Chapter V Part I

Out past the city gates, my speeder waits, tucked beneath the shade of an old cedar. Adam circles it like it might bite him. Well… to be fair, for him it probably does look like something out of another world.

“What is that?” he asks, eyes wide as he leans close enough to study the power core hum. He raps his knuckles on the metal frame and flinches when it answers with a soft whine.

“You’ve never seen an enchanted carriage before?” I tease, flashing him a grin. Papa always called them that when explaining to the locals — easier than saying ‘speeder bike from another galaxy.’

Adam snorts but there’s a hitch in his voice. “No. I mean — no. Does it even… seat two?”

“Of course,” I say, my tail swishing smugly as I swing my leg over and settle into the driver’s seat. “Come on, swindler — there’s room behind me.”

He hesitates. Just for a heartbeat — then he steps up and swings a leg over, his boots scraping the footplate. I feel the brush of his gloved fingers as he tries to find something — anything — to hold onto. My ears twitch. My eyes widen when his hands slide low, circling my waist.

“Hey — hands at my hips,” I snap, my tail flicking to slap his arm for emphasis. “Go higher than that and I’ll toss you off at full speed.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” he mutters into my shoulder. His voice drops a bit, like he’s trying to play it off, but I can feel his heartbeat pick up through his grip. “It’s my first time on this, uh… enchanted carriage.”

His warmth sears through my tunic, and I swallow hard. Focus, Nikko.

I flick a switch on the console, the engines whirring to life with that familiar low hum. “Hold on tight,” I say, smirking. “And don’t scream — Talia screamed the first time.”

I gun it.

We launch forward, the speeder humming as it zips down the dirt path, the world blurring into streaks of gold and green. The autumn wind tears through my braid. I feel Adam’s grip tighten at my hips, his chest pressed to my back. His heartbeat thunders faster than the engines — but to his credit, he doesn’t shriek. Not once.

Not bad for a first timer, I think, my grin hidden by the wind.

By the time the holographic map flickers off in Zeke’s projection, we’re coasting to a stop at the edge of Willton. The little village is half-swallowed by the looming pines of the Hornfang — every rooftop damp with morning mist, every fence crooked like it’s bracing for what’s coming.

I park the speeder near a tree line and start dragging low branches and brush over it. Adam leans against the nearest trunk, trying to catch his breath, his grin splitting his face wide.

“You good?” I ask, packing leaves against the power cells.

He drags a hand through his hair, still panting. “Never knew speeds like that were even possible.” His chest heaves once more. Then he laughs, breathless. “That was awesome.”

I let myself grin back. Just a little. “First time’s always the wildest.”

He watches me work as I kick extra brush over the stabilizers. “So… hiding your enchanted carriage now?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Don’t want it stolen.” I shrug. Not exactly a lie — more like a half-truth that sits better on my tongue.

The village square is empty save for the echo of a cracked well and the creak of shutters slapping in the breeze. We find the elder’s house — the paint peeling, the door hanging on one hinge. But it’s not the elder waiting for us inside; it’s his son, Paulson. Barely seventeen. Dark rings under his eyes like bruises.

He wrings his hands as he explains, his voice trembling. “Three weeks ago… the fog came in from the Hornfang. Thick. So thick you couldn’t see your own fence by dusk. People… they started sleepwalking. Wandering out there. One girl said she saw her uncle just… walk off the road like he heard something.”

His words crack. He rubs his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “The elder went to check two nights ago. That was my father. He never came back.”

Adam shifts beside me, arms crossed, but his gaze softens just a fraction.

“They sent people to find him,” Paulson says. “No one returned. Then the adventurers came — the first party. Then two more. Nothing.” His eyes lift, wet and hopeless. “We’re next. I know it. If you’re really going in there… please. Bring them home. Dead or alive.”

His voice breaks on that last word. I place my hand on his shoulder. His bones feel small under my palm — brittle.

“I promise,” I say, my voice steady, even as something cold twists low in my gut. “We’ll find them.”

I feel Adam watching me — that look again, the flicker of something that’s not quite the rogue grin, not quite the scoundrel mask.

I square my shoulders. They don’t believe in us? I’ll show them. We can do this. I can do this.

The forest line creeps up on us like a waiting mouth — low, gnarled pines twisted into shapes that don’t quite look natural in the thickening dusk. From a mile out, I can already see it: a bank of fog so dense it swallows the trees whole. The pale white drifts seep between the trunks, rolling low over the damp ground until it curls around our boots like cold fingers.

Adam whistles low beside me. “Doesn’t look welcoming, does it?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy wrestling down the chill skittering up my spine. It’s just a fog. Not the Shadowfell’s plague. But the way the mist clings to the bark — the way the underbrush seems silent, too silent — feels too close to stories I wish I could forget.

