Ashvale looked smaller when they returned.
The fog had thickened again, heavy with ash and the faint copper scent of burned air. The fields were barren, frost-crusted, and the sky hung low and bruised. None of them spoke for a long while. Every step sounded too loud in the silence.
Kaelith's grip on his claymore trembled slightly, though his face stayed calm. "Well," he said after a moment, forcing a crooked grin. "That was miserable."
Seris laughed—short, breathless. "You call that miserable? I'm half-dead and still prettier than you."
"Untrue," Kaelith shot back, smiling faintly.
Even Varen almost smirked. "Save your strength, both of you. We may need it again before nightfall."
Riel didn't say a word. His head still throbbed from what they'd seen in the temple—the runes shifting like things alive, the air itself humming with wrongness. It had followed them out, that feeling. Like invisible fingers brushing the back of his neck.
By the time they reached the elder's hall, most of the villagers had gathered—tired, pale, faces drawn with sleepless terror. They looked at the group not with suspicion now, but desperate hope.
Kaelith exhaled and stepped forward. "We need to know everything," he said gently. "When did this start? When did the dead begin walking?"
The elder—an old woman with soot-blackened hands—shook her head slowly. "We don't know, sir. The fields froze one morning when they shouldn't have. Then the shades came. We prayed, we burned incense, we begged the Crimson Maw to keep us safe… but the cold never left."
Varen's eyes narrowed slightly. "No signs of corruption? Rituals? Anything that changed?"
"Only the fog," she whispered. "It never lifted again."
They asked more, pressed harder. Every villager had a story, but none with answers. Whispers of pale lights at the forest's edge, of shapes watching from the fields, of voices in dreams. But they were mortals—frightened, powerless, clinging to faith.
When the crowd finally dispersed, Riel stayed near the window, staring out. The mist was thicker now, crawling over the fields like smoke.
Then he saw them.
Horrors moving between the trees—twisted and half-formed, their limbs too long, their faces wrong. Not the shades, not the spectral kind. Monsters. Flesh and shadow intertwined.
They didn't come closer. They only watched.
Riel felt his pulse spike.
He turned away, jaw clenched. Kaelith was speaking quietly to Seris, trying to mask his exhaustion with humor. Varis was already writing, drawing diagrams in the ash by the hearth. They were all pretending to have strength they didn't.
When the world goes wrong, you act like it hasn't yet. Riel knew that trick.
⸻
By dusk, the air felt wrong again. The frost began spreading. The shades would come soon.
Kaelith glanced toward the window, his tone low. "We won't last another night like the last two."
Seris clenched her gauntleted fists, jaw set. "Then we don't fight blind this time. We anchor faith—draw on the Crimson Maw's power."
Varen looked up sharply. "That's not something mortals should attempt."
"I'm not just a mortal," she said, fire flickering faintly in her eyes. "And Ashvale worships Him too. Their faith might be enough if I act as conduit."
Kaelith hesitated only a second, then nodded. "Then we do it. Everyone—gather whoever still believes."
Within an hour, the hall was full. The villagers came with candles, charms, prayer cloths, whatever they could carry. Varen etched a vast circle into the ground, lines of salt and ash connecting each sigil. The air thickened with incense and fear.
Riel helped where he could, but he kept catching glimpses through the door—the edges of movement, glints of white eyes in the mist. They were gathering again. Hundreds now.
When everything was ready, Seris stepped to the center of the circle. Her hands trembled as she lifted them, the red sigils carved along her vambraces began to glow.
"Crimson Maw of Cinder," she whispered, "hear your faithful. Let your flame guard us as night falls."
The villagers knelt, murmuring prayers that rolled together into a trembling chorus. The air shimmered, growing hot—then ignited. A ring of crimson flame blazed outward, encircling the hall, feeding on their faith.
It wasn't the cold light of Kaelith's eclipse. This was different—raw, living fire that hissed as it met the darkness.
Seris's face twisted with strain, her lips pale. "It's—working—" she gasped. "But it's taking everything."
Kaelith caught her as her knees gave way. "Hold on. Just a little longer."
Varen's eyes gleamed with reflected light. "The barrier's holding—for now."
Outside, the fog churned. Shadows moved. The first shade struck the barrier, howling as its body turned to ash. Another followed. Then another. The flames roared brighter.
The villagers' prayers grew louder. Fear turned to desperate hope.
Riel watched the wall of flame flicker, feeling the whispers return, stronger now—pressing, curious, alive. He looked toward the horizon and saw shapes beyond the firelight, more real with every breath.
If they didn't stop this, if they didn't end it soon, Ashvale would die—and so would they.
He glanced at Kaelith, who still held Seris in his arms, face set but kind.
"We're running out of time," Riel murmured.
Kaelith nodded, eyes fixed on the fire. "Then we find the heart of this. Before the heart finds us."