A metallic tang lingered on Rhys’s tongue, a phantom taste of Salt-Ghoul. He chewed slowly, each bite of the tough, cured meat a deliberate act against the gnawing emptiness. It was the best he could manage, strips of the monster’s flesh dried under Drakk’s baleful gaze, a grotesque feast earned through violence. Not a nourishing meal, but enough to quell the sharpest edges of hunger. Plenty more remained, wrapped in coarse cloth, a grim bounty. Rhys nibbled at it whenever his stomach cramped, pushing down the revulsion with a steady, pragmatic will.
Yet, a deeper thirst persisted. The Evermist, for all its pervasive moisture, offered no drinkable water. Each dawn, a thin film of dew coated the few exposed surfaces, a precious few drops Rhys would meticulously collect. For the rest of the day, his throat ached, a dry, rasping testament to Aethelgard’s cruel scarcity. At first, the constant thirst had been a torment, a distraction that blurred the edges of his vision. Now, it was a constant companion, a dull ache he had learned to carry.
He had learned to conserve. Not just his Evermist, but his very being. Speaking became a luxury, each expelled breath a betrayal of precious internal moisture. His movements, once fluid and expansive with the Mist, were now pared down, economical. When traversing the shallower Mist-currents, he restricted his upper body, gliding as much as walking. Eventually, even his leg movements became minimal, a strange, almost meditative shuffle.
From a distance, he must have appeared as if the Mist itself cradled him, pushing him along without effort. He felt like a ghost, an echo in the vast, silent sea of vapor.
Dyoden had grumbled once, a low, guttural sound that carried on the sluggish currents. “The idiot acquires some useful skills. While others struggle, he flows through the Mist comfortably.”
Within the Evermist, Rhys’s connection was absolute. Despite his exhaustion, his senses were honing, sharpening under Drakk’s brutal tutelage. He was realizing a profound potential, an absolute dominance within the shifting currents. The monster, Drakk, seemed to perceive this, though his thoughts remained unreadable.
Rhys glanced upwards, not at a sky, but at the shifting layers of the Evermist above. A subtle change. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in its density, a resonance. He felt it deep in his bones, a hum that spoke of something alien to the usual, constant flow. Moisture. Not a vast body of it, but a focused pocket, a localized surge.
In his past life, within the guarded settlements, he would have dismissed it as a random eddy. But after these harrowing weeks with Drakk, his Evermist senses had been stretched taut, his perceptions amplified. He didn't miss the subtle, distinct coolness in the ambient vapor, a whisper of purity.
Rhys looked at Drakk, who strode ahead, his colossal frame cutting through the Mist like a phantom ship. By chance, or by design, Drakk was leading them towards the point where the strange resonance pulsed strongest.
A bitter smile touched Rhys’s lips. Not coincidence. That monster, Drakk, missed nothing. He had undoubtedly sensed what Rhys had just barely registered, perhaps even earlier, more profoundly. Drakk’s power was a thing of myth, beyond comprehension, a brutal force that made Rhys doubt if he was truly human. What else lay hidden beneath that cruel, impassive exterior? How much more was Drakk capable of? Rhys often wondered if the displays of raw power were but the surface of a deeper, more terrifying ocean.
How he yearned to discover the limits of that monster’s capability.
Soon, the Evermist began to swirl, condensing into a massive, twisting vortex. Not an ordinary current, but a newly formed structure, a colossal column that spiraled hundreds of feet into the gloom above. Its essence hummed with raw, unfettered power. The Evermist, though seemingly eternal, was in constant flux, always reshaping, always recreating itself. As a Weaver, Rhys could read these patterns, these silent histories written in the vapor.
Struggling, they climbed the immense, ethereal column, its shifting surface a deceptive climb. At its summit, a breathtaking sight unfolded.
Below them, the Evermist parted. A vast, circular expanse of open air, a perfect cylinder bored through the dense vapor. At its base, a pool of water shimmered, dark and still. It was a Mist-Hearth, a rare and vital rupture in the Endless Evermist, a place where the veil thinned, offering a glimpse of the drowned world beneath. Rhys felt a desperate, primal urge pull at him. Water.
Forget caution. Forget Drakk. He raced towards the glistening pool, a sudden surge of adrenaline overriding weeks of discipline. His thirst, a patient predator, seized control. He had held back, rationed, conserved, but the sight of true water broke his resolve.
Drakk clicked his tongue, a low, dismissive sound that echoed in the brief silence of the Mist-Hearth. Rhys barely registered it, his focus absolute.
He reached the Mist-Hearth’s edge in moments, dropping to his knees. Without hesitation, he plunged his head into the cool, dark water, gulping it down. The overwhelming rush, the clean, pure taste, brought a wave of dizzying happiness, washing away the arid ache in his throat.
