Mists of Arraiza

The mists called to him, and because of that, the world would never be the same.

~Records of Grellish Steelborn, Knights of the Mist

Henry lay on the stiff hospital bed, the steady beeping of machines the only sound cutting through the silence. His eyes, red from tears, stared at the ceiling. He could hear his mother’s soft breathing from the chair beside him, where she had fallen asleep hours ago. His little sister, curled up in the corner with a blanket, had done the same. They'd soon be leaving, letting him rest—or at least try to. But rest was elusive.

The tumor was inoperable.

The words replayed in his mind over and over, a bitter mantra. His chest tightened, and fresh tears blurred his vision. The endless poking, prodding, and treatments hadn't worked. Stage four. Too late. The doctors had done their best, but all they had left to offer now was time.

Just not enough of it.

Of all the cancers to get, it had to be pancreatic cancer—a death sentence. Henry remembered sitting in his Introduction to Education Studies class last semester, watching a video of a professor in his forties, fit and healthy, doing pushups in front of his students. The professor died just a couple of months later. He could still hear the video: It’s a death sentence.

Why me?

He had always been kind, always stood up to bullies and helped others. And this was how it was going to end? His bright future, gone before it even began. Before he could do more with his life than be the first in his family to go to college.

He wanted to scream, but his body was too weak. Instead, he cried quietly, trying not to wake his family. He clenched his hands into fists, wanting—needing—something to change.

Then, as if in answer, the air around him began to change.

A strange, crimson mist curled into the room, tendrils of red seeping through the cracks in the door, coiling like snakes. His breath hitched, and his heart raced. What was happening?

Before he could call out, the mist surrounded him, wrapping his body in warmth. A pulse of energy surged through him. The machines began to sputter, flickering with static. Henry tried to reach out, to yell, but the words caught in his throat.

The last thing he saw before everything went dark was the red mist consuming the room, his sister, and his mother.

"Where am I?" Henry whispered, awe-struck. The surroundings were surreal, like stepping into one of the fantasy realms he'd only ever explored on screen. He half-expected to hear the tinkling laughter of a fairy or the distant melody of an ocarina.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the disorientation.

"Did I hit my head? Where am I?" His voice sounded softly, swallowed by the vastness of the cavernous space. There was no reply—only the gentle sound of water and the faint rustling of an unseen breeze.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere pulled him from his thoughts. An angry red mist seeped into the cavern, curling along the ground like tendrils of smoke. It pulsed with malevolent energy, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ornate carvings of the fountain.

A mouse darted across the ground, desperate to escape, but it was too slow. The mist’s tendrils closed in with greedy, grasping fingers, swirling around the small creature. It froze as the red fog poured into its body, limbs twisting at unnatural angles.

But before Henry could see what it might become, the creature vanished into the fog. A chill ran down his spine. This mist was similar to the one in the hospital room, yet different—no longer just hungry, it now pulsed with anger, a seething wrath that seemed to warp everything it touched.

"Okay, this doesn't look good," he muttered. His mind raced through different scenarios trying to figure . And it was clear he needed to escape.

He spun around, searching for an exit, but found himself facing solid cavern walls. The intricate patterns etched into the stone offered no hidden doorways or clues. Trapped. The realization tightened like a vice around his chest. He shuddered, his strength wavering.

The mist thickened, its tendrils reaching closer. Within it, shapes seemed to form and dissipate—twisted figures that made his stomach churn.

A voice emerged from the mist, barely more than a whisper. "Save me..."

The voice was fragile, filled with despair. Henry's breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he swore he heard his sister’s voice, his mother’s. His heart pounded harder. Were they here? Were they in danger? He had to help them. They needed him.

He took a shaky breath, his pulse quickening—not entirely from fear.

"Mom?" he whispered, but there was no response—just the mist swirling, a malicious laugh on the edge of his hearing.

Henry pulled off his hospital gown, fashioning it into a makeshift mask over his mouth and nose. The fabric smelled of antiseptic and illness—a small reminder of where he'd come from. Holding his breath, he stepped toward the mist.

To his surprise, the red vapor recoiled, swirling away from him as if pushed by an invisible force. Emboldened, Henry took another step.

"Not so scary after all," he chuckled nervously, still thinking of the voice, still believing they might be out there. He headed towards where he heard the cry for help.

But his confidence was premature. Without warning, a sharp pain exploded behind his knee as something struck him hard. He cried out, collapsing onto one knee. The voice from the mist transformed, its tone dripping with malice. The mutated mouse scampered off It laughed—a sound that resonated unnaturally, grating against his senses.

"Foolish boy," it hissed. "You should have run."

The mist swirled violently, and from its depths, shadowy forms began to materialize—grotesque shapes with glowing eyes that fixed hungrily upon him.