I flick my wrist, calling up the map on my gauntlet. A bright-blue grid flickers to life, hovering between us. The holographic forest floats above my palm — every crooked path, every clearing, every dark stretch of trees mapped by the planetary probe Papa launched years ago. From above, it almost looks normal. Almost.

Adam’s eyes widen. He leans in so close I feel the warmth of his breath in the cold air. “Ho—how is this possible?” He tilts his head back, half-expecting to see the probe blinking down at us through the swirling fog. “That’s the entire forest.”

I keep my voice even, casual — even if the lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “A lacrima’s floating up there, feeding everything straight to my magic gauntlet.” I snap the map to full resolution with a flick of my fingers. Papa lied when he had to. To protect us. If he could do it, so can I.

A lacrima crystal, I tell myself, isn’t that unbelievable of an excuse. A dwarven invention— glittering stones able to capture recordings, snapshots, even live images. When the dwarves first shared them with the world, everyone clamored for them — mages, nobles, merchants wanting moving maps and magical portraits. Now they’re everywhere, embedded into street lamps, security vaults, even festival lanterns.

So telling Adam I’m using one instead of Papa’s old planetary probe? Makes sense. And it keeps the truth hidden. Just another little lie, like Papa used to do — to keep the deeper truth buried where no one could find it.

Adam whistles again, low and appreciative. “Never thought to use lacrimas like that. You’re pretty clever.” There’s no teasing edge in his voice this time — just open admiration that leaves a prickly warmth blooming in my chest. I hate that I like it.

“Thanks,” I mutter, though the word feels sour. Not my cleverness — Papa’s.

I shift the projection, toggling the overlay to thermal. The hologram flickers; the trees drain into pale blues and blacks while a few pinpricks of red flare in the dark. Adam leans in, eyes wide.

“Whoa. What did you just do?”

“Thermal overlay,” I say, my tone slipping into lecture mode — it steadies my hands. “Everything alive gives off heat — even small animals. The forest might look empty to our eyes, but thermal doesn’t lie.”

Except… it does look empty. The trees pulse cold and dead — no flits of squirrels, no clusters of birds in the canopy, not even a rabbit trail or the faint heat signature of nesting owls. Nothing. It’s like the life has been leeched away, just like back then.

My throat tightens around the memory — Papa’s cloak around my shoulders, Talia’s voice whispering comfort, the crows cawing overhead, black eyes tracking every move while we fled through forests that should have been alive. This isn’t the Shadowfell, I remind myself. It’s dead.

I zoom the map in until the image drifts to the forest’s heart. There — in the middle of that dead void — a single bright spot flares. A heat signature. Angular. Stone walls and windows — a manor, right where there shouldn’t be one.

Adam whistles low for the third time. “I bet you all my winnings that’s where the villagers are. And the parties, too.”

I nod, forcing my tail to stay calm. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

But my mind screams: Why is there no other heat? Why just the manor? No patrols, no wildlife, not even scavengers. It’s wrong.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. But I need to keep it steady — for him, if not for me.

Stolen story; please report.

Adam’s grin flickers back into place, cocky as ever as he draws his bow and nocks an arrow to the string. “After you, Miss Gold Rank.”

His words are teasing — but there’s a softness behind the smirk. I feel it. I square my shoulders, pulling my scarf higher against the chill seeping in.

No fear. He can’t see you scared. You’re not that kid in the woods anymore.

I kill the map projection, the last flickers of light dying in my gauntlet’s crystal. Zeke hums low at my shoulder, optics flicking from Adam to the fog — and then forward, into that dead, waiting forest.

I step first.

The fog swallows us whole the moment we step under the twisted canopy. It’s thick as wool and clings to my fur, damp and heavy with a sharp, sour tang — like rotting leaves and something older, fouler, coiled deep in the roots.

Every branch that cracks under my boot feels like a bone snapping. Every brush of wind against the leaves makes my ears flick, heart skipping in my chest. This was a mistake, I think. Should’ve listened to Zeke. Should’ve stuck with Gold.

Zeke hovers ahead, his metal shell slicing through the gloom, the little beam from his optic casting a pale cone of light. But the fog eats it up like it’s nothing. Shapes swim at the edges — crooked branches, stunted bushes, trunks leaning at wrong angles.

Beside me, Adam keeps pace, bow in hand, arrow nocked tight to the string. His footfalls are quiet, too quiet. I can feel the tension rolling off him in the faint pulse of his heartbeat — faster than normal, but steady. He’s hiding it well. Better than me.

I rest my palm on my blaster, the grip cold even through my gloves. My fingers itch to pull it free. Brave. I’m supposed to be the brave one.

Zeke stops so abruptly I almost walk into him. He floats there, lenses flickering, whirring soft in the damp air.

“Stop,” he beeps, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the hush.

I freeze. Adam bumps my shoulder, tense as a bowstring. “What is it?” I whisper.