As he drank, a faint glimmer caught his eye, deep beneath the surface. A spherical shape, softly radiating a pale, hypnotic light, pulsed from the murky depths. He forgot the water, forgot his thirst, staring blankly at the strange luminescence, mesmerized.
The light began to draw closer, slow and deliberate. His eyes unfocused, a strange lassitude settling over him, as if a thread had unwound from his mind.
“Snap out of it, you empty-headed fool!”
Drakk’s voice, a harsh whip-crack of sound, shattered the trance. A powerful hand clamped onto Rhys’s back, yanking him violently away from the Mist-Hearth’s edge. He tumbled backward, landing hard on the damp earth, the spell broken.
Then, a sudden, violent eruption. Something enormous burst from the water, sending spray high into the Mist-Hearth. A massive creature, its body a grotesque collection of fluid-filled sacs and chitinous plates, its mouth a gaping maw large enough to swallow a Salt-Ghoul whole. An antenna-like stalk protruded from its forehead, ending in a luminous, fleshy orb – the very light source that had captivated Rhys. It was a Mist-Lurer, a horror born of the deep Evermist currents.
“A Mist-Lurer,” Drakk grunted, his voice devoid of emotion. “It lures its prey with that light, then devours them whole.”
Rhys, gasping for breath, stared at the monstrous form as it slowly sank back into the pool. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had Drakk not intervened, he would have been swallowed without a struggle.
Drakk drew Acheron, his obsidian blade, its edge catching the faint light filtering through the Mist. “Fools like you get reckless once they think they’ve adapted. Understand, idiot?”
No time for a response. Drakk launched himself onto the surface of the water, a dark blur against the shimmering pool. He swung Acheron downwards, a devastating arc that sliced through the water with impossible force. A column of liquid exploded upwards, like a geyser erupting from the earth.
The Mist-Lurer, startled, attempted to dive deeper, to escape into the lightless depths. Drakk wouldn’t allow it. He plunged into the water, following the creature, a torpedo of primal fury. The Mist-Lurer, cornered, turned its enormous body, its gaping maw opening wide, attempting to engulf Drakk. A fatal mistake.
Acheron and Drakk ripped through the creature in a single, brutal thrust. The immense monster ceased its struggle, its bloated body listing, then floating lifelessly on the Mist-Hearth’s surface. Drakk grabbed its tail, dragging the colossal corpse from the water. He hauled it to Rhys’s feet, a mound of twitching flesh and glowing tendrils.
Rhys stumbled back, a fresh wave of revulsion washing over him. Even in death, the Mist-Lurer’s monstrous form radiated an awful power. He couldn’t comprehend how such a creature could exist in the brief, precious serenity of a Mist-Hearth.
Drakk plunged Acheron into the creature’s glistening flesh, a dark line appearing on its side. “Consider this monster an inhabitant of these ephemeral Mist-Hearths. It lures fools like you with that light on its forehead and devours them in a single gulp. So, don’t stick your head into the next Mist-Hearth you see so carelessly, you empty-headed bastard.”
Guilt tightened Rhys’s chest. He only managed a weak nod.
“Are you deaf? I said, skin it. This Mist-Lurer is a formidable creature. Its skin is soft and flexible, perfect for making a protective wrap. Cut it up. Now.”
“Do you… need a new wrap?” Rhys asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Not for me, idiot! It’s for you! Has your intelligence started to curdle? You haven’t been struck by one of the Deep Mist’s paralysis spells, have you?”
Rhys finally understood. A grim resolve settled over him. He moved quickly, turning the monstrous body. Its back was a tapestry of rough, brownish protrusions, while its belly was sleek and dark, almost black. It was incredibly tough. His short knife scraped uselessly against the thick hide. He would need more than simple steel.
Focusing, Rhys channeled a thin, concentrated filament of Evermist into the blade, sharpening its edge with a whisper of elemental energy. With this new, keen edge, he managed to pierce the tough hide, slowly, meticulously beginning the arduous task of skinning the immense creature. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with the spray from the Mist-Hearth, a chill against his skin. The work stretched on, endless and grim. Skinning was only the beginning.
He would need a way to craft the hide. No needle he possessed could penetrate this thick skin. And for thread, nothing he had would suffice. After a moment of grim contemplation, Rhys broke off a slender, hardened spine from the Mist-Lurer’s back, sharpening it against a stone until it was a brutal needle. For thread, he carefully stripped thin, durable fibers from the creature’s iridescent inner membranes, surprisingly strong and pliant.
Rhys, though a Weaver of Mist, had always been practical, his hands capable of fine, intricate work. This was his first attempt at crafting something so substantial. It took him half a day of arduous effort, his fingers growing raw, but by the time the dim, diffused light of the Mist-Hearth began to fade, he had fashioned something resembling a crude, yet functional, protective wrap.
