Mothers a Lament.
A few hours prior to the castle's clearance.
The soldiers and knights had pushed and forced all the guests out of the Grand House Hall, herding them through winding corridors into a vast, empty chamber hidden deep within the castle walls—one large enough to hold a hundred people.
Among the people that was pushed away was Catherine and the Frasier family.
Catherine heard the chaos outside—screams and hurried footsteps, blurred by distance but close enough for her to catch. And through it all, she could only think of her daughter, left out there in the madness. She naively believed that there was still a people out there in the courtyard, protecting her daughter from the danger of the beast.
The hall had no windows, only a series of large doors and a line of pillars, their stark forms made all the more jarring by the endless emptiness around them.
It was clear the room had not been prepared.
Stacks of chairs and old sofas stood haphazardly along the walls, still draped in ghostly white cloths. Rolls of unopened carpet lay scattered across the tiled floors, and a few heavy chandeliers, meant for the ceiling, rested on floor.
But the hall was well-lit, with orbs of light floating in the air, casting a steady glow that chased away every shadow. The orbs had been conjured by mages in grey robes, their magic filling the vast space with an unnatural brightness.
As they waited for the chaos to subside, the castle servants who had followed them began working quickly, furnishing the hall. They lit the chandeliers, rolled out the carpets, and set up tables and chairs for the guests.
Yet not everyone chose to sit, some preferred to stand and lean against the walls, their bodies tense, their eyes filled with unease as the sounds of distant turmoil lingered in the air.
Time seemed to stretch, each minute a weight on everyone chest, until at last, a knights voice broke through the tension, telling the guests they must leave.
The hall doors were opened, leading them back to the corridors where they had once waited to be called into the Grand House Hall. The hallway, once filled with whispered conversations and the hopeful buzz of opportunity, had transformed.
Now, soldiers and knights moved with grim purpose, dragging the wounded from the Grand House Hall, their faces etched with the kind of exhaustion that only battle could carve.
Catherine heart sank with every stretcher that passed her by, every figure wrapped in blankets—blankets that hid too much, whispered too many unspoken truths.
Then—she saw him.
Lawrence, her dear friends son, standing amidst the chaos. Blood stained his sleeves, his face ashen, eyes hollow with an emotion that was too deep to name. In his arms, he cradled something small—something far too small.
Kimmi.
Her heart stopped. Her knees weaken at the sight of her daughter, her limbs limp like a ragdolls, her skin an unsettling blend of blood and ash. Her face was too still. Too unnatural in its silence.
And yet—Catherine saw it. In that unbearable stillness, she saw a flicker of what used to be. She could almost hear a laugh, that sneaky, untamed chuckle Kimmi gave when she was alone or distracted. A cruel echo, or perhaps a mothers desperate illusion.
Her little girls face looked peaceful—serene, even. As if she had merely drifted into a nap. One she might wake from at any moment.
"Lawrence…?" Catherine whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of grief and disbelief.
He did not look at her. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his face a mask of exhaustion and sorrow. Lawrence walked toward her, cradling Kimmi in his arms, her small body a silent testament to the chaos they had just endured.
"Brother?!" Leyla voice trembled, uncertainty lacing her words.
Before Lawrence could even answer, Emeline, her mother, caught Leyla gaze, a frantic warning in her eyes, trying to shut her daughters innocent curiosity before it turned into horror.
But it was too late.
Leyla eyes locked onto the bloodied figure of her friend, limp in her brother arms, and in that instant, something shifted in her. A cold shiver ran down her spine, her breath caught in her chest, and dizziness swept over her. She collapsed, her body falling in a heap at their feet, unable to bear the sight.
Catherine stood frozen, numb, as though the world had stopped turning. Her mind could not process what her eyes were seeing—her precious Kimmi, bleeding, torn, and carried like a fragile doll in Lawrence arms.
The shock was severe.
The coldness of the reality washed over her, and still, no one dared to speak. Not even her closest friend, Emeline, could find the words to ease the agony in her heart.