Henry’s heart pounded, panic surging through him—but beneath it, a flicker of determination sparked to life. He’d thought it was his sister or his mom; he still wanted to believe that. But now, he wasn’t sure. Whatever this mist was, he wouldn’t be its victim. Not without a fight. And besides, what more did he have to lose? If he was going down, he’d make sure to take something with him.

As the grotesque shapes took clearer form, Henry staggered back. They were human-like but twisted—joints bending the wrong way, limbs too long, and faces contorted with madness. One of them, a shadowy figure with crimson eyes, lurched toward him, its movements jerky yet swift.

"Run!" his instincts screamed. But the echo of the voice—‘Save me’—clashed with the primal urge to flee. His knees locked in place. Fight or flight? He had seconds to decide.

Suddenly, something glinted in his peripheral vision. The air shimmered, and from within the mist, a small object floated toward him. It was a slender wooden wand, delicately carved with symbols he couldn't comprehend. At its end was embedded a crystal that pulsed faintly, in rhythm with his racing heartbeat.

His hand moved on instinct, seizing the wand. The moment his fingers closed around it, a surge of warmth flooded his arm, chasing away the numbness from the mist. It hummed in his grip, as if it had been waiting for him.

The monsters hesitated, their eyes narrowing. The largest of the shadowy creatures snarled, its mouth opening impossibly wide, jagged teeth bared. "You dare challenge us with Her relic?" it hissed, advancing.

This is it, Henry thought. No turning back.

Raising the wand, he pointed it toward the mist. He had no idea how to use it, but deep down, he felt something stir within the crystal at its core, responding to his intent.

The mist recoiled again, more violently this time. Swirling tendrils twisted and funneled toward the tip of the wand, consumed by it. A shockwave rippled through the air as the mist was devoured, leaving the ground bare and the monstrous forms wailing in agony.

Panting, Henry stared at the wand in disbelief. He’d just captured... something. The mist, the monster—it was inside. But there was no time to celebrate—another wave of the red fog was creeping forward, carrying more grotesque creatures.

A shrill laugh echoed in the cavern. "The wand will save you once, boy. But not forever."

Closing his eyes, he waved the wand, hoping it could work again, but the wand didn’t respond.

His heart pounded as he backed away. He had to find a way out, now. The creatures began to charge.

But then, he heard it again, beyond the fountain, the faint sound of wings fluttering reached his ears. And a tiny whisper of a "Save me. I'm trapped in the fountain."

Without thinking, he rushed forward and knocked the fountain over. Water spilled out in every direction, and the stone cracked and crumbled.

And then, nothing happened. Henry was left staring at the pile of rubble, confused.

The angry mists kept striking at the invisible barrier around him. Henry moved forward inspecting the remains.

Suddenly, light shone down from above, casting a beam just behind him. He turned and blinked in awe as a fairy appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Her lightly glowing blue hair fell in wild curls, her eyes dark black and bloodshot, and she wore a dress woven from leaves and flowers.

“Well, this is certainly a pickle, isn’t it?” The fairy’s dreamy smile barely wavered as she watched the creatures twisting within the mist, their forms writhing in ways that seemed unnaturally fluid. “Mist monsters on a Tuesday—how delightfully unexpected!” She clapped her hands, a light, musical laugh escaping her.

Henry took a step back, glancing between her and the creatures inching closer, their glowing eyes fixated on him. “Who are you?” he asked, a mix of wariness and hope in his voice.

“Oh! Names are such slippery things," she mused, twirling mid-air. The way her wings fluttered caught the pale, eerie light of the cavern, creating a brief iridescent glow. "But you can call me Elara. I've been chasing moonbeams and the nasty mist-man trapped me in here." Her voice was sing-songy, as if this were all just a whimsical story instead of a nightmare.

Henry glanced at the encroaching horde. The mist seemed to cling to them like a second skin, shifting and swirling as if the monsters themselves were part of it. "Elara, we need to get out of here!" His heart raced, and he could feel the cold sweat on the back of his neck. The mist creatures were moving faster now, their growls low and menacing.

She looked at him with wide, curious eyes, as though the urgency hadn’t quite reached her yet. "Out? But we're already in the most fascinating place! Have you noticed how the shadows here dance when no one's watching?" She leaned toward him, as if sharing a delightful secret.

Henry’s eyes flicked to the creatures again. They were so close now he could make out their twisted forms—part beast, part nightmare, and entirely too real. "Please, they're coming!" he insisted, his voice edging on desperation.

Elara giggled softly, her laugh as carefree as if they weren’t moments away from being torn apart. "Alright, alright. Hold your horses—though I've never understood why anyone would want to hold a horse. They're quite heavy."

