The sky remained thick with fog as night fell, cloaking the village in a chill, oppressive shroud. In the small stilt house where Karl, Molvar, and Sir Cedric were staying, the fire flickered faintly in the hearth, casting long shadows that danced uneasily along the wooden walls.
A soft knock broke the silence.
They exchanged glances. Sir Cedric stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on his hilt, and opened the door just a crack.
A woman stood there, cloaked in a heavy scarf, her figure slight, her face drawn and pale. Her eyes darted nervously in the dark.— "I… I don't have much time," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.— "Please, don't let them go through with it. The so-called offering to Daihar—it's not a sacred tradition. It's a crime… one buried deep in silence."
She stepped inside, wary, her voice hushed like a breath in the wind.— "I was the chosen one, fifteen years ago. But I escaped… and I saw… I saw the monster they worship. It never blessed anyone. It devoured them."
A heavy stillness fell over the room. Karl clenched his fist.
— "Then why do they continue?" Molvar asked, his voice tight with anger.The woman looked down.— "Because those who speak out vanish… or are said to be possessed by the mist. The village is silent now. Numb."
She turned to Karl, her eyes pleading.— "Yelra does not deserve this. You're outsiders—if you speak, if you act… there might still be hope."
Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the mist like a shadow never meant to be seen.
Karl remained silent after the woman vanished. The firelight flickered across his face, casting a calm yet unnerving stillness in his expression.
Molvar glanced at him and muttered:— "We can't let this happen, Karl. We can't just stand by while they sacrifice a girl."
Karl didn't answer right away. He stepped toward the window, peering into the dense mist that now blanketed the village like a silent curse.After a pause, he turned, eyes cold yet composed.
— "Go outside, Molvar," he said quietly. "Gather information. Find out where and when the ceremony will take place. Keep a low profile."
Molvar raised an eyebrow.— "Sending me on the dangerous errands again, huh? Fine…" – He forced a grin – "I'll try not to disappear like the last folks who asked too many questions."
— "Watch your tongue," Sir Cedric cut in, his voice low. "Just be careful."
Molvar pulled on a light cloak, adjusted the sword at his side, and quietly slipped into the misty night.
Karl stood still, one hand on the wooden wall. The flicker in his eyes was no longer just firelight—it was the quiet burn of restrained fury.
Molvar crept through the mist-shrouded village, his steps light, eyes sharp. The chill in the air made everything feel too still, too quiet—but his usual smirk never left his face.
Near the central square, he spotted a drunken villager slumped against a wooden wall, clutching a nearly empty bottle. Molvar approached and crouched beside him.
— "Lovely night, isn't it?" he grinned. "Fog like this usually means... something scary's about to happen."
The drunk squinted at him, burping slightly.— "You're… not from around here…"
Molvar tilted his head, amused. "Strong stuff," he thought. Then he leaned in, whispering with mock seriousness:— "I heard there's a book… a book about the ceremony. Know anything?"
The drunk glanced around, then chuckled.— "Book, yes… there is one. At the old bookshop, far end of the village. The lady there guards it well. But I know where…"
Before long, Molvar was half-dragging, half-guiding the man to a dimly lit house with a faded sign: Old Leaf Books.
— "There… inside… last shelf… right corner… behind the farm almanacs…" the man slurred.
Molvar slipped inside. The air smelled of ink, dust, and forgotten memories. The drunk collapsed at the doorstep. Moving with practiced grace, Molvar scanned the back shelves, eventually finding a wooden-bound book marked faintly with a goat-skull emblem.
He narrowed his eyes.— "Karl's going to love this…"
Molvar burst through the door, holding the ancient book tightly against his chest. His eyes sparkled—half with excitement, half with dread.
Karl looked up from his wooden chair, sensing the urgency.Molvar waved the book.— "You're going to want to read this. Right now."
Karl took it, brushing off the thin layer of dust. The pages crackled as he flipped through them—old runes and disturbing illustrations lined the parchment. Then, near the end, a bold title: Daihar – The Curseborn Demon.
Karl's expression hardened as he read:— "The Fog Festival is an ancient sacrificial rite to Daihar, a primordial demon born during the Holy War. It was sealed beneath Ashen Hill by the Witches of Light... but each generation must 'renew' the offering to maintain the seal."
Molvar whistled low.— "So if there's no sacrifice… the seal weakens? And… it gets out?"
Karl nodded, still reading.— "It's not just any demon. Daihar is one of the Curseborn—an ancient class of demons that can bend fate, poison memories, and drown minds in darkness."
Molvar grimaced.— "This isn't a tradition. It's a death sentence."
Karl closed the book softly, turning his gaze toward the thick mist outside.— "If we do nothing… the seal may already be breaking. And something far worse will awaken."
Night had descended upon the tribe near Ashen Hill, bringing with it an eerie and suffocating stillness. The thick mist clung to the ground like a veil separating the living from the long-forgotten. Bonfires crackled across the village square, their orange flames casting twisting shadows of dancers moving to the slow beat of ancient drums.
Elsewhere, atop a solitary stone outcrop, Karl stood silently, watching the preparations from afar. The sounds of revelry—chants, drums, and laughter with a tinge of madness—drifted up toward him.
Behind him, Molvar and Sir Cedric approached.— "I don't like the way they laugh…" Molvar muttered, his hand on his sword hilt.
Sir Cedric nodded, face stern.— "This isn't a celebration—it's a prelude to something vile."
Karl turned slightly and nodded.— "We won't let this happen."
From somewhere beyond the mist, a cold wind whispered through the trees—carrying with it faint murmurs… as if something long buried had begun to stir.