The central hut of the Galdir tribe was spacious, held up by thick wooden pillars, its roof thatched with dry grass and layered animal hides to trap warmth. A large firepit blazed in the center, casting flickering shadows on the walls adorned with beast bones, wooden masks, and strange ancient symbols.
A tall man with tied-back long hair, a thick gray beard, and wise eyes sat behind the fire on a fur mat. As the three travelers entered, he looked up, offering a smile both warm and authoritative.
"Sir Cedric!" he said in a deep, steady voice. "It's been a long time. And who might these two be that walk beside you?"
Sir Cedric stepped forward and bowed lightly. "Chief Ulgar, this is Karl and Molvar. They are on a very important mission — one that concerns ancient forces and dangerous truths."
Ulgar leaned forward on his knee, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. "Ancient and dangerous, hmm? Then you've come to the right place. Ashen Hill never lets the past sleep."
Molvar nudged Karl playfully and whispered, "I already like this guy. He talks like a storybook."
Karl smiled faintly, but his gaze didn't leave Ulgar's keen, knowing eyes.
Chief Ulgar looked at the three of them with a wide grin.
"It seems you've arrived at just the right moment," he said enthusiastically. "Tomorrow marks the Festival of the Mist — the most sacred event of our Galdir tribe."
Molvar raised an eyebrow. "Festival of the Mist? Sounds mysterious."
Ulgar nodded: "It's not only a ceremony to honor our ancestors' spirits but also a time when thick fog blankets Ashen Hill, opening ancient gates that are normally hidden. Perhaps fate itself guided you here."
Karl tilted his head thoughtfully. "Then we would be honored to take part."
Ulgar rose to his feet, spreading his arms. "Rest well tonight. You are honored guests of the Galdir tribe. But be prepared — for the mist brings more than just spirits... It stirs other things awake."
Sir Cedric stepped forward, bowing slightly to Chief Ulgar. "Thank you for your generous hospitality, Lord Ulgar. We won't trouble you any longer." He then turned to Karl and Molvar, motioning for them to leave the large wooden house.
Once outside, Molvar stretched his arms, still looking puzzled. But before he could speak, Sir Cedric chuckled, walking ahead with a grin.
"Tomorrow will be a day to remember. Be on your guard — the Festival of the Mist is known to be… quite frightening." He added a knowing wink.
Molvar frowned. "Why do you say that? Is something wrong?"
"Not exactly," Sir Cedric shrugged. "But I've heard tales… of people seeing things not of this world — always during the night of the festival." He glanced back at them, his tone suddenly more serious. "Just keep your minds clear, and you'll be fine."
Karl said nothing, only nodded slightly. Yet, within him, a quiet unease began to stir.
The night before the festival was cloaked in a deep, tranquil blue. The tribal camp flickered with the light of bonfires, and the villagers hung mist-colored cloth banners and tiny wind chimes that rang softly in the night breeze.
Karl stood alone near the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed toward the faint outline of the distant hills. Something didn't feel right — the air itself seemed to be shifting, carrying a strange chill that seeped into every breath.
Molvar approached with a bowl of steaming barley stew in hand. "Sure you don't want a bite? This stuff beats the soup those Solmere guards cook any day."
Karl smiled faintly. "I'm not hungry. Thanks."
Molvar glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I overheard one of the old folks here. He said every year during this festival, at least one person… vanishes. He claimed that once the mist covers the village, they never return."
Karl remained silent, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing something beyond Molvar's words.
Not far away, Sir Cedric was sitting with a few elders near the central fire, whispering over something serious. A sudden breeze stirred, causing the wind chimes to tremble and release a series of ghostly whispers throughout the camp.
"Do you hear that?" Karl asked, his voice dropping.
Molvar frowned. "It's just the wind… isn't it?"
Karl shook his head. "No. Someone… is calling me."
Karl quietly turned away from the low fence, heading back to his makeshift tent. The hushed sounds of the night still lingered in his ears, but he knew—now wasn't the time to act. The unease remained, yet the weariness of the long journey began to creep into his bones.
Molvar stayed by the fire, watching Karl's shadow disappear. Though he liked to joke, he knew Karl never spoke lightly when it came to his instincts. And when Karl fell silent… the world was often on the verge of something grave.
Across the camp, a wind chime rang—not stirred by any breeze. A shadow slipped past the edge of the forest. No one saw it, but a sudden coldness spread over the area.
Inside the tent, Karl lay awake, eyes fixed on the rough ceiling. He knew — by the next night, when the mist cloaked the village, everything would change.
And the real trial might begin from there.