He leans forward, eyes darting into the swirling white. “What’s wrong? I don’t see anything.” His voice tries to stay light, but it cracks on the last word.

Zeke turns a fraction, his voice a mechanical hush. “I’m picking up faint life signs.”

I translate without tearing my eyes off the shadows. “Zeke’s getting faint life signs. Ahead.”

Adam glances at me, then at Zeke, then back at me. “You can understand your golem?” he whispers, his breath ghosting in the fog.

“Yes,” I hiss, more harshly than I mean to. The damp cold bites at my ears. “What do you see?” I murmur to Zeke, pulse thrumming under my tongue.

“They’re multiplying,” Zeke beeps. His lens flickers as if straining to focus on things the fog won’t give up. “Moving closer. They are large. Heavy.”

I draw my short sword with a soft scrape of metal — the blade gleams, catching what little light Zeke casts. The weight grounds me, but my palms are slick. “Enemies incoming,” I breathe, just loud enough for Adam’s ears.

He shifts closer, eyes scanning the fog that presses tight around us. “How many?” His voice is steady, but I hear the tremor behind it — the same one clawing at my ribs.

“Lots.”

Zeke flickers to my side, a soft whir in the cold. His lens glows, then a pale cone of light spills out, shaping into the holographic map above my wrist gauntlet. It hovers between me and Adam — a ghostly forest in shades of deep blue and sickly gray. The manor’s still there at the center, that single warm flare — so close, yet it feels like it’s on another world.

We’re two bright orange dots in a sea of frost — so small, almost fragile. But what makes my throat clench is what comes next: faint white specks, dozens, then hundreds, bleeding through the edges of the map. Crawling through the blue like ants. Closing in.

“We’re surrounded!” I shout, my voice slicing the hush to ribbons.

Adam snaps his gaze to the projection, then to me — his face half-shadowed by the fog. “What happened to picking something that won’t get us killed?” he snarls, his voice a hiss of real panic.

“Not now!” I bark back. My ears flatten to my skull. My pulse is drumming so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. My tail lashes behind me, scattering dead leaves.

Somewhere ahead — a sharp twig snaps like a bone splintering. Adam’s bow creaks. He loses an arrow into the thick white. A heartbeat later, there’s a squeal — high, inhuman, and wet — then silence.

He hits again — but the snapping multiplies. All around. Behind. Above. The fog is alive with rustles and the grind of something dragging across damp earth.

I yank my blaster free, thumb flicking the power switch. The power cell hums warm under my palm. Red bolts cut through the gray like tiny comets, crackling as they slam into shapes I can’t quite see. One bolt grazes a tree — bark explodes in splinters. I can’t stop shaking.

What would Papa do?

Adam plants his feet, another arrow nocked tight to the string. He fires again. Another squeal, then a dull thud. He doesn’t miss — every shaft sinks into something solid, and the map flickers white dots blinking out one by one. But more replace them. Twice as many. Then more.

Zeke hovers near my shoulder, his optics jittering. He chirps out a series of short, sharp beeps — then fires a volley of red bolts from his tiny undercarriage cannon. The recoil rocks him like a leaf in the wind, but each shot wipes another dot from the map.

It doesn’t matter. The dots multiply like roaches in the dark. Crawling closer. Every direction. Cut off.

Something cuts through the fog — not a squeal this time. A hiss. Then a green bolt tears through the mist. It burns the air, close enough that I feel the heat against my ear as it passes.

“Blaster fire!” I shout, just as another bolt slices past. I duck, fingers scraping the wet dirt. A third bolt slams into the tree behind me, cracking the trunk.

Adam spins toward me — wide-eyed — just in time to see the fourth bolt streaking right for his ribs. I tackle him, shoulder slamming into his side. We hit the ground hard. The green blast whizzes overhead, strikes a tree with a crack, and the bark bursts open in a hiss of smoke.

“You okay?” I rasp, rolling off him. My ribs ache from the landing.

Adam coughs, shaking the dust from his hair, his grin half-wild. “Yeah—just knocked the wind out of me.” He drags himself up to a crouch, arrow already nocked again.

Through the fog, shapes begin to form—massive, dark figures moving with a deliberate, predatory gait. Each one towers over us, broad-shouldered and thickly built, their heavy boots crunching against the forest floor. The dim light glints off their rough, piecemeal armor—a dull, weathered bronze-brown, dented and scarred as if pulled from a dozen battlefields. Leather straps and metal plates hang across their hulking frames, worn but functional, giving them a brutal, utilitarian look.

Their faces are mostly hidden beneath heavy, ridged helmets, only a pair of faintly glowing red eyes visible beneath the shadowed visors. What little skin shows is a dark, weathered tone, stretched over corded muscle. They look less like mindless beasts and more like relentless hunters bred for war, every motion precise, every step purposeful.