"Aunt, we need to go to the Infirmary. Now," Lawrence voice broke through the haze, urgent and filled with unspoken fear.
Catherine eyes flickered with a spark of recognition. The thought barely broke through the fog of despair. "Yes... we must hurry." She did not wait for another word.
With a strength born of sheer desperation, she moved, almost in a daze, as her legs carried her toward the Royal Infirmary, nestled near the castle barrack, where hope and fear intertwined in the dim corridors that awaited them.
Though broken and frail, her heart still beats, a fragile frame, yet none can defeat.
The Royal Infirmary
The infirmary pulsed with the fever of despair. The air was close, stifling—thick with tears, blood, and unanswered pleas. Sound echoed in chaotic bursts—all blurring into one aching chorus of desperation.
At the heart of it stood the Frasier family.
Leighton Frasier carried his unconscious daughter in his arms, her small form limp, stained with blood and dirt. Emeline trailed beside him, her hands trembling, eyes wide with panic.
"Please!" she cried out, her voice cracked and raw. "She's only a child!"
A healer glanced up—robe soaked in crimson, face gaunt with exhaustion—and gave a slow shake of his head.
"She's not dying. Others are." His tone was flat, distant—he had seen too much. "Take your unconscious child elsewhere."
He moved past them without another word, toward a stretcher where another child was being laid—this one, carried by Lawrence Frasier.
"Put her down, gently," the healer commanded.
Lawrence obeyed with trembling hands. He lowered the broken child—Kimmi—to the cot with reverent care, as if any wrong movement might shatter what little remained.
The healer crouched beside her, hands practiced and quick.
He placed one hand on her chest.
Nothing.
He checked her nose.
No breath.
His ear pressed to her sternum.
And then—a faint thump. A heartbeat. Slow, so terribly slow.
He offered a prayer for the child, then sat back, his face ashen, and turned toward Lawrence.
"She's still alive," he murmured, half in disbelief. "Barely."
Catherine, pale as the frost that clung to the infirmary's windows, knelt beside her daughter. "She's my child," she whispered, her hands hovering above Kimmi chest. "She's still breathing… right?" Ignoring the burn and cut on the child body.
The healer hesitated, then looked past her.
"Who are you to this child, officer?" he asked Lawrence. Seeing Lawrence in an officers uniform, he felt more comfortable conversing with him.
"She's my little sister's friend."
"And the woman?"
"My aunt."
"Good. Listen closely." He lowered his voice. "This girl is dying. I don't know how she's still breathing. But she won't last long. I won't have chaos inside my halls. Take her. Leave. Deliver the news outside. Do not start trouble here. Understood?"
"Can't you help her? I'm sure you can stabilize her now—she's still breathing." Lawrence's voice wavered, strained with desperation.
The healer shook his head, his expression as cold as the stone walls. "I can't. There's nothing more I can do. Her body has already stopped bleeding, thanks to the burn over her wounds... She's stable enough for now. But the internal injuries..."
Lawrence desperation deepened. "Can't you heal her with magic? It could increase her chances..."
The healers eyes narrowed, unwavering. "No. She's not in a condition to receive healing magic. Worse, she has no magic… it would only do harm to her."
"Then... can't you make her a priority?" Lawrence felt frustrated.
The healer looked at Kimmi, his gaze clinically distant. "The infirmary has already ordered a triage to be deploy, it's in effect as we speak." He paused, glancing at Kimmi condition. "She's at the bottom of the list and will remain there until the order is called off."
Lawrence recoiled, shocked. "You're just going to let her die?"
"She's still alive," the healers voice was flat, clinical. "Right now, she might still hear you. Take her to somewhere private, outside the hall. Have a final moment with the child."
"But that's..." Lawrence throat tightened. He could not accept the healers words—it felt wrong to him.
The healers voice was sharper now. "I wouldn't want trouble in the halls," he reminded him.
"Please..." Lawrence's voice was barely a whisper.
