It unsettled Veythor more than he cared to admit. He had not anticipated this dense, unyielding mist that now blanketed the river like a living, breathing shroud.
Raika lay slumped against the boat’s side, deep in sleep, while Shimi remained unconscious, though the swelling on her leg had already begun to fade. The strange waters of the river had done more than soothe... it was slowly healing, almost miraculously, leaving faint traces of its otherworldly power lingering on her pale skin.
As I thought... this water is the true goal those masked men wanted us to reach, Veythor reflected, a cold certainty settling in his chest. The realization brought neither joy nor triumph, only the heavy weight of foresight. This was the trap the cruel cunning of enemies who played with lives as though they were pieces on a board.
The mist thickened with each passing heartbeat, crawling along the river in slow, deliberate waves. The edges of the boat blurred; the horizon dissolved entirely, one side of the vessel merging seamlessly with the other. Veythor’s hand tightened around the oar, muscles coiling like steel springs as he assessed the situation.
"Tch... this is getting worse with every moment. So this... this is the trap they laid for us," he murmured, a hint of grim acceptance threading through his voice.
Despite the growing danger, his mind remained clear and sharp, dissecting the scenario with cold precision. Without hesitation, he gripped the oar once more and attempted to steer back the way they had come, each stroke slicing through the thick, unnerving fog. Yet no matter how forcefully he rowed, the boat appeared rooted in place, as if the water itself had conspired to hold them captive.
Forward or backward, left or right it all led to the same unchanging void. The forest surrounding them wavered, the ancient trees bending and twisting like specters of some distorted memory.
The line between illusion and reality blurred, leaving only the certainty of danger. Yet even now, with the impossible stretching out before him, Veythor’s heart bore no tremor of fear. He had foreseen this, at least in part, and his instincts refused to succumb to panic. The path before him, as he well knew, was the path of death.
Veythor’s crimson eyes swept across the mist, searching for anything, anything at all, that could be used against the enemies who had ensnared them. Even in this desperate, disorienting void, surrender was not an option.
He had been forged through three lifes and deaths, through betrayal, through pain, and he would not yield now. He scanned the shifting whiteness, looking for shapes, movements, even whispers that might betray the presence of others. For the mist itself, he realized, was impenetrable. Escape through ordinary means was impossible.
It was then that Raika stirred. Eyes blinking against the pale haze, he blinked rapidly, as though trying to awaken from some terrifying dream. As the reality of the mist sank into him, a harsh gasp tore from his throat.
"What in the world is going on...?" he shouted, voice trembling, betraying the panic threatening to rise in him.
"Raika.... don’t panic."
Veythor’s voice was measured, low, yet contained an edge of authority that brooked no argument. Every syllable was chosen and deliberate; every pause calculated. The enemy could be anywhere, hidden in the fog, waiting. "I know you’re confused, but we are in a complicated situation. I will explain later. For now... come to this side of the boat."
"But... I can’t see anything but Shimi!"
Raika blurted, his words louder than intended, his frustration breaking the fragile silence.
"Lower your voice," Veythor snapped, tone sharpening like a blade. "And come. We have no choice."
Raika’s chest heaved, eyes flicking nervously across the undulating white void.
"Why don’t you just take us back? I told you I had a bad feeling about this, but you were stubborn. And now... now look at us. We’re trapped!"
Veythor’s crimson gaze narrowed. His voice was calm and measured.
"I already tried. It doesn’t work. The mist won’t let us out."
"I knew it... I knew it was a trap! But you didn’t listen... you dragged us here. This is all your fault, so fix it yourself!"
Raika shouted, voice cracking with anger and fear. Veythor almost laughed at the absurdity, but the sound died in his throat. There was no room for frivolity in the face of imminent danger.
"This isn’t the time to point fingers," he said firmly, eyes unflinching. "Whether it’s your fault or mine, it is the past. We cannot redo it. What matters now is finding a way out of this mist."
Raika clenched his jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on his tongue. He forced his breathing to slow, harsh and uneven as he tried to summon composure.
"Fine. Then... how do we get out?" ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ Nov3lFɪre.ɴet
Veythor’s response was flat, almost dismissive in its brevity.
"I don’t know. We’ll have to figure it out."
Raika rolled his eyes, frustration spilling like a torrent. "Oh, great. Figure it out... meanwhile, Shimi’s dying, and we’re trapped in this cursed fog. It’s the end... the end..." His words trailed off, swallowed by the dense whiteness.
Step by slow step, Raika made his way toward Veythor, moving carefully across the rocking vessel until he reached the silent figure perched like a sentinel.
"So... how—"
he began, but the words were swallowed by the sudden lurch of the boat. Water sloshed violently inside the vessel, drenching them and tipping them off balance. Then came a sound soft, deliberate footsteps, echoing from the far side of the mist, deliberate and heavy. Raika froze, every instinct screaming at him.
A sudden whistle cut through the fog, sharp and merciless, followed by the sickening twang of a bowstring. An arrow streaked toward him, cutting through the dense whiteness like a shard of ice.
"Ah—!"
Raika’s reflexes were slow. He jerked his head to the side, too late. The arrow grazed his cheek, a hot, burning line of pain, and the world tilted violently. His body gave way to the sudden shift, splashing into the frigid water below with a deafening crash.
"Oh, shit..."
Veythor muttered under his breath, crimson eyes narrowing as he rose to his full height, every muscle coiled, ready to strike, every sense straining against the suffocating fog.