The city of Nolwen was smaller than Xior had expected—it was a cluster of maybe twenty houses around a square with roofs that sagged under damp moss.

The air smelled faintly of ash and salt as it was a costal city. Smoke rose from the chimneys though the fire inside them flickered and was on the verge of being put out.

It was a five day journey from the capital to Nolwen, but Xior was accompanied by the cavalry groups first division.

Chapter will be fixed soon, I'm out of town for a few days so haven't had time to really write. But fret now. Hopefully today I will write then and fix them, and then prepare chapters in advance for later in light of this incident which had me go out of town, so if it occurs next time I'd be able to easily upload the chapters.

Nolwen was smaller than he expected — a cluster of maybe twenty wooden houses crouched around a square, roofs sagging under damp moss.

The air smelled faintly of ash and salt. Smoke trickled from chimneys, though the fires inside seemed reluctant to live.

As he entered, a few villagers peeked from behind shutters, whispering. A child tugged at her mother's sleeve before being pulled inside. Even the dogs slunk away, tails tucked between their legs.

No greetings. No curiosity. Just fear.

Xior's boots echoed in the silence as he walked to the village center, where an old well stood, chained and barred with iron rods thick as his wrist. Salt circles surrounded it, the ground blackened around the edges.

Salt and iron.

Not a common warding — not for beasts or spirits.

For blood magic.

He crouched, fingers brushing the dirt. It was dry and cracked, but beneath the topsoil, a faint reddish tint bled through. Scarlet. Almost too fresh.

"Someone's been bleeding here," he murmured.

A door creaked behind him.

An elderly man, wrapped in a patched cloak, stepped out, leaning on a cane. His eyes were pale with cataracts, but they still held the clarity of fear.

"You… you shouldn't touch that," the man said hoarsely. "The well's cursed. Those who pry too close are taken."

Xior straightened slowly. "Then maybe that's where I'll find your missing people."

The old man flinched at the word missing, like it carried a curse of its own.

The elder led him through the village, limping past shuttered homes. Xior noticed more details — every door had salt scattered across the threshold, every window lined with iron nails. Some had faint runes carved into the wood, amateurish but desperate.

He caught the faint whimper of a dog from behind a shed, its eyes wide and glazed as if it had seen something it couldn't comprehend.

No laughter. No chatter. Even the birds refused to perch here.

The elder's voice cracked as he spoke. "They started vanishing three weeks ago. First the smith's boy. Then a farmer and his wife. Then the children."

Xior frowned. "Signs of struggle?"

"None," the elder whispered. "Doors locked from the inside. Food still on the table. They just… weren't there come morning."

"Witnesses?"

He shook his head. "Only the fog. Always the fog."

They stopped outside a house with its door boarded from the inside.

"This was the last one," the elder murmured. "A family of four. Gone two nights ago."

Xior stepped over the threshold, breaking the salt line. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the faint metallic scent of decay. Dust motes floated in the gloom as he opened a shutter.

The table was still set — four bowls of cold stew. Chairs untouched.

No overturned furniture, no signs of intrusion.

But the smell wasn't right. Not rot, but… something drier. Sterile. Like the scent left behind after blood had been drained clean.

He knelt, running his hand over the wooden floor. There — faint gouges. Four parallel lines dragged from the center of the room toward the door.

Claw marks.

But not from beasts — too clean. Too deliberate.

And the wood beneath his fingertips was cold. Not naturally cold — the kind that lingered from the residue of magic.

He traced the lines with his eyes until they stopped abruptly near the doorframe, where footprints — small, human — simply ended mid-stride.

He stood, jaw tightening.

When he returned outside, the elder sat by the well, staring at it with hollow eyes.

"They said they saw shapes," the old man whispered before Xior could speak. "In the fog. Not beasts, not men. Shadows that walked like us, but hollow. When the bell rings at night, we lock ourselves in. But it doesn't help."

"Have you tried leaving?" Xior asked.

