The first attack came without warning.
A shrill screech broke the silence, and before he could react, something leaped from the mist. The creature was bony and swift, with twisted limbs and a jaw too wide to be natural. Vaemor Xhaelarys barely had time to move aside, and his sword sank into the attacker's grayish flesh. The blood that spurted out was dark, thick, and smelled of old iron.
"Stand together!" roared Maekor Dravion, raising his sword to intercept another beast rushing at Zaryon Velquarys.
The mist was his worst enemy. With every step, silhouettes appeared and disappeared, and sounds echoed in every direction. The enemy could be three meters or more above him, and there was no way to know until it was too late.
Aerys Qhaedros brandished the torch like a weapon, and the creatures retreated from the fire, but not for long. Their eyes—those yellowish points of light—never stopped watching them.
They walked for hours, fighting in waves. The fog seemed endless, and every time they thought they had gained ground, the landscape changed. Sometimes, when they turned back, they saw the same petrified statues they had already passed.
"He's leading us in circles," Kaelyth Thalmyx growled, breathing raggedly.
"Or he's playing a trick on us," Daenyr Vhaely corrected, glancing sideways at a figure disappearing into the mist.
The day became an exhausting cycle of advance, combat, and tactical retreat. The creatures didn't attack all at once, but in groups, as if gauging the group's endurance. Some were small, swift, with sharp claws for tearing sinew; Others, larger, seemed made to crush and overthrow.
In an instant, Vaemor was struck down. A beast grabbed him by the leg and dragged him into the mist, but Aerys leaped at it, plunging his dagger through its right eye. The scream was so loud that the mist itself seemed to tremble.
When night came—if it was truly night in there—there were no stars or moon. Only a thicker darkness above the mist. Tiredness weighed on everyone, and the dampness in the air soaked clothes and rusted metal.
They found a clearing where the mist swirled but did not penetrate. Only a circle of smooth rock, surrounded by fragments of fallen statues. He didn't know if it was an ancient shrine or a trap, but they didn't have the strength to continue.
They lit a small fire with dry wood that Rhaedor Vorys had managed to contain. The flames were the only point of color in a gray, horizonless world.
"It's not safe to sleep," Maekor warned, sharpening his sword with trembling hands. "These things... they're pushing us somewhere."
Zaryon looked into the mist, where the shadows moved, not coming closer.
"Whatever awaits us must be worse than them."
The rest was brief. At dawn—or what seemed like dawn—a deep roar pierced the mist. Not from a single creature, but dozens. The final attack had come.
The fight that followed was brutal and relentless. The mist flickered with torchlight, revealing scenes of blood and steel for moments: Kaelyth plunging her spear into an attacker's chest; Aerys crushing skulls with the hilt of his sword; Vaemor hacking his way through while shouting orders.
Finally, as exhaustion threatened to break them, the mist began to dissipate. Not suddenly, but slowly, as if retreating with the tide. The cool air hit their faces, and before them, in the distance, rose the dark silhouette of the fifth tower.
No one spoke. The only certainty was that they had survived the fog... but something told them it wouldn't be the last time they encountered it.