She fluttered closer to Henry, her gaze settling on the wand in his hand. "Ah, so you've found the Wand of Arraiza! Or did it find you?" She tapped her chin, pondering this as though it were the most important question in the world. "Sometimes I think objects have minds of their own."

"You know about this wand?" Henry glanced down at it, still unsure of what to make of the glowing crystal. The weight of it felt heavier now, as if the wand itself was aware of the growing danger.

"Of course! It's an old friend." Elara’s eyes sparkled as she tapped the crystal gently, the surface flashing at her touch. "It likes riddles and blueberry pie. Do you like pie?" She tilted her head, looking at him with an innocent curiosity, as though mist monsters weren’t only moments away from attacking them both.

"Elara, focus!" Henry pleaded, his grip tightening on the wand. "How do we escape?"

She floated backward, her wings shimmering faintly. “The mist shrinks from joy, fades from cheer. What do we share that it dreads to hear?” Her voice took on a rhythmic quality, almost like she was reciting a nursery rhyme.

He stared at her incredulously. "A joke?"

"Yes! Or maybe a song. Do you sing?" She spun again, twirling in the air as though this were all a delightful game.

The creatures were so close now, Henry could hear the faint scraping of claws against the cavern floor. Their growls sounded louder in the enclosed space, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Elara!" he shouted, his voice cracking under the pressure.

She sighed, as if his urgency were a mild inconvenience. "Very well. Follow me, then. But you must promise to keep an open mind—sometimes the straight path isn't the quickest way home." Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she extended her hand to him.

"Anything! Let's just go!" Henry practically grabbed her hand, feeling her warmth against his clammy skin.

Elara’s expression softened for a moment, as though sensing his fear. "This way!" she declared, pulling him toward a section of the cavern wall that looked solid and unremarkable. Without hesitation, she placed her hand on the rough stone and began to hum softly. The melody was sweet, simple, but it carried an odd power. To Henry’s amazement, the wall shimmered and dissolved before them, revealing a hidden passage.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his heart still racing as they slipped through.

"Oh, it’s simple," she replied with a shrug. "Walls are just doors that have forgotten how to open."

They hurried down the narrow corridor, Henry’s heart pounding in his chest as the sounds of the creatures faded behind them. The air was cooler here, the walls damp and slick. Soft, luminescent fungi grew in patches along the stone, casting a faint, otherworldly light in shades of blue and green.

"Thank you," Henry panted, still trying to catch his breath. "But where are we going?"

Elara twirled ahead of him, her wings leaving trails of glowing light in the air. "Somewhere safe. Or perhaps somewhere dangerous that's pretending to be safe," she said with a playful grin. "Either way, it's better than back there, don’t you think?"

He couldn’t argue with that. "You seem… different now," he said, noticing how her whimsical demeanor seemed to shift, just slightly, as though something more grounded lurked beneath her playful words. "Saner, maybe?"

She glanced back at him, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Different? Well, normal is just a setting on a washing machine, isn’t it?" Her laughter echoed down the tunnel, light and airy.

Despite the situation, Henry found himself smiling. "How do you know what a washing machine is?"

“What do you mean?” Elara asked, blinking innocently before darting forward, leaving Henry to follow after.

They emerged into the open air, where a small pool of water lay nestled in a clearing. The stars twinkled above, their light reflected on the water’s surface. It was peaceful, serene, but something felt off. The air was too still, and the mist that had chased them was creeping closer, spreading faster than before.

Elara hovered over the pool, gazing into its depths, her expression momentarily serious. "The mist is spreading faster than I thought," she murmured, her tone no longer playful. "It won’t be long before it consumes the entire continent."

Henry tore his gaze away from the distant village, where the sparkling lights were dimming one by one. "Elara, what is this mist? And why did that wand come to me?"

Elara turned to him, her eyes shimmering with a strange mix of whimsy and wisdom. “The mist,” she began, her voice softer now, almost reverent, “is a darkness that feeds on fear and despair. It twists creatures into nightmares, warps them until they’re unrecognizable.” She sighed, floating closer to him. “And as for the wand… well, it chose you, Henry, because you carry a light within you—a spark of courage perhaps, or maybe just a fondness for adventure.”

Henry swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He looked down at the wand in his hand, the crystal at its tip glowing faintly in the starlight. “I don’t know how to use it,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper.

Elara’s lips curled into a small, comforting smile. “Magic isn’t about knowing,” she said, gently resting her hand on his shoulder. “It’s about feeling. Trust yourself, and trust the wand. Together, you can make marvelous things happen.”

He raised an eyebrow, uncertain. “Can you teach me?”

Her eyes lit up with childlike excitement. “Oh, I love teaching! Though,” she added with a playful grin, “my methods are a tad unconventional.”

