Sylvarie tread cautiously through the crumbled stones of the Beastveil Kingdom, eyes sharp, scanning for the faintest movement—ever alert for signs of beastkin. It had been weeks since their last encounter with those he deemed vile, yet his vigilance, as leader of the three-man patrol, never wavered. He drew in a slow breath, tightening his grip on the staff in both hands, ready to command at the first sign of trouble.

Beside him stood a knight encased in polished armor and a third companion who could only be described as barbarian-born—bare-chested beneath a ragged leather harness, with a massive battle axe slung across his back, the kind favored by his kind.

Like his brethren, Sylvarie had been drawn to Nyxoria—one of Völuspá's many moons—on a divine mission: to purge the realm of the darker races and their lingering taint. Nyxoria wasn't the most infested moon, but it had become the current focal point of their relentless crusade—a testament to the Empire's unyielding devotion to its cause, and to the kingdoms beneath the Ascended.

As the patrol pressed forward, the tension in Sylvarie's hands increased. His knuckles whitened, the wood of his staff groaning under the pressure. Then he saw them—feral goblins, hunched and scrabbling through a mound of burnt beastkin corpses like carrion crows. Their wild, twitching movements made their nature unmistakable even from a distance.

"More goblins," the knight muttered with a weary sigh. "Why does it always have to be goblins?"

"They're feral," the soldier replied, tone flat—as if that explained everything.

"And?" the knight snapped back, irritated.

Sylvarie barely acknowledged their exchange. He rarely bothered learning much about those under his command—an intentional structure, enforced by the Empire across all its moons. Rotation of patrol members was a strategic measure, designed to prevent loyalty forming between comrades. Familiarity bred rebellion. Detachment preserved order. And Sylvarie, for his part, welcomed the anonymity—it spared him the burden of pretending to care.

His gaze flicked toward the young knight—young, by elven reckoning anyway—likely not past his fourth century. Probably from one of the already-subdued moons, judging by his greenhorn demeanor. Naïve, fresh, and barely blooded.

"Feral goblins reproduce at an alarming rate," Sylvarie said coolly, keeping his tone instructional.

The knight's brows knit. His skin held a faint bluish cast—some diluted human offshoot, no doubt, though Sylvarie rarely wasted thought on human ancestry beyond military necessity.

Then, with a furrowed brow and an almost innocent confusion, the knight blurted, "How are they managing to reproduce so rapidly? I've been trying for decades with each of my wives, and they've been doing the same with each of their husbands…"

Sylvarie raised a single brow.

Of all the things to be astonished by…

His face returned to a mask of calm, but inwardly he was taken aback by the knight's startling ignorance.

"Wives," he began, his voice tinged with curiosity, but stopped himself short. There was no point diving into the convoluted—and often controversial—marital customs that varied wildly across the Empire's races, let alone those within the fractured kingdoms of Slaethia.

He turned his gaze back to the matter at hand.

"Feral species aren't bound by the same magical reproductive constraints as the rest of us." He paused, noting the flicker of confusion crossing the knight's face. Tilting his head slightly, Sylvarie continued, his tone calm but measured, "They lack souls. That absence renders them feral—soulless. It's because of that void that they reproduce in such numbers… spawn litters of offspring like vermin."

The knight's eyes widened, realization dawning beneath the unease spreading across his expression.

"And that," Sylvarie added, his voice firm now, "is precisely why the Empire's crusade is relentless. The darker races capable of spawning soulless filth must be eradicated."

The knight furrowed his brow. "Isn't that basically just… monsters?"

"It is."

"Ugh. Feral orcs and trolls are the worst," the soldier muttered, face contorted in distaste.

"Indeed."

The knight, emboldened by curiosity, asked, "What about vampires?"

Sylvarie's gaze didn't leave the goblins scavenging among the corpses. "What about them?"

"Do they ever produce ferals?"

"No," Sylvarie said flatly. "But they can infect other races—even ferals—with vampirism. And not all those they infect retain their sanity. Some even convert individuals with souls into ferals themselves. That makes them far more dangerous."

The knight rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Huh… back on my little rock of Vespera, all I ever dealt with were flying monster waves from Völuspá."

"Vespera?" the soldier said, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't that more like a hollowed-out asteroid than a proper moon?"

"Yeah, that's where my people are from," the knight said proudly. "It's charming, really—nestled close to the clouds of Völuspá."

