And though I walk through the fields of shattered bone and desiccated flesh, I only fear my own pounding heart. The shadow stretches like thread on a loom, the yellow glint of gasping souls floats in the morning dew of slaughter; What havoc my anger has wrought? If only the blood staining my ankles could sate my thirst and quench the fury that burns evermore in my breast. How I wish you were here by my side, my love. Yearning unabated by time and sorrow ...

-The lamentations of Mheriam, XIII, v. 10-12

Brenna started awake in a dark room, hovering a few feet over her cot with her jade skin covered in damp sweat.

She found her small fingers quivering, wrapped tightly inside a lattice of elaborate glass-like strands more complex than any spider’s web. There was a temptation for only a moment to play the harmony that the strands made, if only to hear the music, but she carefully let the threads slip from her fingers. They shattered with a dissonant twang the second her fingers fell away, shooting off into the darkness never to be seen again, and she fell back into her cot panting and dizzy. She brushed a long curl of coppery hair stuck to her glistening brow, and peeled the hot wool blankets from her petite but feminine frame. She curled into a ball as the night air came rushing up to meet her, and she waited. Her heart was still pounding and her small fingers still ached from the elaborate strands she had been weaving in her sleep.

It was the third time that week.

She was in her cell; the smell of brewed therderberry and cinnamon tea hung in the air, the soft brass kettle sitting upon the black woodfire stove in the corner. Whatever web she had weaved, the divine strands had not been disturbed, all were playing their own tunes as nature intended. The iron pots and pans were still stacked neatly on the counter, the white clay walls still stood strong, each decorated with a great woven rug that she had made by hand. The wood frame of her bed still hummed with the warmth and hardness of oak timbers that formed it. Sometimes at night if she concentrated, she could even hear the other pieces of the oak tree vibrating from hundreds of miles away, each part formed into something else. She could hear the desk creak as the writer wrote upon it, the pew as parishioners kneel in prayer at the chapel each mornways, and the timbers of a ship as they groaned in the black waves off the coast. Everything was connected in a way, a lattice work formed by the divines, a woven tapestry of endless threads each making their own tune.

The soft lapping of waves outside her cell window comforted her, each slid across the sandy white beaches like a twinkling melody. She was so enraptured with their sound that almost didn’t hear the black void slip into her cell until it was too late; the soundless, strandless dark shape suddenly appeared over her and she froze. Brenna stiffened as a flicker of cold steel shot out from the darkness and pressed against her neck.

A figure enshrouded in black runed armor that shined like glass in the glow of the stove embers stood beside her bed, rapier outstretched. Her nightwatch, Provost Elana’s dark ringed eyes had small crow’s feet at their edges, her tattooed face etched in a scowl as she carefully searched the room. Her mane of flaxen hair was uncoiled in a rat’s nest of tangles and it looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.

“Is somethin’ wrong?”

“You were weaving.”

Brenna winced, “I-I wasn’t tryin’ to or anything.”

Elana let out a frustrated growl as she looked about the cell wildly, “D-Did you play the strands?”

“S-Shouldn’t ya know? Doesn’t your armor-”

“Tell me or I swear the divines I’ll run you through!”

“I don’t know a’right?! Everything seems to be in tune as far as I can tell. I was asleep, and I-”

The provost scowl softened ever so slightly, “You were dreaming about the boy again.”

Brenna paused and then nodded hesitantly. There was no use lying. The Provost pressed her gloved hand against the bridge of her nose and let out a snarl as she withdrew her sword and returned it to her sheath in one smooth motion. She sat down at the end of Brenna’s cot without saying a word for a long moment.

“There’s going to be consequences.”

“I-I know.”

Her nightwatch Provost couldn’t actually hear the music, only those who had the sight could actually hear and play the sounds the strands made. The Provost and other members of the Order like her that guarded Fen Harbor had their black armor inscribed with divine sigils that would glow in the presence of unnaturally quivering strands, though for an odd reason, Elana’s did not at that moment. Not only would their sigils warn them, but also protected them and the armor made them immune to attack directly from strands, appearing like soundless wraiths in a world of sound.

Why was she weaving while she slept? Why did this keep happening? The nightmares had started two months ago, and had progressively getting more and more frequent. It was happening all over again. When she had first been brought to the Fen over ten years ago, she had nightmares almost nightly about Yaromir, but then those memories faded or so she had thought.

Now nearly a decade later, her thoughts returned to him; The passion she once felt had nearly faded into glowing embers, but just the thought of him stoked the fire once more. It felt so real, as though the day in the alley happened only yesterday. She could even still taste him on her lips, feel his heartbeat against her chest. She loved him before she even knew what love was, and in truth, she still loved him in a way. Just thinking of him after all this time still made her heart ache.