Henry chuckled despite himself. “I think I can handle that.”

“Splendid!” Elara clapped her hands together, her wings fluttering in delight. “Lesson one: Believe in the impossible. Lesson two: Always carry a spoon.”

He stared at her, confused. “A spoon?”

“Yes! You never know when you’ll need one.” She said it with such certainty that Henry didn’t question it further. “Now, let’s see about that mist.” Her tone shifted again, more serious this time, as she floated beside him.

Elara placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “Close your eyes.”

Henry hesitated but did as instructed, squeezing them shut.

“Imagine a light within you,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “A warm glow that grows brighter with each breath.”

Henry tried to focus, picturing a small spark of light deep in his chest. As he breathed in, the light expanded, filling him with a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he was missing.

“Now,” Elara continued, her voice soothing, “direct that light out of the wand.”

He felt the connection between himself and the wand strengthen, as if the crystal were pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The warmth inside him flowed down his arm, into the wand, and before he could fully grasp what was happening, a radiant glow burst from the tip.

“Good,” Elara encouraged. “Now, open your eyes.”

When Henry opened them, he saw the wand emitting a soft but steady light that enveloped them both, forming a protective barrier. The mist that had been creeping toward them recoiled, hissing as if burned by the light. Henry could feel the energy flowing through him, though he also noticed that the crystal dimmed slightly, its red hue a shade darker than before. Beneath the main crystal, four smaller gems lined the base of the wand. Three of them glowed, but the fourth was dull, dead.

“The mist won’t touch us now,” Elara said with a satisfied nod. “At least, not for a while.”

Henry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “But it didn’t touch me earlier, in fact, it seemed almost afraid to approach me.

“See?” Elara beamed at him. “You’re a natural!”

Just then, a deep rumble echoed from the cave behind them. The sound was followed by the unmistakable roar of mist creatures, and before Henry could react, the mist poured out of the cave like a flood, faster and more furious than before. It swirled past them, as if they weren’t even there, heading straight for the distant village.

Society fears what it can never understand.

~Records of Grellish Steelborn, Knights of the Mist

Henry crested the final hill, looking down at the lively village below. Stone and timber homes clustered along the winding paths, their walls sunlit and bright. Laughter and chatter filled the air as villagers moved between market stalls in the square, bartering over fresh produce and handmade wares. Children darted between carts, their shrieks of laughter echoing as they chased each other, weaving between the legs of grinning shopkeepers. He ran closer, trying to ensure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

Nearby, farmers loaded wagons with bundles of golden wheat, and the fountain at the center of the square burbled cheerfully, surrounded by families resting on the benches, enjoying the day's warmth. Statues of fairies and maidens stood proudly, symbols of hope and prosperity in the sun-drenched plaza. The mists were nowhere in sight.

Henry’s steps slowed, taking in the harmony of the village life, and he almost felt a pang of comfort, a brief sense that everything might turn out fine. But then, a low, rumbling tremor shook him to the ground.

Boom! The earth erupted with a violent force, and fire and debris exploded from homes and shops. Shouts of joy turned to screams of terror as people scrambled, stumbling over one another in their panic. The fountain shattered, water spilling into the chaos as timber and stone rained down.

From the cracks and splintered earth, a red mist rose, thick and angry, curling through the destruction like a living wrath. It pulsed and spread, coiling around villagers and buildings alike, igniting fresh terror with each surge. Henry froze, his heart pounding, watching as the once-lively village became a nightmare, destruction stretching before him—a force he felt powerless to halt. He scrambled to his feet.

“Elara!” His voice was raw with desperation, his grip tight on the wand, the carved wood digging sharply into his palm. “Isn’t there anything I can do? Isn’t this wand supposed to stop the mists?”

Beside him, Elara’s faint glow barely pierced the fog, her tiny figure hovering at eye level, her expression drifting into delighted vacancy. She tilted her head, her iridescent wings giving off faint tremors in the gloom. Her voice, airy and whimsical, floated through his confusion like dandelion seeds in a storm.

“Ah, Henry, have you ever tried to catch a dream with a net? The wand hums when the moon tickles it just right. Perhaps if you let it sing, the mist will learn the words.”

“What does that mean?” he demanded, but Elara only twirled mid-air, humming a tune that seemed to come from some distant world, her smile as enigmatic as her words.

Before he could ask again, Henry felt a sudden pull from the wand, like a deep current tugging him forward. Without thinking, he raised it, focusing on the memory of a creature he’d seen before—a rat, resilient and relentless, sharp-toothed and ready to bite.

The wand responded instantly. With a flash, a creature appeared—a giant rat, its dark, bristling fur coated with filth, and its eyes glowing a sinister, molten red. It let out a low, guttural chitter, the sound unsettling, as if it came from some twisted throat. Then, like a furious sentinel, it charged into the advancing mist.