"Enough," Sylvarie snapped. His tone turned cold, a clear reminder that this was not a campfire story hour. "We deal with the goblins before they spot us. We lose the element of surprise—we lose the advantage."

He reached inward, drawing on his mana, fingers twitching in preparation to conjure a fireball—when the world changed.

A dense, choking mist rolled in—fast and heavy, blanketing everything in a veil of eerie silence. It coiled through the rubble like a living thing, swallowing the ruins whole. The spell fizzled on Sylvarie's fingertips as the group instinctively halted, trying to adjust to the shifting threat.

"What the hells is happening?" the soldier muttered, knuckles white around the haft of his axe.

"I don't have the faintest clue," Sylvarie admitted, eyes narrowing. The words barely escaped his lips before a shriek split the fog.

The sharp rhythm of frantic footsteps echoed toward them.

They turned toward the sound, hearts pounding.

From the mist burst five goblins—wild-eyed and screaming, terror carved into every twisted expression. Their panic stopped the patrol cold.

And then came the true horror.

Black tentacles erupted from the mist—long, slick, and darker than death. One coiled around a goblin's head, silencing its cry with a wet crunch. Another wrapped a second by the waist, lifting and crushing it with bone-snapping pressure. A third was yanked backward, its neck twisting in a sickening snap. The final two were seized by the legs and dragged, shrieking and clawing, their bloodied fingers scraping uselessly across stone as they vanished into the thick fog.

"W-What the FUCK was that?!" the knight shrieked, voice cracking.

"I… I don't know," Sylvarie said again, far less sure now.

He glanced sideways at the knight—still frozen, shield raised like a lifeline.

"You're our defender," Sylvarie said with a sharp nod. "Go find out."

And with that, he casually stepped behind him.

The soldier gave a smug nod. "Caster's right."

"You've got to be shitting me," the knight stammered. "I'm not going in there without a healer!"

"Don't be absurd," Sylvarie growled. "Healers aren't assigned to patrols like ours. We're expendable. Now stop whining and move."

The knight swallowed hard, white-knuckled grip tightening on his shield. His first step forward was hesitant, almost trembling. His sword hand shook as he pushed into the mist, every instinct screaming run, but he pressed on—slowly, silently praying the elf behind him would at least pretend to have his back.

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Shapes began to form in the fog—rubble scattered across the path, claw marks scraped into stone where the goblins had been dragged. Each step drove a deeper chill into his spine, fear crawling under his skin.

Then—a shriek. Something dying. Probably another goblin.

Caspian spun around—only to realize the caster and the soldier were gone. Swallowed by the mist.

Heart hammering, he took a few tentative steps backward. Where did they go? Had something taken them too? Had they abandoned him?

For a fleeting moment, he longed to be back on Vespera. Back among his odd but loyal family—three wives, two husbands. Home, where shared struggles forged love, and dreams of children still whispered hope.

But here? Here, he was alone in the mist, with something monstrous lurking just beyond sight.

And it was still watching him.

A few meters away in the murky distance, obscured by the thickening mist, the soldier stumbled over unseen rubble.

Grorin, typically a man of few words, was known more for his silence than his strength—a trait often appreciated during long patrols. Despite his bulky frame, thick beard, and stoic presence, he was frequently mistaken for a human. In truth, Grorin was a dwarf—technically a half-dwarf—but raised in dwarven tradition and fiercely proud of it. He rarely acknowledged his human lineage, preferring silence over explanation.

Now nearing the mark of his second millennium since his homeworld had merged with the Moons of Völuspá, Grorin had seen his share of wars. Yet nothing in his long years of blood and battle had prepared him for this—the heavy, spectral mist that smothered the landscape like a waking nightmare.

His grip tightened on his battle axe. Muscles tensed, teeth grit, eyes scanning. He turned in a slow circle, expecting something—anything—to lunge from the veil.

But nothing came.

And that was worse.

It wasn't that he wanted a fight—it was the anticipation, the pressure building in his chest, the way silence could scream louder than war.

Then—something stranger than an ambush.

A woman's voice.

Soft. Melodic. Drifting through the fog like the haunting echo of a lullaby.

"Boys and goblins of every age,

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

Come with me and you will see—

This, my town of… me?"

Grorin froze. Head turning toward the sound.

The lyrics were awkward, improvised—half-remembered. But her voice carried a haunting grace, each note threading through the fog, surreal and enchanting.

"No, that was lame. It should be 'town of Halloween'," she mumbled.

