The journey to Draconia wasn't dangerous.

It was long.

And boring.

No dungeons.

No ambushes.

No thrilling surprises waiting around the next bend.

Just the road stretching endlessly ahead, and the rhythmic crunch of her boots against dirt.

Occasionally, they passed something worth noticing—a crooked shrine buried in moss, a half-dried stream, a weathered marker stone. But even those were fleeting.

Most of it was trees, silence, and more trees.

Nyx kicked at a rock and sighed. "You'd think something interesting would've happened by now."

"You did get a leaf stuck in your hood this morning," Uriel said flatly. "That was thrilling."

Nyx rolled her eyes beneath her veil.

"That doesn't count."

"Oh? Was the leaf not menacing enough?"

She huffed. "You're annoying when you're bored."

"I'm annoying because you're bored."

Nyx shook her head. "Why are you even like this?"

"I am the result of centuries of divine design. Please be respectful."

Nyx snorted. "You sound like a sanctified scroll with a personality problem."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I'm choosing to hear it as one."

The sun beat down. She adjusted her cloak, tugged the fabric closer around her shoulders. The wind had turned hot and dry, and the grass was growing more stubborn underfoot.

She'd stopped checking how long she'd been walking.

Days blurred together.

Sleep happened wherever it could. Beneath trees.

Against flat stones. Once, balanced on a slope with one leg hanging off a root.

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She made it work.

Food was whatever she found. Water was what she boiled.

And the conversation was…

Well. This.

Uriel hummed again. "Would you like to revisit the topic of why birds don't trust you?"

Nyx blinked. "What?"

"You scared the last one off with your death glare."

"I didn't glare at it."

"You glared in its general direction. It counted."

"I'm not going to apologize to a bird."

"Even though it dropped the berry you wanted?"

Nyx grunted. "I didn't want it that badly."

"I'd rate your berry success rate at forty percent. Unimpressive."

"Do you want me to walk into a dungeon just so you'll shut up?"

"Yes, please."

Nyx stopped walking.

Uriel went quiet.

"…Wait, that was sarcasm, wasn't it?"

"You're learning," Uriel said with a voice like a smile wrapped in stone.

By the time evening came again, they'd passed another empty trail marker and the beginning signs of crumbling stone fencing—manmade. Ancient. Almost hidden under dirt and creeping vine.

She sat near a dip in the hill, half-shaded by the leaning trunk of a narrow-barked tree.

Nyx leaned back and stared at the cloudless sky.

"So. Anything else you want to bother me about?"

Uriel took a thoughtful pause. "Would you like me to list all the insects currently crawling near your foot?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"I'll keep that information to myself… for now."

Nyx dragged her hand over her face.

"I'm surrounded by idiots."

"You're alone."

"Exactly."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Weeks Earlier

A small town bustled the best it could—if struggling to stay upright could be called bustling.

People moved with purpose, but not joy.

There were no songs in the streets, no vendors calling out from bright stalls. Just the creak of carts and the weary shuffling of boots over dry earth.

No one looked up unless they had to.

They survived however they could.

Scrap foraging, trade with passing travelers, sharing tools between families even when they were breaking. There was no pride left in pretending things were fine. Only quiet resignation.

Everyone had a job, even the children.

Especially the children.

Some gathered herbs along the cracked fence lines. Others sorted grain by hand, their fingers quick and dirty. Elders mended what could still be used. Nothing new ever came.

Nothing was wasted.

Day after day, they sent letters.

Always the same request, written in careful, pleading script.

To the capital.

To the outposts.

To anyone in Draconia who might listen.

We need support.

We don't need much.

Just something. Just enough.

They weren't asking for soldiers. Or riches.

They just wanted tools that didn't break in their hands. Roads that didn't collapse during the rains. A healer that didn't live a week's ride away.

A single shipment could change the season for them.

They knew it.

The kingdom knew it.

But nothing came.

And still, they wrote.

Even when the letters didn't return.

Even when the stamps stopped changing.

Even when the ink began to smudge from reused paper and trembling hands.

They kept asking.

Because it was the only thing left to do.

But one day, something happened.

And it changed everything.

At first, they thought it was help that came.

Someone finally answering the letters. Someone is finally coming.

But it wasn't that.

Not even close.

They came on foot. No banners. No introductions. Just black cloaks, boots worn smooth, and faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods.

They didn't ask permission to enter.

They didn't explain who they were or why they had come.

They simply moved through the village—slowly, deliberately—studying everything. Homes.

Fields.

People.

The townsfolk didn't know what to make of them.

No one had the strength to stop them. Not really. They were already stretched thin just trying to stay fed.

So they let them pass.

And the men passed without a word.

In and out. Quiet. Controlled.

And then they left.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.

Not long after, a strange fog settled over the village. It crept in slow at first, barely noticeable—just a low mist that clung to the corners of homes and rolled gently over the ground like smoke without fire.

But then it didn't leave.

It thickened.

Coated everything.

And with it came something else.

People began to slow.

Not physically—but deeper. Like something in them was being smothered from the inside.

Motivation faded.

Firewood was left uncut. Water buckets sat untouched.

Some people didn't rise with the dawn.

Some forgot what day it was.

Laughter, already rare, vanished entirely.

There was no panic. That would've taken energy.

There was only fog.

And a strange, heavy stillness.

No one connected it at first.

Not until someone finally asked—When did this start?

And someone else answered—The day those cloaked men passed through.

But by then, it was too late.

The fog was already part of the town.

And the only thing smiling that day—

The only thing that seemed alive—

Was the man in the black cloak who stood just beyond the hills.

Watching.

Grinning.

Like everything was going exactly as planned.

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