Henry followed, his heart pounding, as the rat clashed with creatures emerging from the darkness.

He felt a shudder of revulsion. The creatures were grotesque, child-sized things with gaping mouths that stretched obscenely across their faces, nearly swallowing their entire features. Thick, black ichor dripped from those mouths, hissing and bubbling like acid as it hit the ground. Their sickly, veined skin clung too tightly to twisted frames, while their spindly limbs bent at grotesque angles, giving them an insect-like scuttle.

Elara fluttered in the air, spinning amidst the wind.

“Ohhh, how fun —Mawlings! Did you know they’re made from the corpses of children? Aren't they just adorable ?”

That shudder of revulsion only deepened as he watched the Mawlings shuffle and twitch, their jagged limbs seeming to move independently of any thought or will, like spiders whose legs had been puppeteered by some unseen force. Their gaping mouths stretched wider at the sight of him, as if the promise of fresh prey had breathed more life into their soulless bodies.

"Adorable?!" he hissed back at Elara, his voice barely containing the horror he felt. "They're… they're made from actual—?”

Elara only grinned, twirling again in midair, her wings catching the moonlight with an ethereal shimmer that belied the grotesque scene below.

"Oh, yes," she sang with a lilting, eerie sweetness. "They’re the tragic leftovers of children lost to the mist. Think of it as… recycling!"

She clapped her hands, her excitement disturbingly genuine, as if they were discussing something charming rather than monstrous.

Henry’s grip tightened around the Wand of Arraiza, his knuckles whitening. It pulsed faintly, the warmth of its magic a stark contrast to the unnatural chill radiating from the Mawlings. He could hear their grotesque scuttling growing closer, each step accompanied by a sickening hiss as their dripping ichor burned tiny craters into the ground.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," he muttered, side-eyeing Elara as he raised the wand, focusing its power as the Mawlings advanced. She just winked, hovering out of harm’s way, her expression a mixture of amusement and mischief.

"Oh, lighten up, hero. Where’s the fun in the job if you don’t savor the scenery ?”

The Mawlings didn’t hesitate. They scattered, crawling across the ground like spiders, their clawed hands scraping against the dirt with sickening cracks, darting into shadows and re-emerging, their high-pitched, deranged laughter coming from every direction at once.

“Elara? What do—”

A stench filled the air—a mix of rancid meat and decay so thick it stung his nostrils. The rat lunged, teeth snapping viciously, tearing into one of the Mawlings and sending it dissolving into a putrid, misty vapor.

But the Mawlings were relentless. They regrouped, crawling over each other in a frenzy, their sharp, skeletal hands reaching for the rat with a hunger that seemed insatiable. They shrieked, a disorienting cacophony of piercing, laughter-tinged wails, the sound grating and shrill, as if tearing through his skull. Henry’s head spun, nausea clawing at him as he watched them swarm his creature, a writhing mass of grotesque, grasping limbs and slavering, needle-filled mouths.

Yet his creature—the summoned rat—fought on, sinking its teeth into one Mawling’s bony arm with a fierce squeal. It darted back, then lunged again, tearing into them with desperate vigor, but the Mawlings quickly overwhelmed it. They swarmed, a mass of grotesque limbs and slavering, needle-filled mouths, drowning the creature in a tide of clawing hands.

Henry’s breath hitched. I have to do something. Elara’s words echoed in his mind: Perhaps if you let it sing, the mist will learn the words. He stared down at the wand, desperate. “How do I make the wand sing?”

Elara didn't answer.

Only silence and the relentless shrieks closing in.

She’s useless, he thought, panic rising. You can do this. Just think through things. Maybe it’s a riddle like before. How does singing work? We inhale...

An idea began to form, as fragile as the mist itself. Setting his jaw, Henry surged forward, plunging into the thick fog. But he didn’t fight it. Instead, he focused inward, on the steady rhythm of his breath, letting the wand in his grip mirror his inhale.

Together, they drew in the mist—not with fear, but with a hunger that reached past flesh and bone, rooted in something deeper. The wand responded, shivering to life, its primal need intertwining with his own, until they pulsed as one, breathing in the mist with an unbreakable focused, steady breath—feeling the wand in his hand respond, as though it, too, was inhaling with him. Together, they welcomed the mist, with a craving as vast as the void that drove them both forward.

The mist became a swirling vortex, twisting and writhing as it was pulled toward the wand. Red light pulsed along its surface as the mist evaporated in streaks of glowing crimson. Power surged through him, a wave of vitality that filled every part of him. For the first time since he’d gotten sick, Henry felt truly alive.

