. He hadn't had a nightmare.

He blinked, disoriented by the stillness, but not unwelcome to it. Something felt different, a little unfamiliar but not unsettling. His hand instinctively drifted to the side of the bed, brushing against smooth wood. His wand wasn’t there, but the absence didn’t send him into a spiral.

Instead, a small smile tugged at his lips. He stretched, groaning softly as his muscles protested, the quilt slipping from his shoulders as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He paused to savor the quiet, letting his fingers trail across the worn fabric of the quilt, the ridges a grounding comfort. For once, the silence wasn’t heavy or foreboding. It was just quiet.

Standing up, he took in the room with fresh eyes. The sliver of light slicing through the window gave life to the otherwise dull space. The shadows didn’t feel like looming threats—they were just shadows. And for the first time in ages, Henry felt like himself. Like he could breathe without the mists of his mind curling in to suffocate him.

Henry let himself sink back into the thin mattress, the sliver of dawn brushing his face like a quiet promise of peace. But peace didn’t feel like something he could afford. His body felt impossibly weak, like he’d been wrung out and left to dry, every muscle aching with exhaustion. His stomach growled angrily, a deep pang that reminded him just how long it had been since he’d eaten anything decent. Yet the thought of going out there—to face whatever fresh horrors this next day had in store—made his chest tighten.

Since arriving, he’d been caught in an unending storm of chaos and violence, bouncing from one awful event to the next. No reprieve. No time to breathe. It was too much—he wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t some fearless hero or hardened adventurer. He was just... Henry. A cancer inflicted teen who used to play video games and complain about school. And now? Now, he’d seen more blood than he ever thought possible. He’d seen what the mist did to people—what it twisted them into. The images wouldn’t leave his head, no matter how hard he tried to shove them away.

He curled onto his side, gripping the quilt tight. He wanted to bury himself in it, to block out the memories and the gnawing sense of helplessness. Just for a while. But he couldn’t. Not really. Elara wouldn’t let him. And if he didn’t pull himself together soon, she was going to do something reckless. Something terrible.

He exhaled shakily, his fingers clutching the fabric like it could anchor him to the present. He didn’t want to think about what she was capable of if he didn’t step up. He didn’t want to think about what he’d already done—or failed to do. But he couldn’t ignore things forever.

"I have to keep going," he whispered, though the words felt thin and empty. He closed his eyes for just a moment longer, willing his trembling hands to still. "Just a little longer."

“Elara?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. The name carried a tremor, a thread of hope fraying at the edges. He waited, the silence stretching out like the moment before a storm. No faint flutter of wings, no teasing giggle—only the room’s stifling stillness pressing in, thick and unyielding.

Had something happened to her?

He swallowed hard, shoving the thought aside, but it lingered, insistent and unwelcome. Shadows clung to the walls, reluctant to retreat as dawn crept in, their shapes coiling like watchful eyes. He forced himself to his feet, each step heavy as though the air itself were conspiring against him.

The narrow hallway beyond the door felt warped. His footsteps echoed, a lonely sound swallowed too quickly by the oppressive quiet. Déjà vu struck again, stronger this time—a strange, electric buzz of familiarity beneath his skin. The hallway was wrong, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he had walked it before, perhaps in a dream. Faint murmurs spilled from behind closed doors, whispers dissolving the moment he strained to catch their meaning.

A cracked door caught his eye. For a fleeting moment, a glint of eyes met his through the gap—wide, fearful, and unblinking. He heard the flutter of wings from the other side, and was just about to shout Elara, but as he neared, the door slammed shut, the sound like a judge’s gavel sealing his fate.

By the time he reached the common room, unease pooled in his stomach like a glacial tide. Conversations stilled the moment he crossed the threshold, their abrupt endings leaving a vacuum of sound. Heads turned, but only enough to avoid meeting his gaze. Villagers busied themselves, hands gripping mugs and cloths with knuckle-whitening force, their movements exaggerated in their pretense.

Marta stood behind the bar, scrubbing at a glass with an intensity that bordered on violence. The squeak of the cloth against the glass jarred against the hush of the room. Her expression was tight, wary, as if her very skin bristled at his presence.

“My wand is gone,” Henry said, his voice sharper than he intended, the edge of desperation cutting through. “And Elara—have you seen her?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Marta’s gaze flicked to him, cold and fleeting, before returning to the glass in her hands. Her jaw tightened, her movements growing harsher. “No,” she said curtly, the word brittle and final.

Henry opened his mouth to press further, but a murmur rose from a corner table.

“Hey! Where’s my spoon?” Henry turned on his heel looking for the source of the noise.

