Claude walked through Rothfield, a sack of bread on his shoulder. The people stared at him with cold, angry eyes. He could hear their whispers, their harsh words about him.

They didn’t like him. He looked healthy and strong, and that made them angry. They were hungry, tired, and sick, while he looked like he had plenty. When he offered bread to a beggar, the man wouldn’t take it. When he gave stew to a child, others tried to grab it.

He stopped in front of the bakery he used to visit. The smell of fresh bread was gone, and the shop felt empty and sad.

The baker came out when he saw Claude. His face was red, and he shouted, “Get out of here! Don’t bring your cursed food near me! You think you’re better than us?” He waved a wet rag in the air like it was a weapon.

Claude held out a loaf of bread. “I’m only trying to help.”

The baker slapped the bread from his hand. It fell into the dirt. “We don’t want your pity!” he yelled. “Leave us alone!”

Claude bent down, picked up the bread, and brushed it off. He looked at the baker, not angry, just sad.

“Go!” the baker shouted again before slamming the door to his shop.

Claude turned away, looking at the faces of the people watching him. No one smiled. No one said thank you. He sighed and walked toward the edge of town, the bread still in his hands.

Even though they hated him, Claude couldn’t hate them back. He understood their pain. As he left Rothfield, he hoped that one day, they would find peace.

The mist was thick, cold, and suffocating that night. Gabriella could feel it pressing against her windows like it was alive. She shivered, wrapping her shawl tightly around herself. Something about the night felt wrong—so very wrong.

She checked on her children, who were bundled in blankets. She added another log to the fire, knowing her husband would grumble about wasting wood. Firewood was scarce, but she didn’t care. The house was too cold. She whispered a soft prayer over her boys before returning to the main room.

Gabriella sat down, but sleep would not come. The mist outside gnawed at her nerves. She couldn’t stop thinking about Claude—how he had walked into town, facing angry stares, offering food to those who hated him. The thought gave her courage. She didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

Even if her husband would yell at her, she had to do something.

Gabriella pulled on her wimple and scarf, steeling herself as she opened the door. The mist was like a wall, heavy and white, swallowing the night. She stepped outside, holding her hands in front of her, but it was no use. She couldn’t see more than a few steps ahead.

She fetched a lantern and lit it. The warm glow barely pierced the fog, but it was enough to guide her feet. She knew the roads of Rothfield by heart—how they twisted and turned, the places where the stones were uneven. She moved carefully, sticking to the shadows and keeping her lantern low to avoid the watchmen patrolling with their torches.

As she neared the town square, her lantern flickered over two shapes huddled by a barrel. Gabriella stopped, her heart aching.

It was a small orphan boy, no older than six, clinging to an old man with hollow eyes. They were shivering, their thin clothes doing nothing against the biting cold.

Gabriella knelt beside them, her voice soft but urgent. “Come with me. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

The boy looked at her with wide, fearful eyes, while the old man hesitated. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a piece of bread, offering it to them. “Please. I know someone who can help.”

The old man nodded slowly, and Gabriella led them through the mist, her lantern swaying gently in her hand.

The mist seemed alive, shifting and whispering around her as she moved. But Gabriella ignored it. Step by step, she made her way toward the monastery, hoping she could reach Wilbur’s doors before the night swallowed them whole.

Gabriella’s scarf fluttered around the old man’s shoulders as she secured it. “Go past the town border and into Claude’s farm. You know where that is?” she asked, her voice firm but kind.

Both of them nodded, their wide eyes glistening with a mixture of fear and hope.

“Good. I’ll find the rest of your friends,” she said, helping the old man to his feet. “Hurry now, and stay quiet. The forest path will guide you.”

The boy lingered for a moment, looking up at the elder man, who gave him a small nod. Then the boy turned to Gabriella, his voice faint but certain. “I know where the others are,” he whispered. “I’ll call them.”

Gabriella stared at the boy and nodded. The boy was more familiar to the streets than she was. “Stay away from torchlight,” she urged.

The boy slipped into a nearby alleyway, disappearing into the mist. Moments later, she heard a soft, familiar whistle; a signal she hadn’t noticed before but now understood as their call to gather. Soon, the faint sound of tiny footsteps echoed through the fog, some heading toward the safety of Claude’s farm.

Gabriella watched, her breath hitching with relief. But before she could take another step, she collided with something solid: a shadow in the mist.

She gasped, stumbling back and falling to the ground, her heart pounding as cold fear surged through her veins. The figure loomed above her, and she froze, squeezing her eyes shut as she instinctively raised her hands to shield her face.

A hand reached out, firm but steady, and she flinched.

“Gabriella,” a voice called softly, familiar and concerned.

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Gabriella dared to open her eyes and saw Claude kneeling beside her, his face etched with worry.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said softly, helping her to her feet.

She blinked, surprised, before retorting, “Neither should you!” She allowed him to steady her as she brushed the dirt from her apron.

Claude shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Oscar told me a woman with a Venice garden sent word to gather everyone at my farm. Strange, isn’t it, that I had the same thought tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed. “That is—if you don’t mind. I want to bring them to Rothfield, where it’s safe.”

Claude’s smile widened. “Ma thought the same thing. You should come inside the cottage, warm yourself before you catch cold.”

Gabriella felt a flicker of warmth at his words but froze when a faint, strange sound echoed just out of earshot. It was subtle yet unsettling, prickling the air like a whisper carried on the mist.

Claude raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. “That sound,” he murmured, his brow furrowed. “It’s familiar.”

