The fog thickened as they ran.
Cale's lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he didn't slow.
Behind them, the facility erupted in shouts and steel. Torches lit up like fireflies in the gloom. Doors slammed. Horns blared. The chase had begun.
They tore through the mist, the cold soaking their clothes, the air full of breathless panic.
Cale kept checking behind him—counting heads. Rosanna, Regan, the older boy with the limp, three of the younger girls—
Wait.
They weren't all here.
No.
The group burst into the old utility yard—just a fence and a rusted gate—but it was a dead-end.
"Backtrack—west slope!" Regan yelled, turning on his heel.
That's when they heard it.
A crack of magic—sharp and bright like lightning splitting stone.
A wall of flame erupted behind them —black flames— blocking the path.
Guards.
And her.
From the smoke, Lady Emilia stepped forward—untouched by the heat, her coat fluttering gently in the windless air.
She moved like a ghost. Like a queen.
And she looked straight at Cale.
"You," she said softly, almost with wonder.
Cale froze.
He didn't know her name. But he knew what she was.
Danger.
The children screamed. One fell. Another turned to run.
Cale gritted his teeth.
"Go!" he shouted, pushing Regan toward the others. "Take them—run!"
Regan grabbed the nearest girl and yanked her to her feet. "Cale—"
"NOW!"
Then the guards surged in.
Cale moved.
He wasn't a fighter. Not really.
But Emis surged through him.
He ducked under a blade, kicked a guard in the chest, flung his arm forward—and a pulse of force blasted one of them off his feet.
Another came at him—he caught the man's wrist, twisted, struck.
Power rippled down his spine, electric and alive.
Too alive.
His vision swam. The edges of the world pulsed with white heat. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
A sword grazed his arm.
Then another came.
Cale raised his hand—and faltered.
His knees buckled.
"Emis—" he gasped.
But before the blade could fall—
Rosanna slammed into the guard from the side, her knife cutting a shallow gash across his shoulder.
She turned, eyes blazing. "You absolute IDIOT."
She took a stance—feet wide, blade steady.
"I told you," she muttered, parrying a blow. "You don't fight alone."
Cale tried to rise, but his body betrayed him. He leaned against the wall, blinking hard, trying to focus.
Emilia watched from a distance, untouched by the skirmish.
Her eyes narrowed as she took in the boy's trembling hands. The flicker of unnatural energy that danced over his skin.
The spiral mark on his wrist, glowing faintly.
The raw, untamed burst of power that had just leveled two of her guards.
Her smile returned.
"You're Veyrathi," she whispered to herself.
The flame behind her hissed lower. The guards began to fall back—afraid, disoriented, outnumbered by chaos.
Rosanna helped Cale to his feet. "Can you walk?"
"Barely."
"That'll do."
They ran—into the fog, into the dark, into freedom.
Behind them, Emilia stood at the edge of the flame, the heat licking at her coat, her smile unwavering.
"A living Veyrathi," she said again, softer this time.
She turned toward the retreating shadows.
"And now… I'll find you."
_______________
They ran blind through the trees.
Branches whipped past, roots clawed at ankles, fog coiled low and thick like smoke from a dying fire. The younger children cried out, their small hands clutching whatever piece of clothing or arm they could find.
"Where are we going?" one boy whimpered.
"Are we lost?"
"I wanna go home!"
Regan's pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't answer.
Not yet.
He didn't know.
His heart was pounding so loud, he could barely think. His legs burned. His breath came in short, raw gasps. His eyes scanned the dark woods ahead, seeing nothing but black shapes and shifting shadows.
And the voices kept coming.
"Regan, what do we do?"
"We can't see!"
"Are they chasing us?"
He stumbled to a stop, arm out. "Wait—stop—everyone stop!"
The kids crowded close. Scared. Shivering. Crying.
Regan's hands trembled.
He turned, slowly.
Looked at their faces.
And felt like the world was spinning under his feet.
He was no leader.
He wasn't strong like Rosanna. He wasn't powerful like Cale. He wasn't…
Anything.
*
A memory slid into place—cold and sharp.
His father's study. Mahogany desk. Walls lined with trophies that weren't his.
Regan, standing there, twelve years old and straight-spined, holding a scorched leaf in one trembling hand.
"I took the test. Again," he'd said.