The elder gave a mirthless laugh. "Where would we go? The borderlands? The Empire? They call us cursed already."

He turned toward Xior, his voice trembling. "If you truly mean to look into this, stranger, don't open the well. It's been sealed since the first vanishings."

"Why?"

"Because the last man who touched it was found at dawn," the elder said. "His body was empty — not wounded, not torn. Just… emptied."

Night crept in slow and heavy. The fog returned thicker than before, blanketing the village in pale death. Lanterns flickered weakly as Xior approached the chained well again.

The ground hummed faintly — a pulse, like a heartbeat just beneath the soil.

When he placed his hand on the iron bars, the metal burned cold.

Acheron's voice came through faintly, edged with unease.

"That's blood magic, no doubt. Old, too. The kind used for tethering souls."

He closed his eyes, extending his senses.

Faint threads of mana lingered below — deep and writhing. Not undead energy. Not exactly. Something in between.

Like life suspended.

The villagers had bound something here. But the magic wasn't theirs. It reeked of the Lich's touch — distant, diluted, but unmistakable.

He stepped back, his shadow long against the mist.

If the Lich's corruption had reached this far, it meant the border was already bleeding.

He spent the next hours setting up a small camp in the village square. The fog muffled all sound; even the crackle of his fire felt muted.

A few villagers watched from behind shutters as he ate his rations in silence. Their eyes were full of silent hope — the kind born of desperation, not faith.

By midnight, the bell on the church tower rang once. Low. Hollow.

Then silence again.

Xior rose.

The fog thickened until the world turned white. He could barely see a few paces ahead. His hand went instinctively to his sword.

Acheron whispered, "They're coming."

At first, he heard nothing but his own heartbeat. Then — soft footsteps. Many. Shuffling. Uneven.

Figures began to take shape in the fog. Human-shaped. Slow. Staggering.

He could see faces now — familiar faces. Villagers. But their eyes… their eyes were empty.

Hollow.

Their movements were wrong — jerky, lifeless, like puppets pulled by unseen strings. Some dragged tools, others stumbled barefoot through the dirt, leaving no tracks.

Xior's breath misted as he whispered, "Not undead."

"No," Acheron said grimly. "Bound."

One of the hollow villagers stopped a few feet from him. Her head tilted, neck cracking as she turned. Her mouth opened, and a sound like wind escaping a grave came out.

"...down… the well…"

The voice wasn't hers.

The others joined in, whispering the same phrase, over and over, like a chant —

"Down the well. Down the well. Down the well—"

The bell tolled again, louder, sharper, shaking the air. The villagers convulsed, hands twitching as their hollow gazes turned toward him.

And then, as one, they began to move.

Not to attack.

To walk — straight toward the chained well.

Xior stepped in front of it, sword drawn. "Enough!"

But they didn't stop. One by one, they dropped to their knees, clawing at the earth, trying to tear the salt lines apart with bloodied hands. Their murmurs rose to wails, eyes bleeding black tears as they reached for the iron bars.

Acheron's voice was low. "It's calling them."

"Then I'll answer first."

He planted his sword in the ground and raised his hand. Light flared from his palm, golden and fierce — a divine sigil searing through the mist. The villagers recoiled, screaming as the light burned through whatever bound them.

The fog shuddered, almost alive, retreating like a wounded beast.

For a moment, silence.

Then — a low sound, from deep within the well.

Not a voice.

A breath.

Slow. Ancient. Hungry.

The chains rattled once.

Xior stepped back, eyes narrowing. "So that's what's been feeding."

He turned his gaze toward the fog, now stirring again with movement. Dozens of hollow villagers still stood motionless in the mist, watching him with empty eyes.

He drew his sword free, light catching on the steel.

"Alright then," he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving into a cold smile. "Let's see what's hiding in your fog."

And as the bell tolled for the third time, the fog surged forward — alive, screaming — and Xior braced himself as shadows poured from the darkness.

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