Out in the woods, the forest was drowning in silence.
Fog coiled between the trees like pale serpents, slithering through moss and rot.
Everything dripped—branches, leaves, the black earth itself.
A fine mist clung to every surface, turning the world soft and shapeless.
Rain had passed not long ago; the damp still hung in the air, cool and thick, pressing down like a breath held too long.
Beneath the weeping canopy, the trees loomed tall and dark, their trunks slick with water and lichen.
The fog muffled sound—no birds, no wind, only the quiet hiss of moisture falling from leaves.
Somewhere in that muffled hush, two figures lay hidden in the underbrush, still as stones.
Freya crouched low beneath a gnarled pine, droplets beading along the polished surface of her rapier.
The Reinhart blade—silver-edged, mana-glyphs gleaming faintly blue along its length—was forged for clarity in chaos.
The blade did not tremble—nor did her hand.
Her breath misted before her lips, slow and controlled. A single rivulet of rain traced down her jaw.
Beside her, half-shadowed beneath a dew-slick fern, Celine crouched with both daggers drawn—blades black as midnight oil, small and deadly.
She gripped them in a reversed hold, fingertips tight against damp leather. Her eyes scanned the fog with animal stillness.
Bootsteps squelched in the mud beyond the trees.
Voices followed—hushed, tense.
"They came through here. I saw tracks—barely, but fresh."
"You sure it was them?"
"Positive. Remember, boys. That Reinhart girl's worth a bloody fortune."
"Dead or alive?"
A pause.
"Doesn't matter."
Four men. Shapes in the mist. They moved carefully—black coats soaked, glyph-tattoos glowing faintly on damp skin.
The fog distorted their outlines, made them flicker like phantoms.
One stepped closer, as if he sensed something. Blade drawn, his expression sharpened—
But he was too late.
Freya moved like fog—silent, fluid. She sprang from cover, and her rapier lashed forward with deadly precision.
The blade carved cleanly through the man's thigh.
He gasped, fell to one knee.
The second thrust pierced his chest, angled upward through the heart. He choked once, eyes wide with shock, and crumpled sideways into the wet moss.
A startled shout:
"Watch out! Behind you!"
Celine burst from the opposite side. Grinning. Steps soundless on the damp ground.
She ducked low beneath a wide, panicked swing, twisted behind her target, and drove both daggers into his back—one through a lung, the other angled into the base of the skull.
The man shuddered and collapsed without a sound.
The third attacker rushed Freya, prod sparking in the gloom. Glyphs flickered across the shaft in unstable arcs of violet mana.
He thrust—
Freya stepped aside, with a flick of her wrist, she deflected the strike, reversed her grip, and plunged the blade through his ribs.
A crackling burst of energy sputtered from the prod before it fell, hissing, into the mud.
She exhaled sharply, fog curling from her lips.
"Where's the last one?" she hissed.
Celine's voice came through the mist.
"Up slope—rifle."
Crack.
A bolt tore past Freya's head and struck a tree, blowing out a wet chunk of bark.
She dropped into a crouch, heart pounding. Another shot hissed overhead, mist swirling.
Celine was already moving. She broke into a low run, bounding over roots and slick stone with silent urgency.
The rifleman tried to track her—shadows through fog, aim jerking.
He fired—
Missed.
She was there—then gone.
She leapt forward, knocked the rifle aside with one blade, and carved a brutal line across his throat with the other.
Warm blood sprayed into the fog, mixing with the rain. The man fell backwards without a sound, swallowed by the mist.
Silence returned.
Freya stood slowly, scanning the trees. Her rapier gleamed wet in her grip.
Celine emerged from the haze, breathing hard.
"You good?" Freya asked.
Celine nodded, rain-matted hair plastered to her cheeks.
"Yes, my lady."
Freya wiped the blood from her blade against the coat of the fallen man, then slid the Reinhart rapier back into its sheath with a soft click.
"The gunshots gave us away. We have to move."
Celine glanced through the fog, daggers still wet in her hands. "Where to, my lady?" she whispered.
Freya scanned the treeline, jaw set.
"Back to Rosenvale. We find a way out before night falls."
A breeze stirred the mist again, curling like breath from an unseen beast. It carried the scent of rain and blood—thick, metallic, wrong.
The forest groaned faintly in the distance. Wet branches creaked overhead.
Somewhere, water dripped—rhythmic, steady—as if counting time they didn't have.
Without another word, the two women vanished into the fog-bound woods, footfalls swallowed by sodden ground.
Behind them, silence returned—damp, watchful.
And not far off, the fog stirred with movement.
Shadows slipped between trees. Footsteps pressed softly into the damp earth, drawing near.
The hunt had not ended.
It was only gathering pace.