The wand shivered, answering his pull, as if a raw, primal need had awakened within it, matching his heartbeat. The hunger wasn’t just his—it was theirs, a shared breath and pulse, driving them to devour the mist with every inhale.

The Mawlings faltered, their forms flickering as the mist was siphoned away. They slowed, skeletal arms and limbs weakening, but they kept coming, their eyes dimming only slightly as they pressed forward.

One of them lunged for his arm, its bony fingers just grazing his skin. He ducked, twisting his wrist to swing the wand in a sweeping arc. The creature shrieked as the wand’s energy surged into it, and its form flickered again, half-transparent. But it recovered, lurching toward him, slower but no less deadly.

Another Mawling darted to his side, claws scraping his shoulder, tearing into his jacket. Henry felt a chill seep into the wound as he shoved the creature back with the wand. The red light flared, and the Mawling staggered, shrieking as it stumbled, but it did not fall.

Henry’s heart raced.

They’re weakened, not destroyed. He took a step back, holding the wand defensively. The creatures circled him, moving sluggishly now, their forms shifting and blurring, but still relentless.

A third Mawling, grinning through jagged teeth, lunged at him, its fingers stretched wide. Henry swung the wand with all his strength, and the creature reeled back, wisps of mist peeling away from its skin. It snarled, shaking as though struggling to keep its form. But still, it advanced.

Panting, Henry adjusted his stance, pulling the wand close to his chest. He funneled his energy into the wand, feeling its hunger intensify, like a bottomless pit within him. With a fierce cry, he thrust the wand toward the nearest Mawling, pushing harder, feeding more of the mist into it. The creature’s skeletal frame flickered and twisted, its limbs writhing as it let out a pained, wavering shriek. But it didn’t dissolve. Instead, it fell to one knee, weakened but still grasping, its outstretched claws reaching for him.

Henry jumped back, gritting his teeth as two more Mawlings lunged from opposite sides. He ducked, feeling their icy fingers graze his shoulders. He swung the wand horizontally, catching one of them across the ribs. The wand flared, pulling another wave of mist from the creature. It staggered, wobbling on half-transparent legs, but remained standing, its hollow eyes narrowing as it prepared for another attack.

Sweat poured down his face, his breathing ragged as he watched the Mawlings close in, weakened but undeterred. Desperation surged through him. I can’t just weaken them—I have to finish them off.

With a steely resolve, he raised the wand high, pouring every ounce of focus he had into its core. The mist around them vibrated, drawn toward him, swirling in thicker waves as the wand absorbed it. The Mawlings trembled, their shapes flickering, their shrieks desperate and hoarse. Henry took another step forward, pressing the advantage, watching as they slowed, their limbs sluggish and unsteady.

One Mawling, now barely more than a ghostly outline, lunged weakly, clawed hands stretching for him. He met its advance with a thrust of the wand, and finally, it shattered into vapor, dissolving with a final, hollow wail.

The others hesitated, but Henry didn’t give them a chance to recover. He moved with grim determination, sweeping the wand in wide arcs as he advanced, draining them with every swing. One by one, the Mawlings faltered, their bodies flickering, writhing, until they dissolved into mist, their shrieks fading to silence.

When he finally lowered the wand, he stood alone in a wasteland of broken wood and rubble, surrounded by twisted remnants of once-bustling market stalls and beams that lay splintered across the cobblestones. A dense, sickening silence pressed down around him, punctuated only by the sporadic creaks of shifting debris and faint, pained whimpers. The mists had receded, but their ghostly imprint lingered, as if the air itself bore scars from their retreat.

Survivors began to emerge slowly, hesitant shadows moving from behind overturned carts and the charred husks of ruined doorways. Their eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto Henry with expressions twisted by awe, but more disturbingly, by raw fear. He saw it in every trembling gaze—the suspicion, the terror—as if they thought the wand in his hand might yet betray them, unleashing a fresh horror on an already broken world.

Henry’s grip on the wand slackened as he took in the devastation around him. The mists had taken so much more than he’d noticed during the frenzy of battle; bits of charred belongings were strewn across the street, limbs jutting from the shadows in awful testament to what had been lost. His breath came in a shudder, and he tasted the smoke and blood that lingered in the air, felt it sting his lungs.

A few steps away, a young girl looked up at him. Dirt streaked her face, her dress torn and bloodied, and in her eyes was a raw, unfiltered horror that seemed to sink into him, winding its way through his chest like cold iron. She clutched her torn dress tightly, the fabric twisted between her small fingers, her gaze as steady as it was filled with confusion—and a haunting fear, like she was staring at something monstrous.

He took a step back, his fingers going numb around the wand’s handle. He wanted to tell her he hadn’t meant for this, that he had tried to protect them, that it hadn’t been his fault.

