They awoke in silence.
The dream of the burning village lingered in their minds like smoke in the lungs. None dared speak of it, but they all wore it—etched into their expressions, carved into the twitch of their hands and the stiffness in their posture.
They took what little rest they could and gathered near the well. Kyi filled the last of their flasks with the holy water. He touched it gently with his fingertips, half-expecting it to burn. It didn't.
"Let's move," Lybid said.
The forest met them with unusual stillness. There were no birds. No rustling of creatures in the underbrush. Only the sound of their own boots pressing into damp earth, and the distant creaking of unseen branches.
They walked in a tight group, eyes sharp, minds still haunted.
But they were too late to notice.
Methodius was gone.
One moment he was at the rear—murmuring a psalm under his breath—the next, there was only the soft sway of ferns where his boots had been.
Lybid froze. "Where is he?"
Kyi spun around. "He was just here!"
"Maksym?" Lybid called. "You see anything—?"
No answer.
Maksym was gone too.
Then they heard it.
A low hum—subtle, rhythmic.
Fog bled between the trees.
Not like before. Not mist.
Fog. Alive. Hungry. Endless.
"Everyone—hands!" Lybid barked.
She grabbed Shchek's arm, she noticed that there was a slight burn mark on his right hand.
Kyi grabbed Yurko's. They formed a chain—tight, knuckles white.
But the forest twisted.
The fog rose like a wave, parting their vision with soft, deliberate coils.
"I can't see—" Yurko started.
Something pulled.
Hard.
Kyi screamed as the force yanked him backward into the white.
"KYI!" Lybid reached—too late.
Another pull. Yurko vanished into the opposite side.
"No!" she shouted, dragging Shchek backward. "Stay with me! Don't let go!"
But even as she said it, she saw the fog curling beneath their feet, rising like breath.
Each of them now alone.
Each swallowed by the Endless Fog.