The fog came up like it had been waiting.
It crawled across the ridgeline in sheets, pale and fibrous, blurring every pine into the next. Even the moss looked subdued.
Less like a plant, more like the skin of something long asleep.
Lucian adjusted the strap of his satchel and stepped carefully over a root slick with coastal dew. His newly trimmed hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He used a belt-knife and no mirror.
Instead, he knelt in the blacksmith forge's quiet afterlight. Lucian didn't have a pair of scissors and using a sword to cut his hair felt like overkill.
"Looks good," The skeleton blacksmith confirmed. Now his hair was shoulder-length and short enough to feel like a reset. He thanked the blacksmith for his time and burned the clippings.
Alice walked just behind him, veil folded around her shoulders, not worn. She didn't speak, but her steps were steady. The fog didn't seem to touch her.
Corvina led.
She said nothing.