But it’s their right arms that make my breath catch.

Instead of forearms, each carries a grafted blaster cannon—metal barrels fused seamlessly into their flesh, cables running along their shoulders and connecting to bulky power cell packs strapped to their backs. A low hum builds as the weapons charge, vents along the barrels releasing faint wisps of steam. The air smells faintly of ozone and scorched metal.

They advance without a word, mechanical components whirring softly in the mist, the glow of their weapons casting an eerie red sheen on the fog. My stomach knots tight as a thought slams into my mind.

Blasters?

Why do these creatures have blasters? Papa and I have never seen—never even heard of—creatures like this before. The way they grunt, the brutish build of their bodies, their heavy, lumbering gait—they look like orcs, yet… altered. Twisted. Enhanced.

But it’s the weapons that make my skin crawl. Blasters shouldn’t exist here, not on Elasier, not wielded by things like this. Yet I can feel the power radiating from the packs on their backs—not fuel, not magic in the usual sense, but something sharper, more volatile. Mana crystals.

Papa was the one who perfected transmuted blasters using mana as a power source. Only he should have that knowledge. Which means whoever—or whatever—created these things knows his work. Knows it well enough to twist it into this nightmare.

One steps forward, the fog curling around its knees. Its lipless mouth peels back in something that’s not a smile — more like a wound opening. The cannon-arm tilts, the hum rising.

Panic hits me so hard my legs lock. I dragged us straight into this. The white dots on Zeke’s map are gone — replaced by these living horrors standing right in front of us. More shadows loom behind them, eyes blinking open one by one.

“I’m sorry, Papa…” The words taste like iron in my mouth.

The creature’s cannon fires — but instead of a green bolt a blue ring of energy slams out of the cannon. It cracks like a whip of lightning. Everything goes cold. The fog twists, the world swirls — and then darkness swallows me whole.

I come to slowly — drifting up through a haze of throbbing pain and cold sweat. My shoulders ache first, sharp and deep like someone’s hammered nails through the joints. I try to move — only to feel the weight of chains biting into my wrists. My boots scrape the air. Suspended.

Somewhere near me: a low groan. A muffled curse.

I blink against the harsh, alien glow overhead and twist my head. Adam’s there — strung up too, chained at the wrists. He’s waking slowly, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He meets my eyes and tries for a grin, but it falters into a wince.

I squeeze my eyes shut, reaching for the Force — Push the chains apart. Bend the locks. Break them like Papa taught you. But the connection flickers, stutters. The steel only rattles, taunting me. My tail twitches uselessly behind me.

I force my eyes open again — take in the room.

It looks like a science lab. Old stone walls reinforced with plates of steel, cables snaking along the seams like veins. The lights overhead are cold and sharp — not flame or dwarven glow-crystals, but harsh artificial beams like Papa’s workshop back home. Tech like this shouldn’t exist here — not in Elasier, not outside the manor.

And the things inside…

Against the far wall stand two of those monsters — hulking brutes, half-orc, half-machine. Their right arms end in blaster cannons, heavy barrels humming faintly as they stand guard by a massive metal door. Their eyes blink slow and red, unblinking.

I swallow bile and force my gaze to the side wall — a row of towering glass vats bubbling with pale green fluid. Suspended in that swirl of liquid are bodies — people twisted into shapes that don’t belong: a dwarf with a hunched spine and claws for fingers, an elf’s eyes fused shut over a mouth frozen mid-scream, a beastfolk whose fur floats like shredded moss. My stomach lurches.

The villagers. The missing adventurers. Gods, what did he do to them?

A voice drags my eyes back. A male dwarf in filthy white robes, hair wild as straw, beardless, stands with his back to us. He paces in front of a hovering projection — no, not a true hologram, a crude lacrima crystal display. It flickers around the edges, barely holding shape. In it: a figure like black smoke, shifting and flickering, its form struggling to stay solid.

The voice that seeps through the static is low and warped, as if it’s funneled through a broken voice modulator. “Then you have been compromised, Doctor Veil. Destroy all the evidence — the experiments, the vats — everything.”

The name makes my stomach twist. Doctor Veil.

Veil wrings his hands, gnawing on a ragged thumbnail. “But my lord, we’ve made so much progress! Batch forty-three is finally stable, the mutations are—”

“Enough.” The shadow’s voice deepens, a bass rumble that buzzes in my skull. “You have provided enough for us to continue where you failed. The loss is minimal. Do as I command.”

Veil’s protest chokes into a squeak. “At once, my lord. And the prisoners?”

A pause — then the shadow’s voice, cold as deep space: “What prisoners?”

The image flickers out. Silence. Veil’s shoulders shake. He turns — and his gaze spears into me. A wild glint. He stalks closer, each step echoing off the steel floor.