He sat at the prow, his knees pressed against the rough, splintered wood of a barrel branded with the scorched seal of Arkwyn. Inside, the raw magic crystals hummed. It wasn’t a sound one heard with the ears, but a vibration that traveled through the wood, up into his shins, and settled as a dull ache in his molars.
"Keep the rhythm, Elian," Varick hissed from the center bench. His voice was a jagged whisper, barely cutting through the heavy midnight air. "You're dragging the port side. We’ll end up circling in the dark until the tide takes us to the Crags."
Elian, the youngest of them, didn't respond with words. His breath hitched—a wet, ragged sound. "It’s too quiet," he whispered. "The gulls... they stopped screaming miles back."
Kaelen tightened his grip on the gunwale. The fog didn't just sit on the water; it seemed to grow out of it, a living, pale lung breathing against the hull. He looked down at the crystals through a gap in the barrel lid. They pulsed with a sickly, violet light, casting upward shadows on Varick’s face that made the veteran soldier look like a corpse.
"Do we just leave them on the shoreline?" Elian’s voice rose, cracking with a frantic edge. He missed a stroke, the oar slapping uselessly against a wave. "The Captain didn't say. He just said 'The Island.' What if the shoreline isn't enough? What if He wants them at the Maw?"
"Shut your mouth and row," Varick snapped. He adjusted his grip, his leather gloves creaking. "We leave them where Ny’tharal wants. That’s the Captain’s order. No more, no less."
"But there are no instructions!" Elian surged forward, his face pale in the gloom. "We’re delivering a fortune in raw essence to a ghost! A monster! We should drop them and row back before the fog swallows the stars."
"And tell the Captain what?" Varick leaned in, his eyes narrowed to slits. "That you were too piss-scared to finish the job? He’d have your tongue for the crows before you could beg for a second chance."
Kaelen tuned them out. The bickering was a shield—a way to fill the void that felt like it was trying to suck the marrow from his bones. He turned his gaze toward the water, watching the way the black surface swallowed the bioluminescence of the crystals.
He remembered the day he’d signed the ledger. His father’s hand had been heavy on his shoulder, a weight of expectation that felt like a yoke. “There are no shops left for you, Kael,” his mother had said, her eyes fixed on the empty grain bin. “The Captain provides. The Captain is the only one who pays in silver, not promises.”
He hadn't wanted the silver. He’d wanted to stay in the dust of the town, carving wood and watching the seasons change. He remembered the bitterness of that final morning, the way he’d spat into the dirt at his father’s feet. “Don’t look for me at the gates,” he’d snarled, his voice thick with a teenager’s misplaced rage. “I won’t be coming back to this rot.”
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The memory tasted like ash. He’d meant it as a threat—a promise of a better life elsewhere. Now, staring into the oppressive dark of Ny’tharal’s domain, it felt like a curse he’d accidentally cast upon himself. He really wasn’t going back. Not in the way they expected.
The hull groaned as it scraped against sand.
"We're here," Varick whispered. The aggression had vanished, replaced by a hollow, breathless dread.
The island of Ny’tharal didn't feel like land. It felt like a slumbering beast that had breached the surface to breathe. The trees—if they could be called that—were skeletal fingers of white wood, stripped of bark and leaves, reaching into the fog.
"Out," Varick commanded.
Kaelen hopped over the side. The water was waist-deep and impossibly cold, shocking his lungs into a momentary standstill. Together, they heaved the first barrel toward the shore. The sand was gray and fine, sticking to their boots like ash.
The silence here was absolute. It pressed against Kaelen's eardrums until they throbbed.
"Lord Ny’tharal!" Varick’s voice sounded small, pathetic against the vastness of the mist. He cupped his hands around his mouth, his knees shaking. "We are here with the crystals! Sent by Lord Cedric Althorne of Arkwyn! A tribute of faith!"
The fog didn't ripple. It didn't move. Then, a voice resonated. It didn't come from a direction; it vibrated through the very marrow of Kaelen’s spine, echoing the hum of the crystals.
"Leave it in the middle of the fog."
Elian let out a choked sob. "The middle? We're on the edge! We have to go deeper?"
"Move," Kaelen said, his own voice sounding foreign to him. He grabbed the handle of the next barrel. "The faster we drop them, the faster we leave."
They trudged twenty paces into the white veil. The boat vanished behind them within seconds. The world became a sphere of pale gray, three men, and four barrels of glowing rock.
Kaelen bent to set the final barrel down. His fingers were numb, the skin blue under the violet glow. He straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow despite the chill.
"That's the last of it," Varick breathed, looking around wildly. "Let’s go. Elian? Elian, grab the rope."
Kaelen turned. The fog had changed. It was no longer a mist; it had become thick, opaque, and heavy, like wet wool filling his lungs. He reached out a hand.
"Varick?"
He saw Varick’s silhouette just five feet away. The older man was staring at a spot where Elian had been standing a second ago. There was no splash, no scream, no sound of a struggle. Just... an absence.
"Elian?" Varick took a step toward the void.
The fog swirled, a sudden, violent eddy of white. Varick’s silhouette didn't fall; it was simply erased. One moment his hand was raised, reaching for a phantom, and the next, he was gone. The space he occupied was filled by a wall of fog that felt solid to the touch.
Panic, cold and sharp as a razor, sliced through Kaelen’s chest.
"Varick! Elian!"
He spun in a circle, his boots splashing in the shallow tide. He couldn't see the barrels. He couldn't see the boat. He couldn't see his own feet.
The air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient earth. Something was moving in the veil—not a person, but a shift in the pressure of the world. A shadow, taller than the trees, loomed briefly in the periphery of his vision and then vanished.
Kaelen’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Run. He didn't think about the Captain. He didn't think about the crystals or his parents or the silver. He thought about the darkness under the water and the way Elian had simply ceased to exist.
He focused on his core, reaching for the spark of his Aspect. It was a flickering thing—a minor gift of light and heat he’d used mostly to light campfires. He pushed. He pushed until his veins felt like they were filled with boiling lead.
“Burn!” he roared, the word tearing at his throat.
A flare of golden light erupted from his palms, a desperate, blinding burst that pushed the fog back for a mere heartbeat. In that flash, he saw the shoreline. The boat was a dark smudge against the gray.
He didn't look back. He didn't look for Varick or Elian. He scrambled through the water, his boots slipping on hidden rocks, his breath coming in jagged, sobbing gulps. He threw himself over the side of the wooden boat, the impact bruising his ribs, and grabbed the oars.
He pulled with a strength born of pure, unadulterated terror. The boat lurched, turning away from the island.
Deep within the thickest part of the fog, standing over the glowing barrels, a pair of eyes that held the depth of the void watched the wake of the rowing soldier. Ny’tharal did not move. He did not pursue. He simply watched the small, flickering light of the man’s soul retreat into the distance, a lone spark escaping the maw of the quiet.
Kaelen rowed until his palms bled, until the island was nothing but a memory in the mist, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the stars refused to shine.