"No. No! They don't know what Halloween is," the same voice responded, sharper now—arguing with itself.

"Well, they don't know who we are either."

"Yeah, true. How about 'town of nightmares'?"

"I prefer dreams," she said softly.

"Such a momma's girl."

"Ugh! Shut up, all of you," she yelled at herself. "Let's get back to playing around with these new skills!"

Grorin stood still, axe lowered, listening. The internal dialogue—the rapid back-and-forth—sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. It was eerie. Intimate. Like overhearing a conversation between a madwoman and her mirror.

Then, cutting through the fog like a blade, came Sylvarie's voice:

"Soldier, knight—if you can hear me, make your way to me!"

A flame flared in the mist—a beacon of flickering orange and gold—casting dancing shadows and peeling back the haze.

Before Grorin could move, that haunting voice chimed again—mocking and whimsical.

"Oh, if my Phantasmal Mist isn't enough, let's lay claim to this domain then... Phantasmal Dominion."

Something shifted. The air itself seemed to tighten. The mist thickened. Mana pulsed through it like a heartbeat.

"Umm… that didn't do shit," the voice admitted, tone suddenly sheepish.

"No, I think it did. Do you feel that?" she replied to herself, wonder lacing her tone.

"Huh, you're right. It's like all the mana's converging here…"

Grorin moved toward the beacon. Caspian was already there, visible through the haze. They shared a nod—brief, wordless relief. But Sylvarie was nowhere to be seen.

Something was wrong.

Elsewhere in the mist, Sylvarie's own heart was pounding.

"ON ME!" he shouted again, panic threading his voice.

His flame flickered in his palm, casting feeble light against the ever-thickening fog. His ears strained for movement—for footsteps—for anything—but the mist ate every sound.

Then—soft as breath against his neck—

"I'm already here."

He spun, fire coiling at his fingertips—but there was nothing.

No figure. No silhouette. Just mist, curling like a lover around his limbs.

He stepped forward—and felt it.

Sticky.

Webbing.

His foot caught against near-invisible strands clinging to the ground and his boots. It was faint, ethereal—yet unmistakably a web. The more he moved, the clearer it became: he was caught in the middle of something.

"Ah, what's wrong?" the whisper cooed behind him again.

Startled, Sylvarie whirled around once more, but this time the webbing ensnared his boots, causing him to lose his balance. He fell with a heavy thud, the ground below proving to be a larger web that entangled him further. Desperate, he shouted, "ON ME!" hoping his companions would hear.

But then, a new, chilling sound pierced the mist.

"Daddy," a soft, childlike voice called out to him.

Sylvarie's struggle halted abruptly as an eerie voice pierced the air—a voice he thought he'd never hear again. It was a mere whisper, barely audible, like a chilling breath against his neck.

"Daddy, where were you?"

The words hung in the air like a haunting melody, sending shivers down his spine. His eyes darted around, searching for the source of the ghostly voice within the shroud, but there was nothing to see—just an empty, desolate space. Yet the presence of his long-deceased daughter lingered, a specter from the past refusing to be forgotten.

"Daddy, it's so cold," the voice whispered again, carrying a sorrow that cut deep into his soul. Sylvarie's heart pounded in his chest, gripped by a mixture of terror and grief. He couldn't comprehend how this could be happening; his daughter had perished centuries ago.

But the whispers persisted, as if from beyond the grave, and the temperature plummeted, leaving an icy chill in the air.

"Where were you?"

The question echoed hauntingly—a reminder of the fatherly duty he had failed to fulfill.

In a realm where the specter of ageless existence loomed large and Death's embrace came only through tragedy, Sylvarie, like all others, was ancient. The inexorable march of time had left him untouched by age, but not unscarred by loss. Many ages ago, a calamity had robbed him of his wife and daughter, a blow that struck deep into his soul. The rarity of children in this forsaken realm—where they were nothing short of miracles—only amplified his grief.

This personal tragedy had driven Sylvarie to embrace the divine call, to join the crusade against the forces of darkness that plagued their realm. In his heart, he carried the belief that ridding the realm of those who spread corruption and shadow would honor the memory of his lost loved ones—and perhaps, in some small way, bring a measure of solace to his enduring sorrow.

The horror of his daughter's voice—lost yet still haunting—left him paralyzed with guilt and fear. In this moment, Sylvarie faced the relentless echoes of his past failures. The cold, lifeless specter of his daughter's voice beckoned him, and he could not escape the dreadful truth of his own inadequacy.