“...Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” Brenna asked.

What is the same as before?” Elana leaned forward, “With the boy. The loaf of bread?”

“Ya. I-It was.”

Elana’s gray eyes could burn holes through her, “I want you to describe everything in detail.”

“But I’ve told ya-”

“Say it again.”

Brenna did as she had many times before. Elana obviously didn’t believe her; She was trying to find some inconsistency, some reason why she was weaving strands during her sleep. Why did she keep reliving this memory? She had tried, really tried to forget, but it was always there, like it had been carved into the deepest recesses of her mind. And with the memory, came the pain like pulling the scab from an open wound.

“It’s just a dream.” Brenna muttered in frustration, “It’s doesn’t matter anymore. Yaromir’s gone. All of them are.”

“Are you sure?”

“You spoke to Provost Katarina before you became my nightwatch, didn’t you? She was the one who took me to watch him hang.”

It felt like yesterday.

She was wrapped in chains, her mouth bound and gagged and her hands shackled beside the Provost. A few days had passed since the marketplace and Brenna hadn’t stopped crying since that day. She had begged Katarina to go see Yaromir before she would be taken away, and was asked a single question, “Do you love him?”

She felt sheepish admitting that fact, but she did, and then she had been taken to his execution. She hadn’t even realized what was happening until he was standing with a noose around his thin neck. He had been beaten severely, yet he had smiled even as they put the black hood over blond head. She watched helplessly as dropped to his death. His feet kicked horrifically before his body went limp, and she had sobbed and sobbed while the Provost watched silently. They had made her watch because she loved him.

In one act of mercy, Katarina had allowed her to say goodbye. She had approached the body, staring up at his lifeless form in disbelief. It didn’t feel real, even when she touched his cooling scarred feet. She was allowed to take a small trinket, a strand from the frayed rags he wore that she kept wrapped tightly around her finger like a wedding ring for years. She used to like rubbing her fingers against the rough itchy strand of cloth, and imagining that he was waiting for her somewhere in a small house far away like he’d promised; It felt like she was touching him, like his soft beating heart was pressed against hers, but she had rubbed the cloth so much it broke. She had cried in mourning all over again, and then buried it in the garden outside her cell. A flower grew now where she buried him; she passed it every day on her way to her morning prayers. When she felt worried or stressed, it reminded her of better days and the great burden that had been placed upon her. She missed the days where it was just her and him, when they had no cares except for their empty stomachs.

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“I miss him.” She admitted aloud to the dark, “I-I wish things had been different. I wish I would have at least told him…told him I loved him.”

“Every witch here has suffered loss. Some watched as their children burned, others watched as their husbands or families were slain. It brings us no delight, but it must be done. ” Elana muttered, contempt on her lips, “You were barely a woman if memory serves, and yet you speak as though you lost the wurd. You shun your gifts, spending countless hours praying to the divines who will never listen to you, and dreaming of a childhood love.”

“Gifts?! All the strands do is destroy and kill in the most horrific ways imaginable. I will never use the strands to hurt anyone ever again, and I will keep that promise.”

“Except while you sleep?” Elana mocked her.

“I have no control over-”

“You’ll tell the Seer and Mother tomorrow whatever you think you believe, but do not think me a fool. You pretend to dedicate yourself to prayer and reading of the scriptures, but I know better. You're just as wicked as the rest, and no amount of false piety will ever wipe the stain of Yanthea from your soul, Witch. So keep lying to yourself if you wish, but mark my words, the moment you pluck those strands you weave, I will pierce your little heart with a smile on my face.”

“And Lo, though I conquer mine enemies, I have failed to conquer myself, and therefore I have conquered nothing. Yet I have hope. For Astram’s gaze will shine upon me once more, for in my heart and soul, I strive always for virtue and seek the goodness of all-”

“Enough!” The Provost’s pale tattooed face turned a shade pale as she clenched her teeth, “Do not quote scripture to me, foul creature!”

“Strange for a provost to fear the word of-”

The slats of cot creaked as Elana rested her hand on the hilt of her rapier. She leaned forward, cocking her head, “Speak another word and I’ll drive this blade through your breast, laws be damned. Do I make myself clear?”

Brenna nodded slowly.

“You are due to attend an inquisition before the Seer as Astram’s gaze rises. Rest well little Witch.”

