"Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to man. For this, he was chained to a rock and tortured for eternity. In the fognds, fire is born of agony, and its bearers are chained to their own suffering."
The night clung to the forest like a damp shroud, smothering even the smallest ember of warmth. The campfire, a meager orange eye in the oppressive darkness, sputtered and popped against the Category III fog. This wasn't a natural mist; it was a thick, swirling miasma that snaked between the ancient trees, a tangible presence that swallowed the stars and muffled the hunters’ voices to hushed whispers. The firelight, struggling against the fog’s suffocating embrace, cast grotesque, elongated shadows that danced and writhed on the forest floor, mimicking the unseen things that lurked just beyond the light’s reach.
In the small clearing’s center, Anrith knelt beside a wounded hunter. Her long, silver-blonde hair, usually bound tightly for practicality, had come loose in the struggle, strands clinging to her damp tunic. Her hands, delicate and pale, glowed with a soft, golden light—the resonance of elven healing. Her face, with its high cheekbones and knife-ears, was serene, almost otherworldly in the firelight, but the subtle tremor in her slender fingers betrayed the immense strain the healing demanded. The human hunter beneath her gritted his teeth, his breathing shallow and ragged, as Anrith’s energy flowed through his torn flesh.
“Stop wasting your energy on me,” he hissed, his voice strained with pain. “I’ll manage.”
Anrith’s yellow eyes, usually bright and expressive, remained fixed on the wound. She pressed her glowing palm more firmly against his side, her voice quiet but ced with elven authority. “You’ll manage because I’ll make sure of it. Cease your compints, or I’ll find a way to make this sting more than it already does.”
The golden light in her hands fred, then pulsed rhythmically. A vivid vision ripped through Anrith’s mind: a sudden ambush in the suffocating fog, the echoing screams of dying men, and then, a close-up, terrifying glimpse of a creature’s gaping maw, lined with rows of needle-sharp teeth that dripped with viscous saliva. She flinched, a fleeting flicker of pain tightening her delicate features, before she drew her hand away. The wound was sealed, leaving only a faint, pale scar on the hunter’s sweat-slicked skin.
A small knot of human hunters huddled nervously near the edge of the clearing, their eyes constantly darting into the swirling fog.
“Where the hell is Faust?” one muttered, his voice barely audible above the crackling fire and the incessant drip of moisture from the fog-den branches. “He should’ve been back hours ago.”
“He probably ran into something nasty out there,” another replied grimly, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. “If we’re lucky, he’s on his way back. If not…” He trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the damp air.
A third hunter, his face etched with weariness, methodically sharpened his broadsword against a whetstone, the rhythmic grinding a counterpoint to the unsettling silence of the forest. He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Lucky? You think we’re going to stumble across a Ferren in this fog and have a chance in hell? No one gets lucky in this godsforsaken mess.” He paused, his gaze drifting towards the fire, his eyes losing focus as if peering into the fmes themselves, lost in memory. The grinding of the whetstone slowed, then stopped altogether. He cleared his throat, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble.
“They speak of… the Pyrewraith.” He paused, letting the name hang in the air, the crackling of the fire the only sound. “Some say she’s a spirit of vengeance, born from the ashes of a great tragedy. Others whisper she’s a demon in human skin, a creature of pure fire given flesh. They say she walks where the fog is thickest, marked by the fmes that dance around her, yet never consume her. Wherever she treads, fire follows—a trail of scorched earth and whispered warnings. Some say she’s a protector, a guardian against the things that lurk in the fog. Others say she’s a harbinger of destruction, her presence a sign of worse things to come.” He shrugged, a slow, deliberate movement that seemed to carry the weight of countless years. “Just a story, of course. Tales to keep the chill at bay. But… when the fog closes in like this…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to the fire, a flicker of unease in his eyes. “…it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Their ughter, hollow and forced, died almost as quickly as it began. The forest remained unnervingly silent, the fog oppressively thick, and the feeling of unseen eyes watching them from the impenetrable darkness was palpable, a chilling weight on the back of their necks.
---
The snap of a twig, followed by the rustling of undergrowth, jolted the hunters to full alert. Bdes hissed from sheaths, catching the firelight as they whirled to face the disturbance. A moment ter, a figure emerged from the fog-den trees, tall and lean, shrouded in a tattered cloak that clung to him like the shadow of a forgotten specter. In one hand, he clutched a thick, leather-bound book, its brass csps gleaming dully in the firelight.