In a haunting whisper, her voice pierced the air once more: "Come and join Mommy and me. We still need you."

The words hung in the chilling silence.

Sylvarie's gaze fell, heavy with shame, as he accepted the ethereal call of his daughter—a voice from the past he longed to join.

In this moment of vulnerability, his attention was drawn back to the nearly invisible strand of webbing that entangled him. This was not the product of any ordinary magic. Throughout his extensive life, filled with encounters with the grotesque and the terrifying, he had never come across anything quite like this. It invoked a profound unease—a realization that he was now ensnared in the manipulations of Mind Magic.

A surge of anger welled up inside him—a fiery response to the realization of being ensnared in such a deceptive trap. Drawing upon his internal reservoir of mana, he released a ferocious burst of flame beneath him. The fire roared—a desperate attempt to burn away the insidious webbing, to break free from the unseen malevolent force that was attempting to control and deceive him.

A woman's voice rang out in alarm as Sylvarie unleashed his magic. "Oh shit! Fire bad," she exclaimed, her footsteps hastily retreating from the flames.

But as Sylvarie continued to pour flames over the webbing, he realized with horror that the webs were impervious to fire. Instead of burning away the trap, he had inadvertently set himself ablaze.

His screams echoed through the mist—a harrowing symphony of agony. Despite withdrawing his magic, it was too late. His robes were engulfed, and the burning fat beneath his skin fueled the relentless smoldering. His pain was indescribable—an unending torment.

From the mist, the woman emerged, stepping forward with a cautious yet morbidly curious gait. Her appearance was otherworldly: ghostly pale skin like woven silk, glowing orange eyes, and long, tendril-like black hair that seamlessly blended with her abyssal black dress. As realization dawned on Sylvarie, he understood—she was the source of the tentacles.

She tilted her head, observing the scene with an odd fascination.

"Huh. It looks like my Threads of Horror skill is flameproof," she mused, seemingly pleased. "I think it has something to do with the ambient mana," she continued, conversing with herself in a way that only added to Sylvarie's confusion as he lay dying.

Suddenly, another figure approached—the Paladin Champion Anlyth, a beacon of hope in Sylvarie's fading consciousness. As she neared, her sword manifested in holy light, ignited with divine fire. Relief washed over Sylvarie—rescue was at hand. She would surely vanquish the monstrous woman.

Anlyth raised her blazing sword, her voice resolute.

"Forgive me. I shall end your agony."

Sylvarie welcomed the promise of release, believing she would strike down the dark figure before him.

But as Anlyth's sword descended in a swift, decisive motion, the woman in black protested, "Hey! He's mine!"

And in that final moment, as the sword neared, everything faded to darkness.

Just a dozen meters away, Grorin and Caspian were jolted by the harrowing screams of the caster, which abruptly ceased—leaving a haunting silence in its wake. Strangely, there was no visual cue in the mist from the caster's self-immolation, nor could they discern the direction of the screams. It was as if the cries enveloped them from all sides.

The floating fireball that had been their guiding light began to fade, snuffing out completely with the caster's demise. The two men exchanged nervous glances in the dimming light.

Then, the clink of armored footsteps approached, coupled with the sound of more hurried, panicked steps. A woman's voice, tinged with concern, called out through the mist, "Hey Champ, w-what are you doing?"

Another woman's voice, sharp and exasperated, replied, "Ending this horrible game you're playing."

Caspian, still gripping his shield tightly enough to cause a trickle of red from his gauntlet, exchanged a worried look with Grorin. They braced themselves, uncertain of what was to come.

Then, a figure emerged from the mist—an elven woman with golden hair, clad in silver and golden armor, wielding a sword radiating divine, holy magic.

"That's the Paladin Champion Anlyth," Grorin whispered in awe.

Trailing behind Anlyth was a frantic-looking woman dressed in black, her pale face and glowing orange eyes the only parts visible through her dark attire.

"Anal-lyth," she whined, "don't kill them for me—I wanted to do it," her voice filled with childish disappointment.

"I will not be a part of your training if your only desire is to torment everyone," Anlyth declared firmly, raising her sword.

Grorin and Caspian exchanged a glance, fraught with uncertainty.

Before they could react, Anlyth unleashed her magic. A blinding golden pillar of light enveloped them—and as darkness overtook their senses, the last thing they heard was the outraged scream of the woman in black…

…before everything faded to nothing.

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