That was when the first punch struck him, a hard fist colliding with his jaw and sending him to the ground.

The punches kept coming, brutal and unyielding. Each impact crashed into him like a sledgehammer, rattling his bones and robbing him of breath. Henry’s cries turned hoarse, the sound of raw pain and desperation echoing through the square.
Henry tried to make out if it was the kid, but instead, a burly man’s fist slammed into his side, then his jaw, then deep into his stomach. The impact doubled him over, sending him sprawling into the dirt. A fist crashed into his side, and white spots danced before his eyes, each one flickering and fading like distant stars. Before he could draw a breath, another punch connected with his jaw, a metallic taste filling his mouth. His vision swam, darkness closing in at the edges as the relentless beating continued, each strike echoing through his body like a thunderous drum.

Pain flared in waves, sharp and relentless, each blow landing without mercy, stripping away whatever remnants of the mists’ strange protection remained. He could feel his ribs bruising, his organs pulsing with dull, aching thuds—a painful reminder that here, he was no savior, just flesh and bone. A thought clawed its way into his mind—if he survived this, if the mists didn’t take everything from him, there would still be scars, maybe more than skin deep.

With a shaky breath, he extended the wand, his fingers gripping it so tightly his knuckles whitened. He hoped they couldn’t see the slight tremor, the desperation hidden in his clenched jaw. His mind raced, conjuring anything, any command that might make it work, but the wand remained silent, as if mocking his weakness. He couldn’t really direct it to do anything—but they didn’t need to know that.

“Get back, I’ll use this on you. I swear it.”

Villagers hovered around him, their faces twisted with uncertainty and distrust. Their eyes flickered with a dark array of emotions: suspicion, fear, even outright hostility. Whispers rippled through the crowd, each word scraping against his nerves, accusations blending with murmurs of disgust.

"He’s a cursed sorcerer," someone spat, their voice laced with venom. "Brings the mists and expects us to bow to him?"

Henry lay sprawled on the ground, bruised and gasping, feeling the weight of their disdain pressing down like a second beating. The pain flared through him, each breath a struggle, his vision blurring as another kick landed, sharp and unrelenting. His wand clattered to the ground and disappeared.

Just as the man pulled back for another blow, a small, trembling voice rose above the jeers, cutting through the crowd’s contempt.

“He saved me, mister. Please… please stop.”

It was the little girl from before, stepping forward with a determined set to her shoulders despite the dirt and fear streaking her face. She held her torn dress in tiny fists, her knuckles white with tension, but her voice was steady, unwavering. Her gaze locked onto his, the only flicker of hope in a sea of doubt.

The man’s fist halted mid-air, anger flickering as he looked down at her. For a moment, his rage hesitated, like a storm pausing before the next gust. Henry, barely able to breathe, managed to lift himself onto his elbows, squinting through a haze of pain. The girl’s figure blurred, but he could see her standing tall, a fragile shield between him and the blows.

And then, as if destiny had ordained it, a celestial shimmer split the shadows, casting radiant light upon the earth below. Wings—magnificent, shimmering with the ethereal hues of twilight and dawn, as if crafted from the dreams of stars—unfurled in glorious splendor. A heavenly harp melody drifted through the air, each note a silken thread weaving the moment into a tapestry of divine grace. Every eye was helplessly drawn upward, captivated, as Elara descended with all the grace of an exalted queen. Her hands rested confidently on her hips, and a smirk of playful superiority adorned her face, as though she were the gift these mortals had long awaited.

"Oh, Henry," she sighed, her lips curling into a mischievous grin that somehow defied the thick tension hanging in the air. "Making friends already?"

A ripple of gasps and murmurs swelled through the crowd, eyes widening as they took in her appearance—a creature straight from legend, hovering above them like a vision. Awe spread across their faces; reverence and wonder softened their hard gazes.

A young boy, his face aglow with subtle lines of red, tugged at his father’s sleeve, eyes wide with wonder. "Pa, look! She’s got colors on her wings… like real magic!"

The father chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at the spectacle above them. "Aye, son, that’s true magic right there! Just like the old stories," he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. "We’re lucky to witness it, lad. Not everyone gets to see such beauty with their own eyes."

Elara drifted lower, her wings shimmering like a rainbow spun from moonlight, her gaze sweeping over the villagers as if they were an amusing audience. She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with exaggerated surprise as she took in Henry’s crumpled form.

“Oh my sparkles and stars, just look at all of you!” She giggled, spinning mid-air in a delighted twirl as she surveyed the crowd. "Gathered here like moths to a flame, staring up at me as if I’ve dropped straight from a dream. And you—" she spun again, sweeping her gaze over the crowd with theatrical flair, "—you sweet, clueless sunflowers, thinking I’m the one to save you?”