Faust.
His face, usually a mask of detached amusement, was set in a grim line. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his movements held a coiled tension that hadn’t been present before. He held the book, the Cvicu Salomonis, almost protectively, its presence a stark contrast to the rough practicality of his attire. The hunters lowered their weapons, a collective sigh of relief rippling through the small group.
“You’re te,” grunted the first hunter, his voice rough. “We were starting to think you’d become fog-chow.”
Before Faust could respond, a hunter stepped forward, his eyes narrowed and his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. The recent unease from their earlier conversation about the Pyrewraith now morphed into suspicion. "Faust," he said, his voice low and cautious, "what's the second line of the incantation to ward off lesser Nebelung?"
Faust blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he smoothly recited the correct line, the words resonating with a low, guttural power.
A collective sigh of relief went through the group. It seemed it was indeed Faust.
Faust stepped fully into the firelight, the Cvicu Salomonis swinging slightly at his side, its worn cover whispering against his cloak. As he moved, he revealed the source of a faint orange glow that emanated from behind him. The hunters’ relief evaporated, repced by a palpable unease as Icarus stepped into view.
The immediate sensation was heat. The air shimmered around her, distorting the firelight, and the damp earth beneath her boots visibly steamed, as if scorched by an unseen fme. Her eyes, a startling shade of emerald green, gleamed in the firelight, sharp and predatory, her expression a gcial mask. A ripple of instinctive fear went through the group; several hunters took a hasty step back. Whispers erupted, hushed and urgent.
“That’s her,” one hunter breathed, his voice hoarse. “the Pyrewraith.”
Another, younger and visibly shaken, stammered, “But… she’s just a story, isn’t she?”
Faust let out a long, weary sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. He gnced down at the Cvicu Salomonis, then back at the hunters. “Yes, yes, she’s terrifying,” he said, his voice ced with dry exasperation. “We’ve established that. And for the record,” he added, tapping the cover of the grimoire, “this little beauty says we’re precisely where we need to be. So, unless you’d prefer to discuss her legendary exploits with something that has more teeth than brains, I suggest we move on.”
---
Their uneasy truce shattered with the shriek. It was a sound that scraped at the bone, like rusted metal dragged across stone, announcing the arrival of the lesser Nebelung. From the swirling fog, misshapen, predatory shapes—foghounds—exploded into the clearing. They moved with unsettling speed, their cwed limbs blurring as they shed out, too fast for most of the hunters to react. Chaos erupted.
A foghound lunged for a young hunter, its jaws snapping, tearing a gash in the man’s arm. Before the hunter could even cry out, Anrith was there. Her hands, already glowing with a soft, golden light, touched the wound. The light intensified, flowing into the torn flesh, knitting muscle and skin back together in a heartbeat. The hunter gasped, more from surprise than pain, as the wound vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer on his skin.
The other hunters scrambled to form a ragged defensive line, but the foghounds were relentless, darting in and out of the fog like wraiths, their shadowy forms flickering, making them difficult to track. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and fear began to grip them tighter than any bde.
Then came the fire.
Icarus moved with a fluid grace that belied the raw power she commanded. She took a single step forward, and with a deafening crack that echoed through the trees, her fmes erupted. It wasn’t a controlled burn; it was an explosion of raw heat and light, a wall of fire that surged outward, pushing back the fog and driving the foghounds back with high-pitched, agonizing shrieks. The hunters instinctively shielded their faces from the intense heat, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe, barely able to comprehend the dispy of power before them.
“She’s… going to burn us all,” one hunter stammered, his voice choked with fear.
Faust, however, seemed utterly unfazed by the inferno. He simply barked an order, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Better her fmes than their cws. Move! Form a tighter circle!”
The attack was over almost as quickly as it began. The clearing reeked of burnt fur and flesh, the charred remains of the foghounds littering the ground. The hunters, their faces flushed from the heat and pale from the fear, stared at Icarus with wide eyes, a mix of fear and awe warring within them. Whispers broke out once more, hushed and reverent.
Icarus, the fmes now receding, leaving only embers glowing on the scorched earth, stood silently at the edge of the camp, her face as cold and unreadable as ever.
---
As the group pressed deeper into the fog, Cyrus, a young hunter with wide, anxious eyes, found himself drifting toward the rear, his footsteps falling into an uneasy rhythm beside Icarus. He kept his distance, a respectful few paces, but his gaze flickered toward her every few moments, a mixture of awe and trepidation warring within him. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy as the fog itself.