But just beyond, the trees began to thin, the forest giving way to scorched ruin—a wide, blackened scar ripped through the land.
This was the epicenter.
Ground zero.
Smoke still drifted in coils from the scorched soil, curling lazily in the damp air.
A breeze passed through the clearing, carrying the acrid stench of burnt iron, oil, and mana discharge. Everything reeked of destruction.
Charred trees leaned inward like mourners, many split or half-felled, their bark flaking in brittle curls.
The ground was cratered and torn apart, rail lines twisted into grotesque spirals, the wooden ties beneath them reduced to ash.
At the center of it all lay the ruined corpse of the train.
The engine was an unrecognizable mass—its boiler split wide like a ruptured ribcage, gears and mangled pipes flung across the blast zone.
Some had been driven deep into nearby trunks, embedded like shrapnel.
A massive drive wheel—six feet across—lay half-buried against a shattered oak, its rim still faintly steaming.
No movement. No birdsong. Only the wind. And beneath it, the faint, rhythmic drip of water.
Steam rose from the wreckage in slow spirals, mingling with the fog that curled through the trees like a living thing.
Everything glistened—mud, soot, and blood.
Then came the sound of boots crunching through ash.
A group emerged from the mist—Rosenvale guards, grim-faced and silent.
At their head walked two figures: Inspector Aldrich Hitchcock, coat flapping behind him, and Norman Creed, his young assistant, face pale and set.
They said nothing. There was nothing to say.
A mangled passenger car lay on its side in a ditch. The outer shell had been peeled back, twisted by the blast. Rivets were scattered like seeds.
Inside, blackened shapes slumped against scorched walls. Unmoving. Unrecognizable.
Norman turned his head away, jaw clenched.
They stepped over the ruined tracks—just scorched stumps and metal teeth.
Aldrich knelt beside a scorched casing, half-sunken in the earth.
The glyphs etched into its surface were warped and melted. The inner crystal had shattered from within.
He frowned, running a gloved hand along the casing.
"This is old war mechanism..."
Norman, a few paces away, paused.
Something caught the light at his feet. He knelt slowly, brushing away soot and grit with his fingers.
A small emblem lay buried in the mud. The edge was cracked, but the image was unmistakable—a winged lion clutching a torch.
His heart sank.
He stood and held the emblem out to Aldrich.
"This was his… the veteran."
Aldrich took it, staring down in silence. The symbol shone dully in his hand.
Was he part of this terrorist act?
Where is he now?
Is he dead?
The same questions echoed in both their minds.
The fog thickened, creeping close once more.
Aldrich said nothing. His face had gone very still.
Behind them, the crater loomed wide—filled with wreckage and silence.
No survivors. No witnesses. Only the dead and the questions they left behind.
"Sir. No survivors." One of the guards, his face filled with sorrow.
A gust of wind stirred the fog, carrying with it the sadness—the mingled scent of rain, oil, and charred flesh.
The Rosenvale guards fanned out wordlessly, picking through debris and ash with measured care.
Aldrich remained crouched beside the wreckage, the scorched emblem resting in his palm.
His eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, were distant—tracing thoughts far beyond the crater.
Then—
Footsteps. Quick. Heavy.
From the mist at the edge of the clearing, a guard emerged, breath hitching, boots caked in mud to the shin.
His face was pale, eyes wide.
"Inspector!" he called, voice sharp but subdued. "You'll want to see this."
Aldrich rose slowly, brushing soot from his gloves with mechanical precision.
"What is it, corporal?"
The guard pointed back into the trees.
"There's a slope—east side of the blast zone. Broken branches, a trail through the brush. Fresh. Something went down hard. Could've been someone."
Norman straightened, tension snapping into his frame.
"Survivors?"
The guard hesitated.
"Maybe. But it wasn't a clean fall. Branches snapped at intervals. Something… tumbled. Or was dragged."
Aldrich met Norman's gaze.
A nod.
"Take us."
They moved quickly, boots squelching through the sodden ground as they slipped back into the trees.
The fog thinned beneath the canopy, but the silence only deepened—heavy and watchful.
Below the slope, the signs revealed themselves.
A trail of disturbance—subtle, but undeniable: crushed ferns, torn bark, soil gouged in jagged lines. Branches hung broken overhead, snapped like brittle bones.
Norman dropped low, eyes sweeping the undergrowth. He pushed aside a tangle of wet leaves—then froze.
Blood. Still wet. Dark against the earth.
And something else, swaying from a low branch.
He pulled it free.
A torn strip of fabric—pearl-white silk. Impossibly fine.
Foreign. Expensive.
He looked up at Aldrich.
"I think we've got a survivor."
Aldrich stepped in, eyes narrowing on the cloth.
"Then stop standing there," he shouted."Find them!"