The Mistwood begins where Valenor stops pretending to be safe.
At the northern edge of the land, the roads grow narrow and the watch posts stand closer together. Even the sky seems to lose its color. Here, the world stops being safe. The stones under your feet are uneven. Sounds grow thin, as if something is listening too closely to every noise you make. And then, the mist begins.
It doesn't blow in like a storm. It doesn't fall like rain. It is just... there.
It looks like a wall of breathing white, stretching as far as the eye can see. It presses against the border markers like a patient animal that knows exactly where the fence is. It does not cross the line. It does not go away. It waits.
People call it a forest. They call it the Mistwood. But no one alive can truly say what is hidden inside that white fog.
Some say there are ancient, twisted trees with roots like veins. Others say there is nothing at all — just a hollow, dead space where the world forgot to finish growing. Both sides are sure they are right. Neither has proof.
The mist swallows proof first. The fog is so thick that light cannot get through. Shapes are blurry. A single step might take you an inch or a mile. A scream might come from far away — or from something standing right behind you.
Those who go in do not come back. Those who manage to come back are never the same.
Once every ten years, the Mistwood exhales. The leaders and the Knights use fancy words for it, but the common people have a simpler name.
They call it The Parade.
On those nights, the mist thins just enough for things to move through. Strange, wrong shapes emerge. Creatures with too many joints, or not enough. Skins that look wrong in the torchlight. Eyes that never blink.
Some walk. Some crawl. Some move as if they are being pulled by invisible strings. They don't growl or roar. They aren't angry. They are just hungry.
Some tear into the farmers' fields, eating crops one by one. Others break into storehouses, smashing barrels and drinking until nothing is left.
And some — the worst ones — only look for people.
They move through the streets with a goal. They learn quickly. They remember where the screams come from.
The Knights of the Broken Dawn meet them at the borders every single time. The Knights always win. But they always lose someone.
By morning, the monsters' bodies are gone. Burned, buried, or dragged back into the mist by the forest itself. By noon, life in Valenor goes back to normal. The streets are cleaned. The walls are fixed. The names of the dead are spoken once, quietly, and then put away. By sunset, people are back to their old routines.
Lucen walked those same streets as the sun went down, his hands deep in his coat pockets.
'Mistwood, What a polite name for such a place.'
He passed a stone marker in the road. It said: NORTHERN BORDER — DO NOT CROSS.
Someone had scratched a second line under it: As if we could.
'Right. As if the forest cared about signs.'
Lucen let out a short, dry laugh. He stepped around two merchants who were closing their stalls. They were whispering.
"…heard the patrols are growing—"
"…ten years already? Time flies—"
"…they say this Parade will be the worst one yet—"
They always said that.
Lucen changed his step to avoid bumping into a couple walking by. Then he frowned. 'Why did I do that?' Since when did he care about being polite or following the "flow" of the crowd?
He kept walking. Lamps were being lit along the street, small glowing circles pushing back the dark. Every lamp post had the same symbol on it: a broken circle with a line of light through it.
The symbol of the Broken Dawn.
He rolled his eyes.
'As if breaking the light once wasn't bad enough.'
His mind went back to the story every child was told. The teacher would sit them down and they would ask the same question: "Why don't the Knights just burn the forest down? "
Lucen remembered the answer perfectly: "Because it is a curse, not an enemy. Some things stay because they must."
'Must for who?'
He passed under an archway where two guards stood. Their armor had the Knight's mark, but they didn't look like real warriors. They looked too comfortable. Too clean.
One of them nodded at him. Lucen nodded back just to be polite.
'They've never even tried to end it.'
The Knights trained. They fought. They died. But the forest stayed exactly where it was. There was no big war to stop it. Just borders. Just patience. Just waiting for the next monsters to arrive.
'Cowards.'
He thought. But the word didn't feel right.
'No. Not cowards. Caretakers.'
And that felt much worse.
The Order of the Broken Dawn was very old. It wasn't born from a great victory, but because people had to survive. When the first monsters arrived, Valenor didn't know how to protect itself. Entire towns vanished in a single night.
The Knights weren't chosen because they were the bravest. They were chosen because they could stand perfectly still while everyone else panicked.
There were seven ranks of Knights. Everyone knew them. But only one rank really mattered: The Third Rank.
Before that, a Knight was just a soldier with a better uniform. But after the Third Rank... things changed.
Rank Three was where survival wasn't just about luck anymore. It was where people stopped coming back the same as they were before.
Lucen kicked a pebble into the gutter and watched it vanish into the dark. It was funny how no one ever explained how a person reached that rank. Or what they had to give up to get there.
He turned onto his street. The noise of the city faded. The houses here were small, made of old stone and built very close together, as if the buildings were trying to keep each other warm.
Lucen slowed down as he reached his house. The door was exactly where it always was. He stopped at the entrance. Not because he had to, but because he felt a strange hesitation.
He stared at the wood of the door, the small scratch near the handle, the way the frame was slightly crooked.
'Burn it.'
He thought suddenly. He imagined the mist boiling away. He imagined the trees screaming as they fell. He imagined the white veil tearing open to show the ugly truth hidden beneath it.
'Burn it all. Don't watch it. Don't patrol it. End it.'
His hand tightened into a fist.
'At whatever cost.'
The thought felt heavy and real inside him.
Lucen stepped inside. The door closed softly behind him.
Lucen's home was quiet.
It wasn't the cozy kind of quiet you read about in storybooks — there was no warm fire in the fireplace or happy chatter. It was the kind of quiet that happens when you've been alone so long that even the walls stop expecting you to make a sound.
The door shut with a soft click.
His home was just one room. A narrow bed sat against the far wall. There was a small table with one shaky leg and a shelf holding a few plates, a chipped mug, and one spare shirt. A single window looked out at the street. Its latch was a bit rusty, but it always worked.
To Lucen, things that were reliable mattered more than things that were pretty.
He set his bag down and stretched his shoulders. He could feel the weight of the day in his bones — the school, the whispers, the forest, and the Knights. Always the Knights.
He lit a small oil lamp on the table. The flame flickered, and long shadows stretched across the room. He wasn't afraid of the dark; this room had been his since he was old enough to live by himself.
His aunt had been the one to give it to him. "You'll do better if you learn to take care of yourself early." she had said, pressing the key into his hand.
She hadn't stayed much longer after that. Lucen didn't spend much time thinking about it. He sat on the edge of his bed and let his mind wander back to the Order of the Broken Dawn.
Everyone in Valenor knew how the Knights were organized. It was taught in school just like math or history.
There were seven ranks. Seven steps between being a normal person and being something else entirely.
The First Rank came first. Officially, they were called Knights. In reality? They were just helpers. They handled the supplies, carried messages, and helped the wounded. They ran between guard posts with water and bandages. They spent their time cleaning blood off armor that belonged to someone else. Most of them never even saw the Mistwood.
Lucen once heard a man at a tavern laughing about them. "First Rank? That's not a Knight. That's a walking meat shield." Lucen hadn't found it funny.
The Second Rank was a step up. They were allowed closer to the action, but never at the very front. They stayed back and used bows or throwing weapons to slow down the monsters. They didn't fight face-to-face; they just assisted.
Second Rank Knights survived more often than the First Rank, but they also seemed "broken" more often. Lucen had seen them in the streets after a patrol — their eyes looked hollow, and their hands shook as if they were still terrified. Still, becoming a Second Rank meant you weren't "throwaway" anymore.
The Third Rank. This was where the stories changed. Third Rank Knights weren't just soldiers anymore — they were captains. They led groups of men. They had real power. Their uniforms were better, and their names were actually written down in history books.
Once you hit the Third Rank, your whole life changed. You were given land and a better house. You were treated with respect. You became a noble.
A Third Rank Knight didn't have to bow to anyone. They didn't have to scrape for work or worry about having enough oil for their lamps in the winter.
Lucen tightened his jaw.
'I can do it.'
It wasn't because he wanted to be a hero. It was just practical.
'I can survive it.'
Above the Third Rank, everything became a mystery.
The Fourth Rank were the Army Commanders. There were only five of them in the whole world. One for the East, West, South, and North. And then there was the fifth one — the one no one talked about clearly. People didn't even use their real names. They used titles like The Northern Flame or The Southern Tide. To Lucen, they sounded more like storms or fires than actual human beings. He had never seen one. No one he knew had.
As for the Fifth Rank and above? Normal people knew nothing about them. That information was kept secret by the King and the high lords.
There were rumors, though. People talked about the Emperor's personal guards, the Crownbound. They were men and women who never took off their helmets in public. They stood behind the throne for hours without moving a muscle. People whispered they were Fifth Rank.
Lucen believed the rumors. If the guards were Fifth Rank, what did that make the Emperor?
The thought made him feel a strange spark of excitement. Power like that didn't come from being careful. It came from being absolutely sure of yourself.
Lucen got up and went to his small cooking area. He made a simple meal — bread and some reheated stew. As he ate, he stared at the flame of his lamp.
The forest was still there. The Knights were still patrolling. And every ten years, people still died.
He finished his food and laid back on his bed.
'One day... One day, I'll be high enough in rank to decide things for myself.'
He thought, closing his eyes. The room stayed quiet. There were no strange signs or magic omens. Just the steady breathing of a lonely boy who dreamed of starting a fire.
Lucen fell asleep.