Finally, he gathered his courage, his voice barely a whisper. “Hey. You’re… Icarus, right?”
She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on some unseen point in the swirling mist. When she finally turned her head, her green eyes met his, sharp and unyielding as polished emeralds. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice ft, devoid of any warmth.
Cyrus shifted uncomfortably, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. “Nothing, really. Just… wanted to say thanks. For earlier. You saved us back there.”
Icarus offered no acknowledgment, her gaze flicking back to the fog-shrouded path ahead. Cyrus hesitated, then, driven by a mixture of curiosity and a desperate need to break the oppressive silence, continued walking beside her.
“You’re not… what I expected,” he stammered, his voice trailing off. “The stories… they make you sound like this unstoppable force of nature, like some… avenging angel. But…”
He trailed off, the unspoken “but” hanging in the damp air between them. Icarus’s footsteps slowed almost imperceptibly. Her expression remained impassive, but for a fleeting instant, something flickered in her eyes—a hint of weariness, perhaps, or a flicker of something darker, quickly masked.
“They’re just stories,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible above the soft squelch of their boots on the damp earth.
“About Faust… earlier, when he came back,” Icarus asked, her voice barely a whisper, a genuine curiosity cing her tone. "Rhys asked him that strange question, about the incantation. Why?"
Cyrus’s eyes darted nervously around, as if afraid of being overheard. He lowered his voice even further. “There’ve been…doppelgangers,” he expined, his voice hushed. “Perfect copies. They can look like anyone, sound like anyone, even… remember things they shouldn’t. Rhys was making sure it was really him. We have to be certain.”
Icarus’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. She looked at Cyrus, a hint of something akin to surprise in her eyes. "So anyone…" she began, then trailed off, the implication clear.
Cyrus nodded grimly. The unspoken thought hung heavy in the air: anyone could be an imposter.
Before they could continue, the group halted abruptly, their attention drawn to the sudden, eerie stillness of the marsh that y before them. The fog seemed to thicken here, pressing in on them like a physical weight.
The ground underfoot became soft and yielding, the squelch of their boots echoing unnervingly in the oppressive silence. Pools of still water, dark and gssy, y scattered across the marsh, their mirrored surfaces reflecting the oppressive gray above—a sky that was no sky at all, just an endless, suffocating bnket of fog.
A chilling ripple disturbed the surface of one of the pools, spreading outwards like a silent shockwave. The fog around them seemed to deepen further, the gray deepening into an almost impenetrable bck, as if the marsh itself was exhaling darkness.
Anrith’s voice, barely a breath, broke the oppressive silence. “This fog… it’s unnatural.” A chill, deeper than the damp air warranted, settled over the group.
Faust halted abruptly, his hand instinctively going to the Cvicu Salomonis beneath his cloak. His usual sardonic mask vanished, repced by a chillingly serious expression. His voice, when he spoke, was low and edged with ice. “We’re not alone. This is Ferren territory.”
A wave of unease rippled through the hunters. The grip on their weapons tightened, knuckles whitening. Cyrus nervously adjusted his grip on his sword, gncing at the dark pools. He’d only joined the hunt a few months ago, eager to prove himself. He’d told one of the older hunters, Gareth, he hoped they’d find something truly monstrous, something to tell stories about back in the vilge. Gareth had just chuckled and cpped him on the shoulder, saying, "Be careful what you wish for, d. Some stories are best left untold."
Now, Cyrus's eyes widened with apprehension, gncing nervously at the dark, still pools scattered across the marsh. “Do you see that?” he stammered, his voice trembling. “The reflections… they’re not right.”
They weren't. In the gssy surfaces of the pools, the hunters’ reflections shimmered, but they didn't simply mirror their movements. They gged behind, as if struggling to catch up, or sometimes moved independently, mimicking actions the hunters hadn't performed. One hunter saw his reflection raise a hand to its throat, even though his own arms were at his sides. Another saw his reflection turn its head to stare directly at him, its eyes wide and pleading, while he was looking away. The reflections flickered and distorted, sometimes vanishing altogether for a moment before reappearing in a slightly different position. The sight sent a shiver of pure dread down their spines. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on them with suffocating weight.