The healers gaze softened just a fraction. "She's already listed as low priority… and with all the soldiers and knights brought here, her name will only move lower and lower. But there's always a chance..." He let the words hang in the air. "But if she dies, you'll lose your only chance to speak to her. Is that what your aunt would want?"
Lawrence stood frozen, torn between two paths—hope or acceptance. The weight of the choice pressed heavily on him, yet he could not bring himself to share it with Catherine. He wished for nothing more than for Kimmi to be treated, to survive.
But the stark truth lingered, she could slip away at any moment.
Would a final word of farewell be kinder. Would it offer Catherine any solace, a moment to say goodbye to her dying child. Lawrence did not believe so. His heart told him there was no comfort in the cruel finality of such words.
And so, he chose to rob Catherine of that opportunity.
He looked down at Kimmi, his thoughts a whirlwind. "I believe in the Crescent Order," he whispered, a solemn vow. "She will prevail."
The words fell like a prayer, soft yet unwavering, as though they could summon a miracle. He held onto that belief, even as the world around him seemed to unravel.
Lawrence turned back to face Catherine, her eyes searching his for answers—but he hesitated.
"What are they saying?" Catherine demanded.
Lawrence hesitated, then finally said, "She's... in bad condition. They don't have answers yet."
"Yet?!" Her voice broke. "Where are they taking her? Why didn't they check her?"
Lawrence placed a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched away.
Her child was slipping from her fingers, and no one even had the decency to say why.
Then—a voice, loud and defiant.
"Leave!" The healers demand rang out, cold and final.
"No!" Leighton Frasier stepped forward, his face twisted in desperation. "We won't leave until our daughter gets proper treatment!"
But the guards, already moved into place, obeyed the healers command. They pushed people away from the infirmary hall.
"You have no business here, take your child and leave." one of healer barked.
Around them, dozens of families crowded the halls. Nobles and commoners alike pressed behind ropes and rules. Some screamed. Others wept. But when one guard leader slammed his pole against the marble floor, the crowd fell silent.
"Disperse or be removed," he warned.
Murmurs died. The will to protest melted into quiet compliance. Slowly, the crowd thinned.
Then came the quiet horror of evacuation.
One by one, patients were lifted onto carts and wagons lined outside. The Royal Infirmary, they were told, could take no more. Those with minor injuries were to be taken elsewhere. The most grievously wounded—if stable, were also being removed.
There were no more beds.
No more room.
No more hope inside these walls.
And then—the dead were named.
Not long after the chaos in the infirmary hall, a scribes walked solemnly, delivering sealed letters bearing the royal crest. "You'll receive notice when rites are prepared," they murmured. "Return home."
Catherine did not register the parchment until it was pressed into Lawrence hand. Her eyes met his—blinking once, then again—as though trying to wake herself from a nightmare. But somewhere, buried deep beneath the weight of grief, she still felt it—that fragile, flickering thread of warmth that told her daughter was not gone.
Then—she saw it. Her daughter's body had been placed on the floor, unregarded, as though her life had never mattered. The cold, hard floor beneath her seemed to mock the fragile warmth that had once been there, now extinguished.
Catherine breath caught in her throat, her heart breaking anew, each piece slipping further from her grasp. In that moment, she realized she had lost everything that once filled her world—her future—leaving nothing but an empty echo where love once lived.
A hand touched her shoulder, a guards voice breaking through her haze. "Ma'am, you have to leave," he said.
She did not look at him. "You dare…" she whispered.
The wind stirred, coiling around her wrist like a serpent. A sudden rush of air curled at her fingertips. The guards hand recoiled.
"A mage!" he shouted.
Another guard stepped forward, his staff hissing as a blade slid from its hollow tip. It gleamed—aimed at her throat.
"Stand down, ma'am. Don't make us—"
"Aunt, please!" Lawrence rushed between them, arms spread. "Don't do this… for Kimmi. Please."
"You… YOU…" Her rage burned bright, but the tears that welled in her eyes burned hotter. She stepped back.
