That morning, sunlight had yet to pierce through the hills when Molvar's excited voice rang out beyond the tent.
— "Karl! Wake up! You have to see this! Hurry, it's so weird!"
Karl groggily sat up, hair a tangled mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He grabbed his cloak and stepped outside — only to halt at the threshold.
The scene before him rendered him momentarily speechless.
The entire Ashen Hill region was submerged in a thick, milky fog. It was as if a vast white veil had been laid over the landscape. Wooden posts, tents, blades of grass — all faded into the vast whiteness. The air was silent, eerie, broken only by the sound of footsteps and Molvar's thrilled voice.
— "Look! It's like being swallowed into a dream, isn't it? You see nothing, and yet… everything."
Karl narrowed his eyes, sensing something deeper. He spoke quietly:
— "This fog… it has a heartbeat."
Molvar blinked.— "A heartbeat? You're telling me you can hear mist pulsing now? That's a new level, Karl."
Karl said nothing. Though the tone was light, he didn't treat it as a joke. The festival was set to begin today. And this mist… was the first omen.
Molvar was still laughing and playing with the white fog when suddenly the sound of hurried footsteps and a familiar voice came from the chieftain's house:
— "Just standing around? Why not lend a hand!"
Sir Cedric emerged, arms full of baskets brimming with fruits and decorative items, looking unusually enthusiastic.
Molvar crossed his arms, grinning:— "This morning you look more like a wedding planner than a knight."
Sir Cedric shrugged:— "I don't see the issue. It only happens once a year, and this Mist Festival is quite special. The villagers believe the fog bridges this world and the spirits of the dead. If we carry out the rituals properly, the spirits bless the crops… and travelers like us."
Karl took one of the baskets from him, his gaze still locked on the dense mist.— "So today, we're inviting spirits to join the celebration."
Sir Cedric chuckled:— "Yes, well… we can invite. Whether they come or not depends on their mood. Just don't offend them."
Molvar shivered and mockingly straightened his posture:— "I'll behave like a gentleman, I swear."
The three made their way to the clearing at the center of the village, where children were laughing and adults were erecting ceremonial pillars of white stone. The fog still clung thickly to everything. And for a brief moment, Karl had the strange feeling… someone — or something — was watching him from afar.
The festive atmosphere slowly grew livelier as the sun rose higher, though its light barely pierced the dense fog. White stone pillars were set up in a circle at the village's center, silver-gray fabrics fluttered in the breeze. Traditional instruments — bamboo flutes, hide drums, and tiny bells — mixed with laughter and chatter to create a strange melody, both cheerful and haunting.
The villagers donned long robes embroidered with spirals and moon symbols, representing the spirit realm. One by one, they approached the stone pillars, placing a hand gently on the surface and bowing — a quiet greeting to the souls believed to be present within the mist.
Molvar looked around wide-eyed:— "I thought festivals were all dancing and feasts. This feels more like a funeral."
Sir Cedric chuckled softly:— "To them, it's sacred. Tonight's the part you're expecting — the feast and the dancing."
Karl stood silently, his gaze following a group of elders chanting an ancient hymn in a forgotten tongue. Something about it felt familiar. Faded memories stirred — of festivals long past, witnessed centuries ago, now echoing back through the mist...
A young girl approached Karl, holding out a twig wrapped in red thread.— "This is for you, mister. A charm. So the spirits won't get mad at you."
Karl bowed his head and accepted it, his expression softening.— "Thank you, little one."
He wasn't sure if the spirits were real. But in that moment, with the music rising and the white mist swirling, something certainly was — as if the veil between worlds had truly grown thin...
As the afternoon wore on, the fog refused to lift. If anything, it grew denser, clinging to rooftops and tree trunks like a woven veil of ancient breath.
The rhythm of the drums suddenly changed — slower, heavier. The villagers stopped and turned toward the stone path leading into the central square. From within the mist, the silhouette of the village elder emerged, walking with slow but purposeful steps.
Behind him came four men carrying a tall effigy — a human-like figure crafted from branches, straw, and old cloth. Its head, however, was replaced with a real goat skull. Its hollow eye sockets seemed to pierce through flesh and bone.
Molvar swallowed hard and muttered:— "Someone tell me that's just decoration... please."
Sir Cedric replied grimly:— "No. That's Daihar, the Herald of the Mist. They believe he guards the boundary between the living and the dead."
Karl watched without blinking as the men placed the effigy within the circle of stones. A chill wind swept through, sending birds scattering from nearby rooftops.
— "From this moment, the offering begins." — The elder's voice rang out, deep and ancient. He raised a wooden cup to the sky, then poured several drops of a thick, dark liquid onto the ground before stepping back three paces.
The air thickened, as if the very sky was holding its breath. The villagers bowed their heads and whispered prayers in a language long forgotten.
Karl narrowed his eyes.There was something… coming.And he could feel it moving through the mist.
The village elder raised his hand, and the drums stopped at once. A heavy silence settled over the crowd.
From beside the stone circle, two men emerged, guiding a young girl forward. She looked to be about seventeen, delicate and slender, her eyes filled with fear — yet she stood with a quiet dignity.
She wore a white gown embroidered with strange red symbols, and around her neck was a wilted garland of dried flowers.
The elder stepped beside her, gesturing toward the effigy with the goat skull. His voice dropped, deep and grave, like it echoed from beneath the earth:— "This is Yelra, the chosen one. When the moon reaches its peak tonight, she will be offered to Daihar — to cleanse the land of ill will and protect our village from the cursed mists."
As his words fell, the villagers erupted into applause. Some shouted joyfully, others raised their fists in the air with fervent zeal.
Karl clenched his fists. A chill crawled down his spine. Molvar leaned in and whispered:— "Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks this is seriously wrong."
Sir Cedric said nothing, but his gaze grew cold and hard.
The villagers continued to cheer, their faces beaming with joy — completely blind, or perhaps indifferent, to the line they were about to cross. A line drawn in blood and belief.