The evenings in Mistwatch Village were always unnervingly silent, draped in a perpetual melancholy. To the west, the "Whispering Fog" stood like a colossal, churning wall of pearl, swallowing the sun long before it could paint the sky in hues of orange and violet. For generations, no one in the village had witnessed a proper sunset. For them, dusk was not a transition but a battle—a quiet, daily war between light and the encroaching white, and the light always lost.
The village itself seemed braced for this eternal siege. Its cottages were built low to the ground, with foundations of dark, river-worn stone and walls of thick, blackened timber that was perpetually damp to the touch. The roofs were layered with heavy grey slate, each tile home to a vibrant carpet of green and black moss. The windows were small, like suspicious eyes, and were sealed shut with heavy wooden shutters as soon as the first tendrils of evening fog began to creep through the valley. This was a ritual born less of a fear of monsters, and more of a profound, cultural dread that the Fog would seep inside and steal the warm memories held within the hearths.
Inside one such cottage, Kyan sat beside his sister Lin's bedside. The only light came from a single, sputtering candle that threw their elongated shadows against the damp stone wall, making them dance like mournful specters. The sharp, bitter scent of dried medicinal herbs hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of a battle being lost.
Before him, the twelve-year-old girl's face was as pale as bleached linen. Her dark, intelligent eyes, once full of starlight and mischief, were fixed on an empty corner of the room with a vacant stare. Kyan watched, his heart a cold stone in his chest, as the last glimmers of recognition slowly faded from them.
"Lin... little sister..." he whispered, his voice barely a sound.
Her head turned toward him, the movement slow, almost mechanical. There was no familiarity in her gaze, only the wide-eyed confusion and fear of a child looking upon a stranger.
"Who... who are you?"
The words struck Kyan like a shard of ice. It was the third time today. The third time his own sister had looked at him and seen no one.
"It's me... I'm your brother, Lin. Kyan." His voice trembled, despite his effort to keep it steady.
Confusion warred in her eyes. She stared intently at his face, her brow furrowed as if trying to piece together a shattered memory. After a few agonizing seconds, a tiny spark flickered back to life in the depths of her gaze.
"Kyan... right. My brother." The recognition was a relief, but it was immediately followed by a wave of despair that washed over her small face. "I... I forgot again, didn't I?"
Tears like tiny pearls welled in her eyes and traced paths down her pale cheeks. "I'm scared, Kyan. I'm so scared that one day, I'll forget you, and Mama, and Papa for good. I'll forget who I am. I'll just be... empty."
Kyan reached out, his warm hands enveloping her cold, small ones. "Don't be scared, little sister. I'm here. I won't let you forget. I promise you... never."
His words felt hollow even to his own ears. Lin's condition, what the village elder called "The Fading," was worsening with each passing moon. It was a curse of the Fog, the elder had explained, a sickness of the soul that sometimes afflicted the children of Mistwatch. Those afflicted would eventually become the "Lost"—empty shells who could still eat and breathe, but who possessed no past, no personality, no self. They were the living dead.
Kyan would not let that happen to Lin.
After soothing her with a childhood lullaby until her breathing evened out in sleep, he tucked the worn blanket securely around her shoulders and slipped out of the cottage.
The village was now submerged in darkness. A deep, resonant clang echoed from the watchtower—the nightly curfew bell. Doors were bolted, and the village held its breath, waiting for the dawn.
Kyan's gaze was drawn west, to the endless, suffocating expanse of white. That place was death's domain. Yet, the village priest had once told him that it was also the only place where a sliver of hope might be found.
The Silvermist Bloom.
A legendary flower, said to grow only on the very edge of the Whispering Fog, where the mists were thinnest. It was rumored to possess properties that could calm the spirit and anchor one's memories. But the stories always ended the same way: nearly everyone who had ever sought it had been swallowed by the Fog and become one of the Lost themselves.
Kyan's hand went to the small, sharp wood-carving knife tucked into his belt. He had no cultivation, no special powers. All he had was a gift he rarely thought about: a perfect memory. He never forgot anything he saw or heard. He could recall the exact pattern of veins on a leaf he'd glanced at years ago, the precise number of stones in the wall of their cottage.
Perhaps that was enough. He could map his path, memorize every rock and twisted root, and find his way back.
It was a desperate, foolish plan. But when he pictured his sister's face, fading away on her sickbed, a fierce resolve burned away all fear.
He slipped back inside for a moment, planting a soft kiss on his sister's forehead. "Just for a little while, Lin. I'll bring back a piece of hope for you."
Then, using the oppressive darkness as his cloak, Kyan moved silently through the sleeping village, his feet sure on the familiar stone paths. He walked away from the only home he had ever known, heading straight towards the pale, silent sea that all sane men feared, his small figure a lone silhouette against the encroaching white.