They were ushered out—Catherine, shaken, and Lawrence at her side, clutching the letter he could not bring himself to deliver.
The Frasiers left, they all left.
All but Lawrence.
He stayed with her, through the cold, through the silence.
The letter trembled in his hand, unopened, unwanted.
Catherine wanderer further and further aways from the Royal Infirmary.
Her daughters body lay, calm as the night, in peaceful slumber, away from all fright.
Hours had passed,
The snow had fallen—in slow, deliberate flakes, each one drifting like a mote of light caught upon the wind. It blanketed rooftops and courtyard stones, softening the world in a hush of fleeting grace.
Yet none of it lingered.
Each flake kissed the earth and vanished, melting on contact, leaving behind a silken sheen—a glimmering veil of light that danced upon the ground like star caught in water.
Across the wet cobblestone walkway, tiny flakes of snow danced upon a wide circular boardwalk of pale stone, their shimmering reflections painting a quiet spectacle for those who cared to look. Long stone benches curved gently along the edges, framing the space with silent grace. At the very centre stood a statue of the cities revered lord—Lady Arie Iry Squall—carved in smooth, unwavering granite.
Beneath her solemn gaze sat a lone figure draped in sorrow—Catherine Anne Gustmill.
Catherine sat unmoved on the long bench, her figure still and small beneath the weight of grief. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, nails digging into her skirts. Her once-beautiful kept hair hung damp and limp around her face, tangled and uncombed—untouched ever since tragedy struck her one only daughter.
She remembered the pale, bloodied child—broken and left to slowly die on the cold, unforgiving floor. Her daughter Kimmi, terribly wounded, had been rushed to the Royal Infirmary. But her heart shattered when she saw the healers glance over her daughters injuries and done nothing.
She saw it clearly—in the mutterings of the so-called healers, in their averted eyes and hushed tones.
They had already given up on her. Her bright, lively daughter—no longer.
Catherine grit her teeth, a sudden gust swirled around her, twisting into a spiral of wind that danced along her fingertips. She stared at it—a quiet force summoned by accidental magic and then, slowly, she closed her hand around the air and grip it, tightly.
Then—The wind vanished. With it, the stillness returned.
Her emotions stirred, and with them, her magic began to surge—a force too wild to be tamed. It was a common plight for those born with an abundance of magic, an untamed river flowing within them. Catherine, like many before her, had been blessed with great magical potential, a gift that pulsed within her veins like a heartbeat.
Yet, without proper discipline in magical mastery, it was a gift that could turn against her.
This was Magic Rend—when the magic, once a source of strength, broke free and spiralled out of control.
She lifted her gaze to the darkened sky.
Snow drifted silently onto her head and shoulders, settling like a crown of mourning upon her head. Above, a great ring of dust stretched across the skies, cloaking the stars in between, like veil.
Her breath escaped in pale wisps, curling before her—reminding her that she was freezing.
The cold slipped in quietly, threading through the seams of her gown, biting at her bare shoulders.
But she did not shiver.
She did not flinch.
She did not feel the cold.
Not truly.
A soft splash of boots on wet stone stirred her. She shifted her head slowly and blinked up at the figure who had approached. His face was young, far too young for the guilt it carried.
Lawrence, the eldest son of Frasier family.
"Aunty Cane… it's cold out here," he said gently.
Catherine did not answer, only offered him a faint nod and a hollow smile, the kind reserved for courtesy, not kindness.
Wordlessly, Lawrence removed his deep blue cape and wrapped it around her shoulders. The warmth barely registered. He sat beside her, close enough to share breath, though he felt distance away from the woman beside him.
"I'm sorry," he said, quietly. "I'm truly… sorry."
He meant it. Catherine could hear it in his voice. It cracked under the weight of guilt. The guilt of being knowing.
"You are not at fault, Lawrence," she replied softly, almost too softly for the wind not to steal her words. "You did nothing wrong…"
"No," he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. "I believe I do, Aunty..." The guilt gnawed at him like a splinter beneath the skin—sharp, persistent, unrelenting. He had taken Leyla and Kimmi to the courtyard that day, unaware that tragedy would soon unfold like a cruel twist of fate.