The marsh dissolved into chaos. A guttural roar tore through the fog, and Icarus’s head snapped towards the sound. She saw Cyrus stumble back, his eyes wide with terror, as a hulking shape emerged from the fog behind him. It was a creature of nightmare: a Nebelung found in typically high-category fog, simply known as The Thing. Its form was vaguely humanoid but twisted and distorted, with long, cwed limbs and a head too rge for its body. Its skin was as bck and slick as oil. It seized Cyrus by the shoulders, lifting him effortlessly into the air before smming him down into the ashen earth with sickening force. Icarus’s breath hitched in her throat. The image of Cyrus’s broken body, half-buried in the ash, his vacant eyes staring up at the fog, burned itself into her mind. A cold fury began to simmer within her, slowly eclipsing the initial shock. The Thing phased into away after a glimpse into Icarus's eyes, with something resembling fear in it's movements. Perhaps it was afraid of fmes, or the sheer bloodlust Icarus was radiating.
From the rgest pool, a human figure rose. It was a man with grey eyes, his face etched with the lines of hardship and marked by a deep weariness, yet still holding a trace of the kindness she remembered. A thin trickle of blood, dark and viscous, ran from the corner of his mouth, staining his already pale skin. The hand gripping his sword trembled slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, holding the same quiet accusation it had held in his final moments.
“So many faces…” he murmured, his voice soft, almost caressing, yet carrying across the still marsh with unnerving crity. “…so many fws to reflect.” His words hung in the air, heavy with menace.
Because as the human figure emerged, the pool at his feet churned once more, and from its depths, their reflections emerged, no longer mere images but tangible, monstrous forms. Each hunter now faced their own personal nightmare, a twisted, grinning double born from the depths of the marsh and their own deepest fears. The marsh dissolved into chaos, cries of terror and the cng of steel echoing through the fog. Among them, Icarus saw her own reflection, a perfect copy of herself, drawing a bde.
Icarus, however, seemed almost oblivious to the chaos around her at first. Her gaze was locked on the human figure, her breath catching in her throat. The fmes that usually danced so readily around her faltered, dimming to mere embers as a wave of icy shock washed over her. She stood frozen, her lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp.
“Leonidas…?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Before the human figure could speak again or move, Icarus, with a swift motion, drew a spare sword from her belt and cut her own doppelganger down. The copy dissolved into shimmering fragments that dissipated into the fog. Then, she turned her attention back to the figure from the pool.
“Icarus…” the figure whispered, his voice a spectral echo, barely audible above the din of the battle. “You let me die.”
A slow, almost appreciative smile spread across a doll-like face now revealed where the illusion had stood. The voice, soft, almost caressing, yet carrying across the still marsh with unnerving crity, spoke. “Ah. So _that’s_ why he was so insistent on the details. A debt to be repaid, it seems.” The figure tilted its head slightly, its eyes fixed on Icarus. “You must be the reason Master took such… care… with my disguise.”Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp, painful intake of air.
With a deafening _whoosh_, her fmes erupted, no longer flickering embers but a roaring inferno that exploded outward, pushing back the encroaching fog in a searing wave of heat. The sheer intensity of the fire illuminated the marsh for a fleeting moment, revealing the twisted ndscape in stark detail. The illusion of Leonidas shattered, revealing Narcissus’s true Ferren form: a slender, serpentine figure with unnaturally long limbs and a doll-like face, now contorted in a mask of terror. His reflective, mirror-like surface began to buckle and distort under the intense heat. Cracks spiderwebbed across his skin like fractured ice, and molten rivulets of his reflective substance dripped from his melting limbs, sizzling as they hit the marshy ground.
Narcissus thrashed against the inferno, his unnaturally long limbs scraping against the scorched earth, leaving trails of ash and molten gss in his wake. His smooth, melodic voice cracked with a frantic edge. “No—no! Stop! Please!” he shrieked. “You don’t have to do this! I can offer you power! Strength beyond measure! Riches! Anything! Just…make it stop!” His body writhed against the relentless fmes, his form contorting into grotesque shapes as he tried to crawl away, but the fire held him captive.
A flicker of pure, unadulterated _rage_ ignited in Icarus’s emerald eyes. It wasn't hatred, nor was it grief. It was a raw, visceral fury at the mockery of her loss, the viotion of a memory she held dear. Her fmes responded in kind, burning hotter, brighter, the heat intensifying to an almost unbearable degree.