His father didn't even look up from his report. "Did it change this time?"
Regan swallowed. "No."
"Then stop trying."
No warmth. No anger. Just... apathy.
As if Regan were a missing bookmark in a book no one wanted to reread.
The scene shifted.
Older now.
His brother—golden-haired, sharp-eyed—clapped a hand on Regan's shoulder.
"You're good with words," he said. "Better than me. Better than any of them. If you want to survive in this world, that's the only thing you have."
Then he was gone.
*
Regan blinked.
Fog. Shivering kids. Fear.
He drew in a long, shaking breath.
Then turned around.
And smiled.
Not a real smile. Not yet.
But something close.
"Alright, everyone," he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the fear. "We're not lost. We're escaping. That means we're winning."
The kids stared at him.
He stepped forward, waving an arm to gather their attention. "I need everyone to hold onto someone's sleeve or shirt or hand. Keep a line. No one gets left behind. Got it?"
Sniffling. Nods.
"You see fog, you keep moving through it. You hear something behind us, you don't look back. You keep your eyes on me."
He pointed east.
"We follow the moon. There's a trade road near here. At the edge of it, there's a town. If we reach it, we blend in. We vanish. We live."
They looked at him.
Small, shaking hands found others.
A line formed.
And they ran.
It was nearly dawn when they saw the glow of lanterns and chimneys.
The town wasn't large—just a cluster of houses nestled between old trees, a stony well in the center, smoke curling from chimneys.
Safe enough. For now.
Regan collapsed onto the edge of the road, lungs on fire.
The kids gathered around him like ducklings.
He leaned back against a tree, face tilted to the sky.
Still trembling.
Still alive.
"Thanks," he whispered, as if his brother could hear.
_______________
The fog wrapped around them like a living thing — cold and thick and blinding.
Cale could barely see more than a few feet ahead.
He stumbled forward, boots slipping in the wet grass. Every breath burned. His arm hung limp at his side, his shoulder throbbing with each step. The forest tilted with every blink.
Behind them — shouts.
Footsteps.
The guards hadn't given up.
"Just a little more," Rosanna growled, her hand tight around his wrist. She was dragging him now — not gently. "Move, dammit."
"I am moving," Cale snapped.
"Then move faster!"
They pushed through the undergrowth, branches lashing across their arms. Every sound echoed wrong — too loud, too close. Somewhere nearby, a horn blew.
They were flanking them.
Rosanna skidded to a stop beside a fallen log, eyes scanning the dark ahead. "This slope leads down to the stream. If we hit the riverbed, we can lose them."
She turned—
And saw Cale nearly collapse.
"Shit—"
"I'm fine," he gasped.
"You're bleeding."
"I've been bleeding for a while."
Rosanna's jaw tightened. "You're slowing us down."
"I can still fight."
"Cale—"
"I can!"
A torch flickered behind them. Close.
"Go," she said, suddenly, voice hard. "Run for the stream. I'll stay back."
"No."
"Cale—"
"I said no!"
He pushed away from her grip, staggered back a step, chest heaving. "You think I'm going to let you pull some hero crap while I run off like a coward?"
"I think you're injured, half-conscious, and one more misstep from dying," she hissed. "And I'm not about to get you killed because your pride's too big for your skull."
"I'm not—"
"This isn't about you," Rosanna snapped. "It's about the others. Regan's out there with the kids. If you die, who's going to help him keep them together?"
Cale froze.
He could still see Regan's face — calm, clever, always thinking.
"We can trust her," he'd said.
Rosanna stepped closer, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"I've been trained for this. Not well, not long — but enough to hold a line. Enough to buy you thirty seconds. That's all I need."
Cale stared at her.
She was standing tall, knife in hand, breathing hard.
Not afraid.
He hated it.
He hated how useless he felt. How every muscle in his body begged for rest while she stood like a soldier at her post. How magic hummed in his veins but he couldn't control it.
Not yet.
"I'll come back," he muttered.
Rosanna blinked. "What?"
"I said—I'll come back. With help. So don't die."
She smiled — tired, crooked. "Now you sound like someone I can fight beside."
Cale turned.
Took one step. Then another.
The slope pulled him down into the mist.
He didn't look back.
But as he ran, a thought burned in his chest like fire—
I have to get stronger.
Next time… no one stays behind for me.