And now, in his hand, he held the proof of that nightmare.
A sealed letter with the Royal Infirmary Crest.
The name written beneath the word,
Deceased: Kimberly Mae Gustmill.
The parchment felt heavier than it should have. Not with ink or wax, but with the unbearable weight of remorse. And his guilt only grew.
Catherine hands twitched on her knees.
Lawrence glanced sideways—and that was when he saw it. The smallest movement. The tremble of her hands. And when he looked into her face, he saw the wrath brewing behind her emerald eyes. Red-rimmed, wet with unshed tears, but bright—still bright with fury.
"The only thing you did wrong…" she said, her tone low and sharp as a blade drawn in frost, "was lie to me."
He flinched as though struck.
"What did they say about my daughter, Lawrence?" Her voice wavered, but her eyes never did. "What did they tell you that they wouldn't tell me?" Her shoulders trembled, and a tear finally rolled down her cheek. "Tell me—"
Lawrence closed his eyes, shielding his face with his hands.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he murmured, over and over, as though repetition might shield him from her grief. He crush the letter on his hand.
But Catherine had no strength left to shout.
"Leave me," she said, the words landing heavy between them. "Please, Lawrence… go."
He hesitated before rising, silent and ashamed. The cold wind caught the hem of his coat as he turned away, and in that moment, the letter slipped from his grasp—an innocent flutter of parchment on the winter air.
It drifted, aimless, until a gloved hand reached out and caught it mid-flight.
A man in a healers coat stood there, a blue scarf tied around his arm like a badge of authority. He plucked the letter from the breeze with incredible precision and glanced at it. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as he looked up.
"Are you Kimberly's brother?" he asked casually. "Or part of the Gustmill family?"
Catherine head snapped up, her senses sharpening. She caught every word.
Lawrence froze, suddenly tense beneath the healers attention. "I… I'm her friend's brother," he stammered.
The healer stepped forward, his boots clicking softly on the damp stone. "Then allow me to inform you of some... fortunate news."
Catherine stare turned sharp—piercing.
The healer met her gaze and continued, unbothered. "The girl—Kimberly—yet lives. A miracle, really. She has the will of the Bright Lord himself."
The healer tilted his head, studying her. "Ah. Then you must be her mother," he mused, as if piecing together a riddle.
A pause.
"Quite the fascinating specimen you are... all that untamed magic." He smirked.
Then the blow.
"She'll live, yes—but she will be crippled. Likely for life. Better than dead, I suppose." He waited, savouring the weight of his words.
The words struck like a hammer.
Lawrence breath hitched. Catherine swayed slightly where she stood, her joy dimming into stunned silence.
Catherine eyes narrowed. A storm surged beneath her skin, her anger rippling like wind across still water. Her fingers twitched, magic stirring, fury gathering into form.
Lawrence reached for her quickly, but too late.
A large flame suddenly materialized in the thin air between her and the healer. It combusts, brightening the space and washing the air with fleeting warmth. Yet, it did little harm—just a slight warmth in the air for a mere second.
"Aunty, no!" Lawrence cried, seizing her arm. "Kimmi's alive! Please—you mustn't—"
His gaze darted to the healer, searching for harm, but found none. A thin, translucent barrier in the air before him, warping the light ever so slightly.
"A ward..." Lawrence muttered.
The healer only smiled, fanning away the lingering smoke with a flick of his hand.
"It is a rare sight indeed—to see an untrained mage, brimming with such vast magical potential. Truly, what a waste."
He pressed a thoughtful finger to his lips, his eyes distant.
"No matter."
Lawrence stepped forward hurriedly, bowing his head.
"High Infirmarer Coire Selene... my aunt meant no harm. Please forgive her—her emotions got the better of her."
"I know," Coire said smoothly, as if they were discussing the weather. "Her magic reacts... unpredictably. It was merely entertaining to watch."
