Morning sunlight leaked through the dusty curtains, crawling across Kael's face like an uninvited guest.
"…Ugh. Morning already?" he muttered, half-burying himself back under the blanket. His body screamed to stay put, but his stomach loudly disagreed.
Food first, existential dread later.
Dragging himself out of bed, Kael stumbled around his apartment, tripping over a chair leg with the grace of a drunk penguin. "Yep. Definitely phase nine material… master of deception and trip hazards."
After a quick wash and bread that tasted like yesterday's disappointment, he tugged on his coat and stepped into the fog-veiled streets.
The city was alive with its usual noise: street vendors hawking roasted chestnuts, clanging metal from distant factories, and the occasional newspaper boy screaming about last night's "mystical disturbance."
Kael adjusted his collar. He had business today — strange business.
The ritual had worked once. Well… "worked" in the sense that he'd ended up with headaches, visions, and a vague sense of oh look, the world's weirder than I thought. Naturally, the logical response was to do it again.
He wandered into a narrow alley lined with crooked shops. A lantern flickered above a wooden sign: Madam Hilda's Curiosities. The kind of place that sold you trinkets, cursed dolls, and probably the neighbor's missing cat.
Inside, the air smelled of herbs and secrets. Shelves sagged under jars of powders, bones, and plants that twitched ever so slightly.
The shopkeeper — a round woman with sharp eyes — looked him over. "Back again, boy?"
Kael smiled faintly. "What can I say? I'm a repeat customer for terrible life choices."
Her lips twitched. "Tell me what you need."
"Wax, herbs… and that ink over there. The one that looks like it's judging me."
She raised a brow but fetched the items. Kael slid over coins with the air of a man buying both groceries and regret.
"Careful," she warned. "Mix those wrong, and you won't be dreaming — you'll be screaming."
Kael's grin widened. "Don't worry. I'm a professional at screaming."
He spent the day in routine — work, paperwork, banter with colleagues. Nothing unusual except for the nagging thought: Tonight. I'll try again tonight.
John Gary stopped by his desk at one point, dropping a stack of reports. "Kael, keep your head down, yeah? Been a lot of… strange activity lately."
Kael hummed distractedly. "Strange is practically my middle name."
Gary gave him a look, the kind that said I'm serious, but Kael waved it off. His thoughts were already elsewhere — in the fog, in the mystery.
By nightfall, Kael was back in his apartment. Curtains drawn, candles lit, the ingredients arranged in a triangular pattern on the floor.
His heart thumped. Alright. Last time was bad. This time will be… worse? Better? Who knows. Act the part.
He lit the candles. Shadows leapt across the walls like dancers. He poured the ink, tracing sigils with an unsteady hand. His breath came shallow, his pulse loud.
And then he spoke — not words of prayer, but words that felt like they were dug from his bones:
"Fog, veil the truth. Mirage, conceal the lie. Lord of what is not, show me what is."
The symbols pulsed. The air grew heavy, pressing against his chest. Pain stabbed into his skull, white-hot.
He collapsed to his knees.
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed.
A boundless fog stretched infinitely. Throne-shapes loomed in the distance, half-seen, carved of shadow and silence.
Kael swallowed. His voice cracked, half in awe, half in sarcasm. "Yep. Definitely not my room."
Then — flickers. Two silhouettes appeared before him.
One was a cloaked scholar, book clutched tight, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit.
The other was a scarred mercenary, dagger at his belt, shoulders stiff with suspicion.
Both stiffened, then bowed instinctively.
Kael blinked. Oh no. They think I'm…
He straightened, slipping into a role like a second skin. His voice deepened.
"You stand before the Lord Mirage. Speak."
The scholar stammered, "L-Lord… where is this place?"
Kael steepled his fingers, trying not to panic. "This… is the Fog of Mirage. A place where masks fall away."
Gods, that sounded good. Ten points to improvisation.
The mercenary's jaw clenched. "Why us?"
Kael shrugged casually. "Perhaps your questions reached me. Or perhaps I was bored. Does it matter?"
Both flinched.
Inside, Kael was grinning like an idiot. Act the part, Kael. They're buying it.
He leaned forward. "Tell me. What do you know of Orders… and Phases?"
The scholar hesitated, then whispered:
"Orders are the paths of power. Each Phase deeper… but each step closer to madness. Few survive beyond Seven. Too many… whispers."
The mercenary spat. "Cults thrive on it. Worshippers of forgotten gods. The worst are those who serve the Broken Sigil… its gaze unmakes men."
Kael's mouth went dry. Yeah, no thanks. Hard pass on the unmaking gaze.
But outwardly, he nodded. "Knowledge is dangerous. But ignorance… fatal. Walk carefully."
They bowed deeper.
The fog thickened. Pressure mounted. The thrones groaned.
Kael raised his hand with fake authority. "Enough. The audience is over."
The figures blurred, swallowed by mist.
He gasped awake on the floor, candles guttered. His head pounded like a drum.
"Lord Mirage…" he whispered, then laughed weakly. "Guess I'm really stuck with that name now."
A sharp knock jolted him.
"Kael!" John Gary's voice came muffled through the door. "We found something about the yellow-haired man. His name is Alden Mortvis."
The name coiled like a serpent in Kael's chest. Mortvis. Wrong. Familiar. Dangerous.
He exhaled slowly, muttering to himself.
"Well. This just got interesting."