The fog rolled in at dusk—thick, silent, suffocating.
Briar sat upright before the others stirred, her breath visible even inside the hut. It was too quiet. No crickets. No wind. Just the pressure of something unseen, pressing in from all sides.
Outside, the world had vanished into gray.
Then she saw them.
Eyes.
Dozens of them. Glimmering faintly in the mist. No shape. No faces. Just eyes—blinking in unison, watching the hut like a shrine.
Kael stirred beside her and froze mid-motion.
"What are those?" he whispered.
Corva was already standing at the threshold, her staff glowing faintly blue. "Mistborn," she said. "Ancient things. Bound to silence, drawn to power."
"Drawn to me," Briar corrected.
Corva didn't deny it.
Briar stepped to the doorway. The eyes didn't blink this time. They widened. The mist thickened near her presence, like it breathed her in.
"They're not attacking," Kael said.
"They're waiting," Corva murmured.
"For what?"
Corva turned slowly. "Their master. And your memory."
Briar narrowed her eyes and stepped into the fog.
It screamed.
Not with sound, but with presence—memories fractured into air, pressure building in her ears until she thought her skull would split. But she didn't fall back.
She whispered one word she didn't know she remembered.
The fog recoiled.