Realization dawned on Narcissus, the understanding that no mercy would be forthcoming. His begging abruptly ceased, repced by a torrent of spiteful rage. “You BITCH!” he screamed, his voice now shrill and broken, a mixture of fury and excruciating pain. “You think you’re stronger than me? Than _him_? You’re nothing! Just a spark destined to be extinguished!” His screams rose in pitch as the fmes engulfed his chest, the searing heat warping his once-perfect features into a grotesque mask of agony. “Mephistopheles will snuff you out! He’ll make you burn like the rest of us! You’ll see! You’ll SEE!”
At the mention of Mephistopheles, a chillingly cold smile touched Icarus’s lips, a stark contrast to the inferno raging around her. She took a deliberate step closer to Narcissus, the fmes around her hands swirling and dancing like sentient beings, burning with an unwavering intensity.
She leaned down slightly, her voice cutting through his screams like shards of ice. “Mephistopheles?” she repeated, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. She paused, letting the name hang in the air for a heartbeat, the silence amplifying the crackling of the fmes. Then, with a voice as sharp and unforgiving as the edge of a bde, she delivered her final pronouncement. “You can tell him I’ll be along shortly.”
As the words left her lips, the fmes surrounding Narcissus intensified, consuming him entirely. His screams devolved into inhuman wails, a symphony of agony that echoed across the desote marsh. His reflective body warped and liquefied, his features melting into an unrecognizable, grotesque mass. His once-arrogant voice cracked and broke, fading into broken, incoherent gasps. One twisted, molten hand reached out blindly, a final, desperate plea for a mercy that would never come, before finally succumbing to the all-consuming fire.
The st sound he heard was the steady, deliberate crunch of Icarus’s boots on the scorched earth as she turned and walked away, her back to the inferno, leaving Narcissus’s remains to colpse into a heap of warped gss and ash, his perfect form utterly destroyed.
The surviving hunters stood frozen, their faces ashen, etched with a mixture of terror and awe. The air still crackled with residual heat, the stench of burnt flesh and molten gss clinging to the fog. Even Faust, usually so composed, hesitated at the edge of the smoldering circle, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something akin to apprehension in his eyes.
One of the younger hunters, his voice trembling, barely a whisper, broke the stunned silence. “She’s… she’s not human. She’s something… else.” He stared at Icarus with wide, frightened eyes, as if expecting her to burst into fmes again.
Faust ignored him, his sharp gaze fixed on Icarus. She stood amidst the smoking ruins, her back to the group, her shoulders rising and falling with shallow, measured breaths. The air around her still shimmered with heat, distorting the fog, but her posture was rigid, her face a cold, unreadable mask.
Anrith approached cautiously, her elven grace at odds with the charred earth beneath her feet. Her voice, usually melodic and soothing, was soft but ced with concern. “Icarus… are you alright?”
Icarus didn’t turn. She remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the ground where Cyrus had fallen, his lifeless body half-buried in the ash, a dark stain against the gray. Her voice, when it finally came, was low, ft, and utterly devoid of emotion. “He shouldn’t have followed me.”
Anrith flinched, a flicker of sadness darkening her yellow eyes. She didn’t press further, sensing the invisible wall Icarus had erected around herself. But as an elf, attuned to the subtle currents of emotion, she felt the faint tremors beneath that icy surface—the crushing weight of grief, buried deep within Icarus’s tightly guarded heart. It wasn't the fresh grief of Cyrus's death, but something older, deeper, a wound that had never truly healed.
She turned to Faust, her voice a hushed whisper, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unease. “How can someone so young contain such… darkness?” she murmured, her gaze flickering back to Icarus, who remained motionless, her gaze fixed on Cyrus’s body. “It feels… like trying to look into a starless night. Empty. Infinite. And… dangerous.” She shivered slightly, a genuine chill running down her spine. “I dare not look deeper.”
Faust’s voice, dry and calcuting as ever, cut through the heavy silence. His gaze remained fixed on Icarus. "Whatever that darkness is," he said, his tone low and serious, "it has something to do with Mephistopheles. She couldn't have made that clearer."
Silence descended upon the group, a heavy premonition of the darkness within Icarus, a darkness they knew they were running from as much as the fog itself.