He produced a folded letter from within his coat.
"I was sent to deliver two messages," he said, voice almost emotionless. "The first—you've heard. Kimberly lives."
He waved the letter gently.
"The second—an apology. A grave error on our part. You see... we mistakenly pronounced her dead."
With surprising grace, he bowed low, as soft and fluid as a trained noble.
"Forgive us our sin," he murmured, "and know this—we shall ensure your daughter receives the finest care from Royal Infirmary can provide and help from our Crescent Order. We swear it."
Straightening, Coire tucked the letter away and continued almost lazily,
"Of course, with time—and divine favour—she may recover quickly. Years, perhaps. But worry not. We shall dispatch a healer specialized in her condition to monitor her progress regularly."
He pulled out a smaller note and read from it with a bored expression.
"For now, Kimberly will remain with us for observation—two, maybe three days. After that, prepare to bring her home."
He turned as if his duty were done, already striding away with his scarf fluttering behind him.
Catherine stood frozen, words caught somewhere between fury and hope. The man's arrogance stung like salt in a wound, but within his scorn, she caught a glimmer of hope.
Lawrence, too, heard the hidden meaning in the healers words. The Royal Infirmary and the Crescent Cleric Clinic had invested resources to ensure Kimmi recovery.
That meant something.
It meant everything.
Lawrence knew much about the healers stationed at the Royal Infirmary, having studied them extensively during his time at the Royal Academy. The healers profession was one of the most revered across all kingdoms and nations, a calling often held by the clerics.
To become a cleric required an understanding of life itself—a knowledge so deep it bridged the living and the divine. With skill, a cleric could mend a wound, but their magic was like a finely tailored cloth, stitching only what could be patched.
Yet, those blessed by the gods possessed a gift beyond mortal grasp. These divine healers could weave the power of their chosen deity into the very fabric of life, mending wounds with a touch that no magic could replicate.
It was said that with the gods will, a divine healer could do more than healing the sick—they could even defy death itself and breathe life back into the dead.
Knowing this, Lawrence understood the importance of not offending them, especially now that Kimmi was in their care. His aunts sorrow could cloud her judgment, but Lawrence could not allow himself to lose hope.
He knew that with Kimmi now in their attention, there was a chance—a high chance—that she might be healed.
Lawrence turned to Catherine, his voice low and urgent.
"Aunty… please," he said softly. "Kimmi's alive. She's alive, and she'll heal. That's what matters."
Catherine lip trembled. Tears brimmed again—this time a twisted blend of relief, dread, and unspoken grief.
Her daughter lived.
She fell, but rose with goal anew, though the world was torn, she still broke through.
The Sleepy Mountain, Snow Velley, Midnight.
Far aways from the Limelight Cities, within the border of Land of Curse, lay the Sleepy Mountain home to all manner of beast.
At the highest peak of the snow-blanketed mountain, there once existed a place of quiet joy—a sanctuary where the mighty wyvern-class beasts, the Cootic, found solace. There, amidst the icy peaks, they sang in gentle harmony, their haunting lullabies echoing across the ridges. It was a rare and beautiful melody, a gift to all beasts who called the dangerous mountain their home.
But today, no song rose from the Sleepy Mountain.
For the mist had come.
To all of them.
It rolled in like a silent sea, vast and inevitable, devouring the mountain in a tide of white. It slithered down the cliffs, coiling thick around trees and stone, cloaking all it touched in its breathless veil. And all manner of beasts—dozens, then hundreds—took flight and fled.
Not out of instinct, but out of fear.
For something had stirred, something so dreadful it made even the fiercest tremble.
High above, the sky grew even darker with shadowed wings—Cootic, fleeing their roosts to the sea of skies in panic. The monstrous beasts wheeled and soared, directionless, save for one beacon of hope—the distant glow of Limelight Tower, a bright light burning that can be seen on the far edge of the cursed lands.
