Society fears what it can never understand.

~Records of Grellish Steelborn, Knights of the Mist

Henry crested the final hill, looking down at the lively village below. Stone and timber homes clustered along the winding paths, their walls sunlit and bright. Laughter and chatter filled the air as villagers moved between market stalls in the square, bartering over fresh produce and handmade wares. Children darted between carts, their shrieks of laughter echoing as they chased each other, weaving between the legs of grinning shopkeepers. He ran closer, trying to ensure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

Nearby, farmers loaded wagons with bundles of golden wheat, and the fountain at the center of the square burbled cheerfully, surrounded by families resting on the benches, enjoying the day's warmth. Statues of fairies and maidens stood proudly, symbols of hope and prosperity in the sun-drenched plaza. The mists were nowhere in sight.

Henry’s steps slowed, taking in the harmony of the village life, and he almost felt a pang of comfort, a brief sense that everything might turn out fine. But then, a low, rumbling tremor shook him to the ground.

Boom! The earth erupted with a violent force, and fire and debris exploded from homes and shops. Shouts of joy turned to screams of terror as people scrambled, stumbling over one another in their panic. The fountain shattered, water spilling into the chaos as timber and stone rained down.

From the cracks and splintered earth, a red mist rose, thick and angry, curling through the destruction like a living wrath. It pulsed and spread, coiling around villagers and buildings alike, igniting fresh terror with each surge. Henry froze, his heart pounding, watching as the once-lively village became a nightmare, destruction stretching before him—a force he felt powerless to halt. He scrambled to his feet.

“Elara!” His voice was raw with desperation, his grip tight on the wand, the carved wood digging sharply into his palm. “Isn’t there anything I can do? Isn’t this wand supposed to stop the mists?”

Beside him, Elara’s faint glow barely pierced the fog, her tiny figure hovering at eye level, her expression drifting into delighted vacancy. She tilted her head, her iridescent wings giving off faint tremors in the gloom. Her voice, airy and whimsical, floated through his confusion like dandelion seeds in a storm.

“Ah, Henry, have you ever tried to catch a dream with a net? The wand hums when the moon tickles it just right. Perhaps if you let it sing, the mist will learn the words.”

“What does that mean?” he demanded, but Elara only twirled mid-air, humming a tune that seemed to come from some distant world, her smile as enigmatic as her words.

Before he could ask again, Henry felt a sudden pull from the wand, like a deep current tugging him forward. Without thinking, he raised it, focusing on the memory of a creature he’d seen before—a rat, resilient and relentless, sharp-toothed and ready to bite.

The wand responded instantly. With a flash, a creature appeared—a giant rat, its dark, bristling fur coated with filth, and its eyes glowing a sinister, molten red. It let out a low, guttural chitter, the sound unsettling, as if it came from some twisted throat. Then, like a furious sentinel, it charged into the advancing mist.

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Henry followed, his heart pounding, as the rat clashed with creatures emerging from the darkness.

He felt a shudder of revulsion. The creatures were grotesque, child-sized things with gaping mouths that stretched obscenely across their faces, nearly swallowing their entire features. Thick, black ichor dripped from those mouths, hissing and bubbling like acid as it hit the ground. Their sickly, veined skin clung too tightly to twisted frames, while their spindly limbs bent at grotesque angles, giving them an insect-like scuttle.

Elara fluttered in the air, spinning amidst the wind.

“Ohhh, how fun—Mawlings! Did you know they’re made from the corpses of children? Aren't they just adorable?”

That shudder of revulsion only deepened as he watched the Mawlings shuffle and twitch, their jagged limbs seeming to move independently of any thought or will, like spiders whose legs had been puppeteered by some unseen force. Their gaping mouths stretched wider at the sight of him, as if the promise of fresh prey had breathed more life into their soulless bodies.

"Adorable?!" he hissed back at Elara, his voice barely containing the horror he felt. "They're… they're made from actual—?”

Elara only grinned, twirling again in midair, her wings catching the moonlight with an ethereal shimmer that belied the grotesque scene below.

"Oh, yes," she sang with a lilting, eerie sweetness. "They’re the tragic leftovers of children lost to the mist. Think of it as… recycling!"

She clapped her hands, her excitement disturbingly genuine, as if they were discussing something charming rather than monstrous.

Henry’s grip tightened around the Wand of Arraiza, his knuckles whitening. It pulsed faintly, the warmth of its magic a stark contrast to the unnatural chill radiating from the Mawlings. He could hear their grotesque scuttling growing closer, each step accompanied by a sickening hiss as their dripping ichor burned tiny craters into the ground.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," he muttered, side-eyeing Elara as he raised the wand, focusing its power as the Mawlings advanced. She just winked, hovering out of harm’s way, her expression a mixture of amusement and mischief.

"Oh, lighten up, hero. Where’s the fun in the job if you don’t savor the scenery?”

The Mawlings didn’t hesitate. They scattered, crawling across the ground like spiders, their clawed hands scraping against the dirt with sickening cracks, darting into shadows and re-emerging, their high-pitched, deranged laughter coming from every direction at once.

“Elara? What do—”

A stench filled the air—a mix of rancid meat and decay so thick it stung his nostrils. The rat lunged, teeth snapping viciously, tearing into one of the Mawlings and sending it dissolving into a putrid, misty vapor.

But the Mawlings were relentless. They regrouped, crawling over each other in a frenzy, their sharp, skeletal hands reaching for the rat with a hunger that seemed insatiable. They shrieked, a disorienting cacophony of piercing, laughter-tinged wails, the sound grating and shrill, as if tearing through his skull. Henry’s head spun, nausea clawing at him as he watched them swarm his creature, a writhing mass of grotesque, grasping limbs and slavering, needle-filled mouths.

Yet his creature—the summoned rat—fought on, sinking its teeth into one Mawling’s bony arm with a fierce squeal. It darted back, then lunged again, tearing into them with desperate vigor, but the Mawlings quickly overwhelmed it. They swarmed, a mass of grotesque limbs and slavering, needle-filled mouths, drowning the creature in a tide of clawing hands.

Henry’s breath hitched. I have to do something. Elara’s words echoed in his mind: Perhaps if you let it sing, the mist will learn the words. He stared down at the wand, desperate. “How do I make the wand sing?”

Elara didn't answer.

Only silence and the relentless shrieks closing in.