The patron patted his pockets, frowning as his gaze darted around the table. Henry’s heart leapt. Elara. It had to be her. This was just like her—swiping random things for a laugh, scattering her mischief like breadcrumbs. His eyes searched the room, half-expecting her to materialize with a smirk and a sly quip.

But the room remained lifeless.

The spark of hope flickered, dimmed, and finally snuffed out.

Déjà vu crept in once more, insidious and unshakable. He had felt this sinking weight before—the dread of realizing something was slipping through his fingers, the quiet certainty that nothing would ever be the same.

But then, the patron crouched, muttering a sheepish, “Oh, there it is,” as he retrieved the spoon from the floor.

The momentary lightness dissolved, and the pit of dread in Henry’s chest grew deeper. He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. Of course it wasn’t her. The room’s silence hung heavy, like an unspoken judgment that left no room for appeal. It was as if they had all decided, together, to lock him out, their collective suspicion thick and suffocating.

Henry’s gaze swept over the common room, searching, hoping to catch even a flicker of Elara’s mischievous eyes or hear her voice shattering this oppressive quiet. But all he found were deepening shadows and the weight of stares that bore into him, unforgiving. The air felt like wet cloth wrapped around his throat, cold and unyielding.

As he moved through the room, every step seemed to draw more scrutiny. Hands gripped mugs tighter, fingers curling as though the tankards were the only things tethering the villagers to safety. Eyes darted his way, only to flicker away again, the brief glances filled with something raw—fear, mistrust, and something worse: ingratitude.

He bit back the sharp words rising in his throat. They didn’t want his help. They never had. But where would they be without him? These walls were still standing because he’d stood between them and the mist, because he’d fought to save who he could. I brought survivors here, he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. And this is how they repay me?

“Never seen trouble like this ‘til he came…” A voice muttered low in the corner, just loud enough for Henry to hear. The words prickled under his skin, sharp as a dagger, twisting deeper with every syllable.

A woman near the far wall folded her arms, her gaze brushing over him before skittering away, her mouth pulling into a tight, disapproving line. “Can’t say it feels right, him staying here,” she murmured, her voice carrying just enough for him to catch.

By the fire, a man gave a heavy grunt, his shadow stretching jagged and long in the flickering light. “We brought something on ourselves,” he muttered darkly, letting the insinuation hang in the air like smoke.

Henry’s frustration boiled under the surface, hot and volatile. “I saved you,” he wanted to shout, the words clawing at his throat. But he knew what would happen. They would avert their eyes, mutter more accusations, retreat further into their distrust. He could feel their judgment curling around him like chains, dragging him down with every glance, every whisper.

Instead, he forced his hands to unclench, his breath coming out in tight, shallow bursts. Let them whisper. Let them glare. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him snap.

He turned sharply and pushed through the door, stepping into the village. The cold air hit him like a slap, but it did little to clear the tightness in his chest. The familiar streets stretched before him, but they felt hollow now, their warmth leeched away. Windows stared back at him like empty eyes, cold and unfeeling. The mist curled around his feet, silent and predatory, its tendrils reaching as though sensing his turmoil.

Up ahead, he spotted a cluster of villagers, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. His frustration flared again. Maybe they would listen, maybe he could explain. You’re alive because of me, he thought bitterly as he approached, his steps quickening. But as soon as they saw him, the group scattered like startled birds, their voices dissolving into the fog.

Henry stopped, his breath hitching. Their retreat stung more than he wanted to admit. He stood there, the knot of frustration and dread coiling tighter in his chest. Even the paths beneath his feet seemed to conspire against him, twisting unnaturally, leading him astray. The village felt hostile, its timber walls sagging with decay, strange symbols scratched hastily into the wood—warnings etched by desperate hands.

Turning a corner, Henry nearly stumbled as the elder stepped into his path. Her staff struck the ground with a sharp crack, her expression carved from stone. Deep lines etched her face, but her eyes held him with something sharper than age—fear, laced with accusation.

“Henry,” she said, her voice tight and unyielding. “What have you brought here?

His fists clenched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The weight of her gaze pinned him in place, and the words he wanted to hurl at her caught in his throat. He had brought them safety. He had brought them hope. But all they saw was a threat. What you brought me is the secret of how we stop this. And besides in brought you survivors,” he finally said, his voice low but trembling with restrained anger. “I brought you safety.”

The elder’s grip on her staff tightened, her knuckles pale. “And yet the mist follows you,” she said, her tone measured, as if each word had been carefully sharpened. “It clings to you, Henry. We can all feel it. And you must pay the price.”