Below, the once-pristine slopes of snow were scarred by the stampede. A path had been carved—wide and deep—where hooves, paws, and claws had trampled the white snowfield. An eerie trail split the valley in two, as though the world itself had torn open divided by two.
And those who failed to outrun the mist—
Their voices were lost.
Swallowed by the silence.
Their fates, forever hidden in the fogs cruel embrace.
Not far from the chaos stirred by the beasts, a hidden outpost belonging to the scouts of the Limelight Kingdom lay nestled within the snowy hills.
The scouts had taken shelter in a cave, its entrance barricaded with sharpened logs pointing outward—makeshift spears meant to deter any creature that might wander too close.
One of the scouts had stepped outside to relieve himself when something odd caught his eye. A line of ants was marching across the snow, their dark bodies a stark contrast against the pale white.
Curiously, he noticed dozens of them already frozen, scattered lifeless along the trail. It puzzled him.
'Why would ants be out during the dead of winter?' He wondered.
It was not just strange—it was unnatural.
With a smirk and little else to do, he aimed lazily at them, half amused, trying to pass the time.
Then he felt it—a faint vibration beneath his feet. Subtle at first, like a passing thought. He paused mid-motion, suddenly alert.
The cold air bit at his skin as he stopped peeing. Something was not right.
Quickly, he stomped the snow flat beneath his boots, clearing a patch in front of the cave. He stood there, motionless, eyes narrowed.
There it was again—the tremor.
Faint but real.
To be certain, he dropped to one knee and pressed a hand against the ground. Another shiver ran through the earth.
Not steady.
Not rhythmic.
Unnatural.
His breath caught.
He rose sharply, drew his sheathed sword—not to fight, but to sound the alarm and began striking it against the pointed logs at the cave entrance. The dull thuds echoed deep through the cave, urgent and jarring.
Inside the cave, other scouts stirred. Weapons clattered as they rushed out.
"What's going on?" one of them asked, squinting into the snow.
"There's a vibration in the ground. Did any of you feel it?"
A few exchanged glances. One muttered, "We're near the region where the larger beasts roam. It's not unusual for tremors to happen here."
"I know," the first scout said, voice low. "But this feels… wrong. There's no pattern to it. No rhythm. It's chaotic."
They all stood over the flattened patch of snow. Silence settled.
Then—they felt it too.
A low rumble crept beneath them, not like the footfalls of a single beast, but something broader. Widespread.
"This is foreboding…" one whispered. "Should we report it?"
"Yes," the first scout nodded, "but we need to find out what caused it first—"
A sudden, piercing screech tore through the dark sky.
Their heads snapped upward.
A flurry of shadowy birds took flight, scattered in all directions. Among them, larger winged beasts soared—Cootic, the wyvern-class creatures known to guard these mountains. But they did not screech in fury.
They sang.
A low, mournful tone, haunting and strange, trailing behind them like wind-blown laments. The creatures were fleeing westward, toward the Limelight Cities. Even from here, the scouts could glimpse the distant tower, its glow brightly at darkest night.
"They're heading west… to the cities," one scout murmured. "What in the gods' name is going on?"
Then—
"Over here! Look!" one of them shouted.
The others rushed over, gathering at the ledge where he pointed.
From their high vantage, they saw it clearly.
A migration of beasts—thousands, tens of thousands—streaming from the mountainside below. A living river of fur and fang, claw and scale.
"What could all this mean?" one asked.
"Might be a new apex predator," another suggested.
"But this is Sleepy Mountain, home of the Cootic," a third replied, eyes narrowing. "Even dragons wouldn't scare them off."
A tense silence followed.
"…Could it be the Mist?" someone finally said.
"Don't jinx it, fool."
"I don't mean it like that," the scout replied quietly. "But that's why we're here, isn't it? To watch the border?"
"The Mist is the border, yes. But shifting Mist… that's something else entirely."
"If it's moving toward the cities…"
Their faces grew grim.
They all understood what it meant.
"…Doom."
A tide of beasts in frantic fright, claws and fangs beneath fading night.