Knight-Captain Karl Hectaris, Head watcher of the 28th Imperial Legion could not stop his hands from trembling as he took a sip of bitter hot tea. He had not slept well in weeks, his balding head was unkempt with shoots of graying hair like wispy roots, and his thick beard was unshaven and stained. It was very unbecoming of an officer in the Legion, but he no longer gave a damn about decorum. His command of the Wayfortress of Davon, the last fortress between the Mainland of Basira and the coast and harbor city of Calsiyus, was draining the very life from him. He had seen things in the past months that would have shaken even the most experienced Legionnaire to their core.

He had started with one-hundred of the finest Watchers he had the pleasure of leading, but then Basira had fallen and the damnable fog came, and now only eight remained including himself. The first couple weeks were chaotic as refugees appeared in droves fleeing from the Capital city of Avalt and the surrounding cities and towns to the West. Utter terror was etched in their faces, most did not speak, acting as though the world was ending. He and his men had initially mocked them as cowards, but then reports came that company after company of the legion had fallen, city by city, fort by fort. Even the Silent Legion, the Emperor’s bloody best, had fallen in Avalt; fear quickly spread like the plague through his men. More refugees came. It was seemingly endless until one day it stopped as the fog appeared over the horizon. Not a word was spoken, and though he tried to rally his men as the fog grew closer each day, even he could not hide the fear he felt in his heart.

The fortress stood in the only path through the Reuslaz Mountains, and though he was not a religious man compared to some, he thanked all the Divines, even bloody Yanthea herself when the fog crept to a stop just outside their fortress wall; Now they, and the natural barrier of snow-capped White mountains to their North and South were the only things keeping the fog from progressing further Eastward on to the coast. The Port of Calsiyus was still overwhelmed by refugees, and ships were charging a premium to take passengers across the Sea of Peltra’s black waves back to the mainland. He heard rumors of a strange outbreak of plague that had broken out among the crowded and packed warrens, and many had been confined. His fortress stood as the Bulwark to what remained of Basira, and if they fell, the rest of the firmament would fall with it. After seeing what was in the fog, he knew it was only a matter of time.

It was never anything clear, the fog was so thick that they could barely see the muddy frozen ground at the base of the gate from matriculations at top of the stone wall. His men had bravely patrolled and guarded the wall at first, but then men began to disappear without a sound, leaving only their muskets, halberd, or swords and shields behind. The morale had quickly dwindled. How could trained soldiers stand against an enemy they could not see or fight. So instead his men began fighting amongst themselves on who would perform the shift, most considering it a death sentence.

He instead took his place at the wall, thinking that his courage would be enough to stir the men into performing the patrols without complaint. But then he began seeing shadows in the fog too, shapes moving and fluttering like ghosts. Some were tall, taller than the highest point of the wall, others crawled and slithered as though they were part of the very snow-covered woods themselves. The unnatural hissing screeches that echoed out from the fog were enough to make even the strongest legionnaire cold with fear. After he’d lost more than half his company, he no longer had patrols. Instead he assigned a lone watchman with a brass bell, a volunteer, who stood far back in the highest rock parapet away from the edge to ensure nothing in the fog came for the rest of them while they slept.

It didn't matter.

Men began disappearing from their beds during the night, but this time it wasn’t due to what was in the fog, it was their own fear. They deserted their posts, leaving notes accepting their punishment if they were caught, but they could not remain at the fortress any longer. They went to join the refugees at the harbor to flee. He burned the notes, and wrote in the records that the men either had gone missing or completed their service, not cowards. If he had been the same man he’d been months ago, he would have had them hunted down and shot as cowards, but now, he was considering joining them. It was folly, no replacements were coming.

When he had seen Great Knight Yantian in his old gleaming silver breastplate, come over the ridge from the harbor in the company of fifty legionnaires, a month earlier, he had almost wept. No man except Ser Marius the Blade, protector of the Emperor himself, and perhaps High Prince Abran, was a better swordsman. But then to his dismay, Yantian requested to ride through, past the endless waves of the refugees towards the city of Avalt. He had been sent for High Prince Abran and his family who had never left the great city of Avalt, and he was ordered to retrieve him. Karl had warned him of what the refugees had said, but Yantian scoffed at such remarks, and then marched towards Avalt never to return.

Then Battle-Maiden Helgestia arrived a couple weeks later, she wore the robes and armor of the church and had been sent by the Order of Thelris, First of the Witch-Hunters to find the source of the fog. She was accompanied by six dyads, Witches in chains and their Provost protectors. They too entered the fog never to return.