The two stood still, the mist wrapping around them like a heavy shroud. Gabriella strained her ears, her pulse quickening. The noise was low, almost like the distant hum of a dirge, punctuated by an occasional, unnatural scraping sound.

“What is it?” she whispered, clutching Claude’s arm.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “But it’s closer than I’d like.”

Claude strained his ears, the scraping sound like claws dragging across the ground. His heart quickened as he peered into the mist. Shapes seemed to shift, and he thought he saw something moving on all fours, accompanied by low growls. But as the mist curled and thinned, the shapes disappeared.

“I’m not sure if it’s real or just the mist playing tricks,” Claude muttered, his voice tense. “But we’ve got to hurry.”

Gabriella nodded, her grip on her scarf tightening as they moved swiftly. They ducked around corners, crouching low to avoid the watchmen’s torchlight. Together, they gathered more beggars and loiterers from the streets, urging them to hold onto one another as they followed.

When they reached the barrels where Claude had seen Oscar earlier, they spotted the boy nearly caught by a watchman. Claude quickly pulled him into the shadows, pressing a finger to his lips. “Stay close,” he whispered.

Oscar clung to Claude’s sleeve, trembling.

“Is this everyone?” Claude asked, gesturing to the huddled group they had collected.

“Everyone I know,” Oscar squeaked, glancing nervously into the mist.

“Then let’s go,” Claude said, his voice firm.

“Wait,” Gabriella interjected, her eyes lighting up with an idea. “I have herbs in the garden. If I gather them now, maybe Wilbur can make more soup to feed everyone.”

Claude hesitated, looking between her and the group. “We don’t have much time,” he warned. “But if you’re quick, we’ll wait by the edge of your garden.”

Gabriella nodded. “I won’t be long. Keep them safe.”

Claude watched her disappear into the mist toward her small garden, his hand tightening on Oscar’s sleeve. The faint scraping sound came again, more distant this time, but it set his nerves on edge. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t sure they could outrun it for long.

Claude and the gathered group waited by the edge of Gabriella’s garden, shrouded in the mist. Gabriella worked quickly, gathering feverfluke flowers, herbs, and mint, stuffing them into her apron pocket. She moved with urgency, her fingers trembling not from the cold, but from a growing sense of dread.

As she bent to pluck another handful of mint, the faint creak of the main door opening froze her in place.

She turned her head slowly and saw the shadow of her husband framed by the doorway. His broad shoulders were raised, and his clenched fists rested at his sides.

“Get back inside,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

Gabriella’s heart pounded in her chest, but she stood her ground, clutching the herbs tightly in her hands. “Please,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “They need help.”

Her husband took a step forward, his boots crunching against the frostbitten ground. “Blast you, woman. I said get inside.”

He leapt off the porch, his stride heavy and threatening, closing the distance between them.

Gabriella’s voice rose, firm and defiant. “I shall not!” she cried. “And you better not harm these children, or I will scream loud enough for the whole town to hear! You will wait right there while I take them somewhere they’ll be safe and cared for.”

Her husband stopped, stunned by the fire in her voice.

Gabriella didn’t know where the courage came from—years of fear and silence now bubbling into defiance. Or perhaps it was the warmth of the herbs in her hands, their faint fragrance filling her lungs and steadying her resolve.

She stepped forward, meeting her husband’s glare with one of her own. “You will not stop me,” she said quietly, her words sharp as a blade. “Not tonight.”

Behind her, Claude emerged from the mist, standing tall and silent, a reassuring presence. Her husband’s eyes flicked to him, but he said nothing, his fists loosening ever so slightly.

Gabriella turned, her heart pounding, and walked toward Claude and the children. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady now. Together, they disappeared into the mist, leaving the shadow of her husband behind.

Gabriella's husband froze mid-step. She turned sharply to Claude, her eyes wide with panic, searching his face for a solution. Claude nodded at her, his expression calm but firm, and she understood without a word.

They both turned away, guiding the children onward.

“Where do you think you’re going, woman?!” her husband bellowed, his voice cutting through the mist like a blade.

Gabriella faltered, her chest tightening with fear. She glanced at the children, little Oscar clutching her sleeve, and forced her feet to move. But the sound of heavy footsteps pounding behind her sent a jolt of terror through her body.

She spun around, her arms instinctively shielding Oscar as she closed her eyes. Her mind braced for the strike, for the humiliation she knew so well. Her hands flew to her wimple, gripping it tightly, anticipating the cruel tug her husband always used to shame her.

But the blow never came.

Instead, she heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—a grunt, a thud, and then silence.

Opening her eyes hesitantly, she saw her husband sprawled on the cold ground, groaning as he clutched his side. Above him stood Claude, his chest heaving and his fist clenched. He didn’t say a word, but the message in his posture was clear: he would not let Gabriella or the children be harmed.

Gabriella exhaled shakily and rushed to Claude, her hands fluttering as she checked him for injuries. “Are you hurt?” she asked breathlessly, her fingers searching his face and arms for bruises.

Claude gently took her hands and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said softly, his tone steady. “Let’s go.”

He placed a guiding hand on her arm, leading her and the children toward the path that would take them to his farm. The mist, though still thick, seemed lighter as they approached the fence. The old man from earlier was there, waiting as promised, his hunched figure illuminated faintly by a lantern.

They passed through the dark forest on their way to the monastery, the quiet only broken by the sound of their careful footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves. Gabriella glanced at Claude, her heart still racing.

“When did you get so tall?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence.