Sisters in the Mist

  “In the hush of drifting fog, hearts speak truths no dawn can hide.”

  Walking the Wounded Path

  As the Vanguard continued, the path along the Scalic Twin Rivers was narrow, winding between towering banks of moss-slicked stone. The persistent mist was thicker here, swirling low over the water like slow-moving ghosts, chilling the air to the bone. Every sound—the crunch of gravel, the sluggish rush of the water—was muffled, creating an atmosphere of deep, suffocating introspection.

  As they moved on, Themis and Shilol naturally led the way. Their voices were low, barely audible above the river’s murmur, as they spoke of Heathcliff—each word heavy with worry and fragmented memory. Themis’s stride was purposeful, but his exhaustion was evident in the slight rigidity of his shoulders.

  He walked away. He saved you, but he still walked away. What kind of darkness holds him now?

  Behind them, Isolde walked in silence, her brow furrowed and jaw tense. Her emotions, usually contained like the steady flow of her Water magic, were dangerously close to the surface. She watched Themis’s silhouette, the gentle way he kept Shilol protected even in conversation, and the ache in her chest intensified.

  Trish noticed the tension in Isolde’s shoulders immediately. She quietly fell into step beside her, matching her pace.

  “Are you alright?” Trish asked softly, woven with the familiar concern of a sister.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” Isolde replied—clipped, too quick. A defensive wall snapping into place.

  Trish nodded, respecting the boundary but letting her concern linger. She knew Isolde well enough now to recognize a lie spoken for pride. “If something’s weighing on your mind, you can tell me. I’m always ready to listen—whatever it is. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Isolde managed only a faint, brittle smile, her gaze fixed on the river’s sluggish, misty current.

  I can’t tell you this. I can’t tell anyone I’m looking at him with this kind of… belonging. He is Kismet and I’m sure of it.

  A few paces back, the other Arcanians and their support followed. Seraphina’s steps slowed almost to a halt. She stared into the suffocating fog, thoughts circling what she’d learned about Heathcliff—his sudden, brutal change, his disappearance from Fort Oratorio. The sheer uncertainty gnawed at her.

  Orion, ever vigilant, noticed her distraction and drew closer, a steady warmth at her side.

  “Is something wrong, Sera?” he asked quietly, using the shortened name only he dared employ.

  “I’m just… worried about Heathcliff,” Seraphina admitted, barely above a whisper. The moment Shade spoke… the air felt thick with his victory. What does he plan to do with him?

  Orion’s response was calm strength. “What matters is that we know he’s alive—and that he chose to save Shilol. Whatever his reasons for leaving, we must respect them for now. Our focus must stay on reaching Melodia.”

  While Orion spoke with Seraphina, Liam wanted to offer his own comfort but checked himself.

  Orion’s got her. He’s better at the calm words than I am.

  Tristan glanced over and caught Trieni’s eye, the shadow of exhaustion in his sharp gaze.

  “All of this happening right now is… a lot to take in—especially the part about Heathcliff,” Trieni said, her usual brightness dimmed.

  Tristan managed a teasing grin—an unbreakable habit. “If I were the one to disappear, would you worry about me, Trieni?”

  Trieni rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You still have the nerve to joke after all that fire and shadow… but yes, I would.”

  Tristan’s chest eased, tension melting. Just hearing that helps more than any potion.

  Lyria, walking at the rear with the High Spirits—Sylphid, Ignis, and Fortis—watched the group with a quiet, approving smile.

  The miasma may be strong, but the bonds are stronger.

  Confession in the Fog

  A sharp “Ouch!” broke the hush, echoing briefly in the damp air.

  Shilol had stumbled, twisting her foot on a jagged stone buried beneath the wet gravel. Themis was at her side instantly, concern overriding his inner turmoil.

  “You’re probably still tired from our last battle, and your side is still healing,” he said gently. “Come—ride on my back for a while. We can’t risk that getting worse.”

  He crouched immediately, offering support without hesitation. Shilol disliked being a burden—but gratitude shone in her eyes as she climbed onto his back, arms looping around his shoulders. Themis carried her forward, steady and sure.

  They watched that easy, unthinking intimacy—

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  the natural closeness of a man supporting the woman he loves—

  and somewhere in the group…

  a heart quietly fractured.

  It was Isolde.

  A single hot tear escaped before she wiped it away, hoping the mist would hide it.

  But Trish noticed.

  A healer always sees the wounds no one speaks of. Without a word, she wrapped Isolde in a firm, sudden hug.

  Isolde stiffened, startled. “W–What are you doing?” she murmured, trying to pull away.

  “I know it hurts, Isolde,” Trish whispered, meant only for her. “I feel it too, a little… because we both like Themis, right?”

  Isolde’s breath caught—sharp and exposed. “No…” she tried to deny, but the truth already trembled in her voice.

  Trish released her, but held her gaze—gentle, unwavering. “You don’t have to deny it. I’ve seen the way you look at him. The care in your eyes. But we both know… Shilol already has a place in his heart. A history we can’t touch.”

  Isolde’s voice cracked. “Then… how can you be so calm about it? Why doesn’t it hurt you, when the person you like… likes someone else?”

  Trish smiled—sad, but warm.

  “Because I care about all of you. Yes, I like Themis. That’s enough for me. I grew up alone, always waiting for someone to come home. Both my parents are healers—that’s why I became a healer too. But now, with you and the others… I finally feel like I belong. You’re like a sister to me, Isolde. I won’t let a boy ruin that bond we have now.”

  Isolde looked into her eyes—not pity, but acceptance. Her burden felt lighter the moment it wasn’t hers alone.

  “Even if I have secrets I can’t share with you?” she asked, hesitant.

  “Then I’ll wait until you’re ready,” Trish said, squeezing her hand. “Sister. I’m not going anywhere.”

  This time, Isolde smiled—small, but real.

  “Then I’ll be your sister. Thank you, Trish.”

  The two walked on, side by side.

  Not just comrades.

  Not just friends.

  Sisters.

  The Mystery of the Unawakened

  The road forked beneath a weathered stone marker, half-buried in moss.

  To the west: jagged black peaks beneath shimmering heat—the Tower of Fire’s domain.

  To the southwest: a gentle valley, golden leaves drifting in the wind.

  Themis slowed, considering both paths—but Liam tapped the signpost first.

  “We take the southwest road. Straight to Melodia. Fastest and safest.”

  The group murmured agreement.

  A warm breeze stirred the mist.

  Fortis padded beside Lyria, the immense lioness spirit—her mane glowing like molten gold.

  “Lyria,” she rumbled, unusually serious, “there’s something I must tell you.”

  Sylphid swooped down, landing gracefully beside her.

  “I’ve been thinking the same,” the eagle spirit said, sharp eyes flicking to Isolde—then to Shilol, still on Themis’s back. “There’s something… unusual about them.”

  Ignis descended in a burst of embers, folding his wings with regal precision.

  “That aura of theirs,” he murmured, voice crackling. “Hidden. Deep. But undeniable.”

  Fortis’s gaze settled on Isolde, then Shilol.

  “I believe I know why,” she said. “There is a trace of an Arcanian Core within them. Dormant. Unawakened.”

  Lyria froze mid-step, stunned. “An Arcanian? That’s impossible. When spirits first appear, they always sense the true Arcanians instantly.”

  Sylphid’s feathers rippled.

  “Maybe it’s not fully awake. A veil hides it. We only sense the echo of a core that isn’t fully theirs—or fully realized.”

  Ignis crackled with heat.

  “Some flames burn so deep, they give no light until they’re called. Some water is so still, it reflects nothing.”

  Cold unease tightened in Lyria’s chest.

  Do they even know who—or what—they are?

  The Stone and the Shadow

  Before Lyria could respond, Seraphina turned—eyes sweeping the spirits gathered together.

  “That’s unusual,” she said, stepping closer. “You three only gather like this when something is truly wrong. What is it?”

  Her breath hitched suddenly.

  The world froze.

  A vision flooded her mind—dark, fluid, monstrous.

  An impossible creature with many heads, shifting in and out of shadow.

  Around it, shards of radiant crystal—fragments of a Sacred Stone—spun like dying stars.

  The monster devoured them, drinking their power like poison.

  The vision shattered.

  Seraphina staggered, gripping her temple.

  Liam caught her.

  “Sera—what happened?”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Maybe I’m just not used to my power of vision yet.”

  Sylphid reacted instantly, wings flaring.

  “You saw it too? The beast?”

  Fortis’s mane bristled.

  “The Stone’s presence… is close. Southwest. Exactly where we're headed.”

  Ignis hissed, heat radiating sharply.

  “If Shade seizes the fragments of the Sacred Stone… the war is already lost.”

  Urgency swept the group. Themis looked over, grim. “What is it?”

  “The Sacred Stone is near,” Fortis declared for all to hear. “A fragment is close. And something monstrous holds it.”

  Tristan’s hand shot to his sword.

  “Then let’s move. We run!”

  They bolted—boots pounding earth, wind ripping past, the world blurring into urgency and dread. Themis tightened his hold on Shilol, adrenaline drowning his exhaustion.

  Then—

  A shadow fell across the road ahead.

  Vast. Shapeless.

  The sunlight vanished.

  The group skidded to a halt, weapons drawn.

  From the darkness, something stirred.

  Not a beast.

  A figure.

  Alone.

  Cloaked in Shadow.

  Waiting.