Lastly was the Weeping Priestesses of Beran, who had come of their own accord and believed that the fog was a wicked curse of Yanthea. They believed that they were to reach the great temple in the Holy City, and that through washing themselves in the holy waters, along with prayers, faith, and fasting that the divines would dispel this fog. They were fifteen in number, and they sang hymns as they marched into the fog with both swords and divine texts. The hymns faded never to be heard again.

He didn’t know why he was still here; no one would blame him if he left. No one would even know if he had, they would assume he disappeared into the fog with his men. His wife and youngest daughter had fled months ago across the sea to the capital of Hevard to live with his sister. Yet, his 8 men and he still stubbornly performed their watch though every time he had to make the slow climb to the top of the wall he feared it would be his last. He didn’t know why he stayed, whether it was a sense of duty or it was that his fear of being labeled a coward outweighed his fear of the fog, in any case, he remained. It was nearly his turn to watch the wall, and he was afraid that he would find another missing legionnaire, another good man who managed to face the fog alongside him gone forever. He took another sip of his tea, letting the fire from the burning hearth in his room warm him, but he still could not stop his hands from shivering. Then like a foreboding dearth, the watcher’s bell rang and with it, an inhuman screech that pierced the night air.

“Captain!” A watcher, Henri, came storming into his quarters, “We spotted something in the fog.”

His eyes never left the flickering fire, “So? There are always things in the fog.”

“I-It’s a man.”

“Man?” He laughed darkly, “No living thing could survive out-

Musket-fire. He’d grown unaccustomed to the noise, it sounded more akin to a thunderous cannon to his ears. The Captain leapt from his seat without a moment’s hesitation. The slow plodding steps he normally took up the circular stairs were replaced with a swift and curious energy had not felt for some time. In the past months, no one had ever come out of the fog. He practically launched himself through the wood door leading to the top of the stone wall, steel and wood parapets and streamers of Imperial crimson fluttering in the icy wind greeting him. The Watcher, Adamas, who had rang the bell was peering over the edge, shivering so hard it looked as though he was frozen to the bone.

“Are you sure you saw a man?” Adamas nodded with empty eyes, a smile coming to his cracked lips. There was madness in his gaze, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure he could believe him. His gaze unsettled him. “Perhaps you’ve been here too long, friend.”

But as if to answer his question, an inhuman raspy screech filled the air that sounded close enough to wake the dead. It was so loud he had to cover his ears, and it made his chest rattle as he approached the edge. Then he saw him. A tall man, pale as snow surrounding him, with a black caped cloak, a dark crimson doublet, and a wide-brimmed feathered cap frayed and torn was limping towards the gate. He approached from the only road, a steep serpentine ribbon of rock, snow and frozen mud coiling up from the valley below. Blood poured from his side in dark crimson gouts. He carried a smoking pistol in one gloved hand, and a gore-soaked hatchet in the other.

He outstretched his hand, desperation cracked in his voice, “Open the gate! Please!”

Something crept in the fog behind him, moving with a quickness that astounded the Captain to witness. The hatchet came down quicker, a horrific liquid gurgle erupted. Another shape leapt towards him and past him. The man screamed in pain, recoiling, blood pouring down his pale face. Dropping his smoking weapon, he drew another flintlock pistol from his belt and fired into the shape before it could make it to the ground. It yelped with an inhuman screech that startled the men watching from above, kicking and snarling as it fell to the earth, appearing to perish in the snow. There were more, they poured from the trees like locusts, a swarm was gathering. A larger shadow moved, struck down at him with spindly tree-like limbs, the man rolled underneath, deflecting the misshapen arm with the hook of his axe.

“H-Hurry!” The Knight Captain yelled as he lifted his musket to his shoulder, hands shaking so violently he could barely see the sights. He didn’t even hear the shot or feel the recoil as he squeezed the trigger, but the horrendous sound the thing made as the lead ball struck home filled him with a strength he hadn’t felt in weeks. By the divines, he had actually wounded one…“You heard the man! Open the damn gate!”

“But what if itーIt could let those things in!” Henri cried in protest.

The Knight-Captain stormed over to pulleys, yanked out the stop-bar, and kicked the release. The counterweights fell on chains with a metallic clang, and the gate dropped into the ground. He looked over the edge, preparing to fight more of whatever was in the fog, but thank the divines and all that was holy that the shadows retreated. It was though something anchored them to the fog, but he hadn’t the time to reflect on that thought. It was already too late. The man was deathly pale as his weapons slipped from his grasp, he took a few unsteady steps forward and then collapsed. The stranger sat unmoving, buried in the frozen mud at the base of the wall, as a puddle of crimson pooled around him.