The next morning arrived slowly, dragging itself through the dense fog that clung stubbornly to the ground. James sat near the faint embers of the rekindled fire, the warmth doing little to ease the chill in his bones. Sleep had been impossible after the encounter with the Obsidian Wraith, and the others had kept their distance, their eyes flitting toward him with suspicion and unease.

The scarred man, whose name James had learned was Vance, leaned against a jagged tree trunk, sharpening a long knife with mechanical precision. The wiry woman, Leena, stirred something foul-smelling in a battered pot over the fire, while the youngest of the group, a quiet figure called Derrin, sat cross-legged nearby, his attention fixed on the peculiar device he seemed to cherish.

Rook was the only one who didn’t seem to acknowledge James’s presence, his focus instead on cleaning his weapons with a sharp, practiced efficiency.

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until Vance finally broke it. “So, Forsyth,” he said, his voice gruff. “Mind telling us why the hell a Wraith is interested in you?”

James flinched at the name. It felt like a curse every time it was spoken aloud, like it carried the weight of something dark and inescapable.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “I don’t even remember who I am.”

Vance snorted, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a smirk. “Convenient.”

Leena glanced up from her pot, her dark eyes narrowing. “Nothing about a Forsyth is convenient,” she muttered. “Especially not for the rest of us.”

“Enough,” Rook said sharply, not looking up from his blade. His tone brokered no argument, and the others fell silent, though their stares lingered on James like knives at his back.

James shifted uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself. “What is an Obsidian Wraith?” he asked, desperate to break the tension.

Leena laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“Leena,” Rook warned, his tone colder this time.

She rolled her eyes but said no more.

“It’s a Veilspawn,” Derrin said quietly, his voice surprising James. The younger man’s eyes remained fixed on his device as he spoke, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings along its surface. “A dangerous one. They don’t just hunt—they mark people. Echo them, like shadows that know too much.”

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James frowned. “What does that mean?”

Derrin hesitated, glancing briefly at Rook before continuing. “It means it doesn’t just want to kill you. It wants to unravel you. Piece by piece.”

The words sent a chill down James’s spine.

Vance chuckled darkly, his knife still scraping against the whetstone. “That’s if you’re lucky. If it doesn’t find what it’s looking for, it’ll drag you into the Veil itself. And trust me, kid, you don’t want to see what’s on the other side.”

James’s throat tightened, and he glanced toward Rook, hoping for some reassurance. But Rook’s expression was grim, his jaw set.

“You’ll survive,” Rook said finally, his voice firm. “As long as you keep your head and don’t wander off again.”

James bit back a retort. He hadn’t wandered off—at least, not intentionally—but the memory of the Wraith’s presence was still too fresh to argue.

“Why is it after me?” he asked instead. “What does it want from me?”

Rook hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the others before settling on James. “The Forsyths were connected to the Veil in ways no one else was. Whatever’s left of their power, their knowledge—it’s tied to you now. And the Mire doesn’t let power go unanswered.”

James swallowed hard. The idea of being tied to something so vast and incomprehensible made his head spin.

“What do I do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, no one answered. The fire crackled softly, and the fog seemed to press closer, as though listening.

Finally, Rook stood, sliding his blade back into its sheath. “You learn,” he said simply. “Fast.”

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

The group moved out shortly after, their camp packed into worn packs and satchels with practiced efficiency. The path ahead was narrow and winding, hemmed in by gnarled trees whose twisted branches clawed at the sky.

James stuck close to Rook, his eyes darting nervously to every shadow and flicker of movement in the mist. The memory of the Wraith’s hollow voice echoed in his mind, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still watching him, waiting.

Leena walked ahead, her movements quick and purposeful, while Vance brought up the rear, his hand never far from the hilt of his knife. Derrin stayed in the middle, his strange device tucked carefully under one arm.

They walked in silence for hours, the oppressive weight of the Mire pressing down on them. The air grew colder, the mist thicker, until the world around them felt like a dream—or a nightmare.

It was Derrin who broke the silence, his voice hesitant. “We’re getting close to the Shifting Spire.”

James frowned, glancing at Rook. “What’s the Shifting Spire?”

“It’s a landmark,” Rook said, his tone curt. “A waypoint. But it’s also dangerous.”

“Everything here is dangerous,” James muttered, earning a faint smirk from Leena.

“The Spire’s different,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s... alive, in a way. Shifts in and out of reality. If you’re not careful, it’ll take you with it.”

James felt his stomach turn. “Why are we going there?”

“Because it’s the only way forward,” Rook replied. “And because it might hold answers.”

Answers. The word stuck in James’s mind, a faint flicker of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

But as they drew closer to the Spire, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers waiting for him might be worse than the questions.