Gasps rippled through the crowd, a blend of shock and wonder. An older woman clasped her hands, practically trembling as she stammered, “Are… are you here to save us? A true spirit of light…”

At this, Elara burst into laughter, the sound like tinkling glass.

“Save you?” She floated in a slow, lazy circle, as though savoring the taste of the word. “Ohhh, now that is something of a bore, isn’t it?”

With a thoughtful tap on her chin, she glanced down at Henry, who managed a weak groan.

“No, no,” she continued, her grin widening, “I’m more of the show-up-in-spectacular-fashion-and-maybe-spark-a-revolution-or-two type.”

The villagers continued to murmur, voices hushed yet tinged with wonder. The wide-eyed boy stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Elara as though she were some celestial being. “She must be a goddess…” he whispered, almost reverent.

Elara clapped her hands together in delight, her laughter chiming like bells. “Oh, keep it coming! You’re like a choir of candy-coated sparrows.” She gestured dramatically at Henry, who managed to lift his head, his face bruised and weary. “Do you see him? The one squished like a pumpkin under a cart?” She pointed, her tone somehow playful and exasperated all at once. “He’s the one you ought to be bowing to! He’s been doing all the hard work.”

Her gaze drifted lazily to the burly man, still looming over Henry with fists clenched. She tilted her head, her expression transforming into one of amused surprise, as if this scene of brute force were somehow the most entertaining twist of her day.

“Really,” she said with a gentle, mocking reprimand, her tone sweet as honey, “I’d have thought you’d be thanking him—not… whatever this is.” She waved a delicate hand toward Henry’s bruised and battered form, fluttering her fingers like she was brushing away crumbs.

The villagers glanced between Elara and Henry, a mix of embarrassment and awe on their faces. Their attention flickered to him briefly, before sliding back to Elara, too dazzled to truly process the sight of their so-called savior.

Elara arched an eyebrow, casting a sideways look at Henry with a smirk that bordered on wicked.

“You really are missing all the fun down here, Henrykins. They think I’m here to save the day.” She rolled her eyes, feigning exasperation. “And you? Just look at yourself, sprawled out like a heap of heroism! If only you could see your face—utterly tragic, darling!”

Henry tried to answer, but the words emerged as a broken croak. Elara leaned down, cupping a hand theatrically to her ear.

“What’s that, dear? ‘Yes, Elara, you’re too fabulous for this village’? Why, thank you! Oh, don’t stop now—oh, wait… you can’t.”

Henry’s vision swam, his head pounding, and Elara gave him a playful wink before pirouetting in the air above him, her wings scattering the last dappled rays of light.

“Rest up, my valiant little pumpkin,” she cooed, casting an enchanting glow over the crowd.

Then, with a sudden burst of speed, she zipped forward, stopping just inches from the burly man who had inflicted most of the damage. His bluster evaporated as he faced her steady, mischievous gaze, the fiery defiance in his eyes rapidly cooling. He gulped, glancing around for support, but found only the wide-eyed stares of his fellow villagers, their attention glued to Elara.

“S-sorry!” he stammered before turning on his heel and darting into the nearest crumbling building, his courage all but abandoned.

“She’s a sign,” someone whispered with reverence. “A sign that good things are coming.”

The first woman who’d spoken clasped her hands tighter, her face alight with renewed awe.

“Please, blessed one,” she called, her voice trembling with hope. “Are you here to save us?”

Elara’s lips curled, her eyes glinting with mirth. She dipped her head in a slow, graceful nod, but then cast a quick glance down at Henry, her voice soft enough for only him to hear.

“I suppose you could say that's what we are here to do… though don’t get too comfortable, Henry. There’s still work to be done.”

With effort, Henry managed to stagger to his feet, his legs quivering under the strain.

“Yeah…” Henry croaked, forcing himself to respond. “We need to… figure out where the mists went. Stop them.” Each word felt heavy, his chest aching with the effort, and his battered body screamed for rest, every bruise and scrape flaring in pain.

Unconcerned—or perhaps willfully indifferent to his exhaustion—Elara drifted above him, humming a soft tune as she glided over the debris. Now and then, she stooped to pluck a broken shard of wood, a spoon, or a charred stone, inspecting it as if the ruins themselves held some delightful secret, then letting each piece slip from her fingers like forgotten trinkets. Except the spoons. Those disappeared with a wink of magic. Henry slowly moved forward, his feet unsteady, and he was unsure where exactly to go. He needed sleep; maybe he could find an inn.

The villagers parted, eyes darting between him and Elara, but he was too dazed to notice. His vision grew foggy, the edges darkening as he stumbled forward. The world spun, his strength finally spent, and he crumpled to the ground as darkness claimed him.