The silence was broken by one of the older hunters, a grizzled man with a network of scars crisscrossing his face. He spat a stream of dark phlegm into the ash. "This muck," he grunted, kicking at the scorched earth with a worn boot. "Has the feel of the eastern marshes. We gotta be somewhere on the eastern side of Nerathis, damn near Nerathia." He paused, his brow furrowed as he scanned the swirling fog. "But this whole area used to be Ferren territory." He paused, letting the information sink, with the defeat of Narcissus. "Maps ain't worth a damn here. We're close to the city, I can feel it, but… which way _is_ it?"
"Close is retive," another hunter countered, his voice sharp and anxious, gesturing vaguely into the swirling fog. "Could be a day's march, could be a week. We're blind out here."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the group. They shifted uneasily, gncing around at the oppressive fog that seemed to press in on them from all sides. The initial shock of the battle was wearing off, repced by a gnawing uncertainty.
"Someone's gotta know," the first hunter muttered, but his voice cked conviction.
"Maybe..." a younger hunter began, his voice hesitant, before gncing over to where Faust stood silently observing the group, the Cvicu Salomonis held loosely in one hand. The other hunters followed his gaze, a silent question passing between them.
Faust’s sharp eyes swept over the group, lingering for a moment on the fallen. He closed his eyes briefly, as if in silent contemption, then opened them, his expression now firm. "We move," he said, his voice low and resolute. "And we do what we must before we do."
He then turned and began to walk a short distance away from the immediate carnage, stopping in a retively clear patch of ashen ground. He opened the Cvicu Salomonis. The brass csps clicked softly in the still air, and he turned a page, his gaze scanning the intricate diagrams and symbols. He looked up, then back down at the book, orienting himself. "Gather what you can," he instructed, his voice carrying across the quiet group. "We leave soon."
As the hunters began to quietly gather the belongings of those who had fallen – a worn leather waterskin, a dented helmet, a bloodstained cloak – grim reminders of the brutal fight. They moved with a practiced efficiency, their faces grim and set. There were no tears, no eulogies, just the silent collection of necessities. It was a harsh truth of their world: people died. And in a world with the ever-present threat of the fog and the Nebelung, there was rarely time to mourn. Survival was paramount.
One of the older hunters, the same grizzled man who had initially spoken about their location, approached Icarus, his expression somber. He held a small, worn pouch in his calloused hand, presumably containing personal effects. He eyes swept over the bodies, then at Icarus. "You were right, Faust," he said, his voice low and respectful, referencing Faust's earlier statement about it being better to die by fire than by the Nebelung’s cws. "Better their bodies burn than feed those things." He turned to Icarus, holding out the pouch. "Could you… give them to the fire?"
All eyes turned to Icarus, a mixture of hope and apprehension on the hunters' faces. They were well aware of her abilities, the power she wielded.
Icarus didn’t immediately respond. She remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the ground where Cyrus had fallen, his lifeless body half-buried in the ash, a dark stain against the gray. The image of his broken body, the chilling words of the figure that had worn Leonidas’s face, continued to repy in her mind. A dark determination settled over her features. She looked at the hunters, then nodded slowly.
As she nodded, fmes erupted from within the pile of remains and belongings. They appeared as if from nowhere, flickering at first, then quickly growing, engulfing the pile in a roaring inferno. Plumes of smoke curled into the fog, the scent of burning wood and flesh mingling with the damp, earthy smell of the marsh.
As the fmes consumed the fallen, one of the younger hunters, his face pale and drawn, stepped forward. He closed his eyes and raised his hands, palms facing upwards, towards the rising smoke. His voice, though quiet, carried clearly through the crackling of the fire. "May the light guide your spirits to rest. May you find peace beyond this darkness." He lowered his hands as the fmes reached their peak, his eyes lingering on the inferno. Anrith, standing slightly apart from the others, watched the fmes with a deep sadness etched on her face. A few silent tears traced paths down her cheeks, glistening in the firelight before disappearing into the damp air.
As the fmes crackled and consumed the fallen, a sense of finality settled over the group. The ritual, however grim, was done. It was time to move on. Icarus watched the fmes for a moment longer, then turned to Faust. He had already started walking, the Cvicu Salomonis open in his hands. The other hunters were falling into line behind him. A grim resolve settled over her features. She took a deep breath, and then, with a resolute step, she fell into line, positioning herself not just behind Faust, but close beside him and Anrith, the three of them now walking almost shoulder to shoulder. The group vanished into the fog, the marsh reciming its silence, a silence pregnant with the promise of further horrors.
