On the fourth night after reinforcements arrived at the Adventurers’ Guild headquarters in Bryngal, Jeliel, Alek, Derreck, and other veterans gathered before the mission board. It was late, but orders didn’t wait for rest. New notices had been posted: outer patrols, administrative building guards, reinforced watch on the ramparts.

  “Let’s draw lots,” one adventurer suggested, holding up a handful of folded slips.

  Jeliel was called on the second round. He pulled a mission for guard duty in the administrative wing. No complaints. “Letters and disguised vigilance,” he thought, with a tired smile.

  Alek and Derreck, on the other hand, were assigned to patrol the eastern ramparts — a more serious shift. More tense.

  The night dragged on. Jeliel, leaning against a pillar beside two colleagues, watched the torchlight dance. They played cards, whispered, dozed off. Outside, all seemed peaceful.

  But on the eastern wall, the mood was different.

  Alek, Derreck, and two others walked the corridors between the crenellations. Torches crackled in their hands. At each section of the wall stood at least one low-ranking ranker — novices or trainees — assigned to guard vulnerable points. The main gates were under constant watch.

  “Feels heavy tonight,” one man muttered.

  “You’re hearing too much,” another replied, a weak laugh betraying his unease.

  Then came the sound again. A dry noise, like wet leaves being crushed.

  “Who's there?” Alek asked, his whisper firmer than expected.

  The torchbearer pointed into the darkness. Nothing.

  A breath of relief… then footsteps.

  “Identify yourself!” a guard barked. “Show yourself!”

  Silence.

  “Better call Lady Lirande,” someone whispered hesitantly.

  Everyone knew not to disturb her lightly. But then the sound returned — closer, wetter. Hesitation turned to fear.

  Derreck moved forward to prepare the alert signal.

  Then came the mist.

  At first, a pale veil. In seconds, it thickened — dense, choking. Derreck coughed hard. Blood trickled down his beard. He fell to his knees. Alek rushed to him, but the same fate struck — wide eyes, burning lungs.

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  The others tried to fall back. No time. The fog swallowed them whole.

  Then she appeared.

  A tall figure, yellow eyes, blue-streaked hair falling over part of her face. She laughed — low, sick, discordant.

  The mist formed a ghostly face in the air.

  “Kral…” came the bodiless voice — dry, unhurried. “Stop playing. Focus. It's not time to be seen.”

  Kral stepped lightly over the bodies, still smiling.

  “Ah, Mugla… you never have any fun. We've cleared this flank. These were just… amusements.”

  “Even so, do not underestimate. I’ve located the target. The princess is isolated. Glina will open the gates soon. When she does… finish Celina.”

  At Bryngal’s main entrance, the two guards were already down.

  Sitting beside the gate, as if waiting for a candle to burn down, was a woman. An Adept. Dark hair tied back in red bands. Eyes half-lidded. She breathed slowly, deeply.

  The mist reached her like a summons.

  “It’s time,” said the spectral face.

  The woman stood. Cracked her neck. Inhaled deeply, savoring the moment.

  “Finally,” she murmured.

  With a single strike, she pulverized the massive gate, which collapsed with a thunderous crash.

  Horns pierced the night.

  Screams. Chaos. Scattered orders. Hallways drowned in light and confusion.

  Jeliel rocked in his chair, watching his two companions cheat at cards with all the subtlety of mules. The night breeze slipped through gaps in the stone, warm, tinged with the bittersweet scent of old wine and dust.

  Then came the sound.

  At first, a dull thud — distant. Then horns. Sharp. Urgent. Cutting through the air like blades.

  Jeliel shot upright.

  “What the…?”

  One of the others was already on his feet, head turning toward the gate.

  “This isn’t part of the routine, is it?”

  “Unless they changed the signal for ‘everyone’s about to die,’” muttered the other, trying to stay calm — but the tension cracked his voice.

  Before they could argue, the doors burst open and Rufus — the Viscount’s steward — appeared, flanked by a small band of hastily armed adventurers.

  “You three! With me. Noble protection detail. East wing gate. Now!”

  Jeliel swallowed hard. "Safe mission," they’d said. But guarding panicked nobles during an attack was a straight path to chaos. And chaos killed fast.

  The group followed Rufus through the halls of the fortified manor. Outside, horns still blared, now joined by shouting, sharp cracks — and the rising scent of iron and smoke.

  They reached the smaller hall, where part of the local aristocracy had been hurriedly gathered.

  The Baron of Bryngal stood sweating like midsummer. A portly middle-aged man with a ruddy face and bulging eyes, he clutched a metal goblet — no one knew from where — like it was a sacred charm.

  Beside him, Erdest, son of the Viscount of Trowell, looked entirely out of place. Slender, almost ghostly, with refined features and attire far too formal for a bunker. His perfectly combed hair made him seem like he’d come straight from a recital.

  “Is it… is this really happening?” he asked, voice shaky, eyes scanning the room like they hoped to find a comforting lie.

  Jeliel halted at the door, hand resting on the hilt of his short sword, eyes on the hallway.

  “Yes, sir. It is,” he replied, bluntly.

  Rufus issued clipped orders. The adventurers took positions at escape routes and around the chamber. Soldiers lined up at the windows, shields and spears ready.

  “The outer gate has fallen,” Rufus said, voice sharp enough to silence all whispers. “No one opens this door without my command. If anyone tries to force their way in… cut them down.”

  Silence followed. Heavy. Tense.

  And outside — just beyond the shuttered windows — came the soft, wet slithering of something moving through the alleys.

  As if the mist itself had grown teeth.