While Rhys labored, Drakk systematically dismantled the Mist-Lurer’s carcass. Every part of the creature, Drakk explained, had its use. Its flesh, though alien, contained barely any toxins and, surprisingly, tasted palatable when rendered. The most prized component, however, was its glowing organ, a palm-sized bladder nestled deep within its chest cavity. Drakk tore it free, then tossed the pulsing, luminescent orb to Rhys.
“Huh? Are you telling me to eat it raw?” Rhys asked, staring at the alien thing in his hands, its light pulsing faintly.
“Yes! It’s the best thing for weaklings like you. Eat every bit of it.” Drakk’s voice was flat, brooking no argument. “If you don’t eat it, I’ll force it down myself.”
“I’ll eat. I’ll eat it,” Rhys mumbled, a knot of revulsion twisting in his gut. He knew Drakk’s threats were promises.
Brow furrowed in distaste, Rhys bit into the glowing organ. He forced himself to chew, to swallow, every ounce of his will focused on the task, fearing Drakk’s retribution if he faltered. He expected a vile taste, a slimy texture, but to his surprise, the organ melted in his mouth, sliding down his throat with an almost liquid quality. Yet, it left no sense of satiation, only a lingering, strange warmth.
“Fascinating. Heh,” Rhys murmured to himself, the alien texture dissolving. Then, an expression of profound shock seized his face. An intense surge of heat erupted in his stomach, spreading like wildfire through his veins. Agony. A searing, unbearable pain he had never imagined. He collapsed, writhing on the damp ground, clutching his stomach, a choked cry tearing from his throat.
Dyoden ignored Rhys’s plight. Expertly, he sliced slabs of Mist-Lurer meat. Flames erupted from his calloused hands, searing the flesh to perfection in an instant. He chewed on the cooked meat, his gaze unwavering, his face impassive. After a moment, he glanced at the Mist-Hearth.
“This, too, will disappear soon,” Drakk muttered, a low rumble that barely carried above Rhys’s pained gasps. Mist-Hearths were like fleeting dreams. They appeared suddenly, nourishing the Evermist with a burst of pure essence, then vanished, relocating to random, unperceivable points within the vast, shifting currents. No human could predict these cycles. Though the Mist-Lurer, ruler of this temporary oasis, had died, another would surely rise. Mist-Lurers always laid eggs within their temporary domains. When the current ruler perished, new offspring would automatically awaken, continuing the cycle. But to grow to the size of the monster Drakk had slain would take centuries.
Rhys continued to scream, rolling on the ground, lost in a torment of internal fire. Drakk merely sneered, a silent, contemptuous assessment of his protégé’s suffering.
By the next morning, the pain had receded, leaving Rhys drained but strangely alert. He opened his eyes, and a wave of shock rippled through him. A vitality he had never known before coursed through his entire body. His muscles, once lean and wiry, now felt taut, powerful, a dense network of strength he hadn't possessed before. His previously thin frame had transformed, not into bulk, but into a sleek, efficient machine of sinew and resilience.
Rhys was speechless, staring at his own hands, his forearms, flexing them as if they belonged to another. Looking beside him, he saw Drakk, already gnawing on another slab of Mist-Lurer meat.
“What happened to me?” Rhys croaked, his voice still hoarse.
“Your body took the medicine well,” Drakk replied, a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“The Mist-Lurer’s organ… it was medicine?”
“A rare and valuable one. Nothing better for strengthening muscles and bones, for sharpening the inner currents of the Mist. Consider it a booster.”
“Thank you… for giving me such a precious thing.” Rhys felt a flicker of grudging gratitude, despite the pain.
“Hmph! Carrying around a weakling like you, what else could I do? Eat this, then get ready. We move.” Drakk tossed a piece of still-warm meat to Rhys.
First, Rhys pulled on the wrap he had crafted. The moment the Mist-Lurer’s skin touched his own, a chilling sensation enveloped him. The material was incredibly cold, radiating a steady, consistent chill that cut through the ever-present humidity of the Evermist. It was perfect. An unexpected efficacy that surprised him.
“We will stay here for a while and finish the Mist-Lurer meat,” Drakk announced, his eyes sweeping over the vast carcass.
“Are you saying we should eat it all?” Rhys asked, incredulous at the sheer volume.
“Meat with this much nutrition is rare in the Mist. So, we eat everything.” Drakk’s tone left no room for debate. At this point, Rhys would have believed Drakk if he claimed the Mist itself could sprout sustenance. He simply nodded.
Rhys ate with Drakk, the massive Mist-Lurer carcass dwindling with each passing day. It took just four days for the enormous creature to be consumed, leaving only a skeletal outline, gleaming white and stripped bare. Every edible part, every scrap of membrane, was devoured.
On the fifth morning, the Mist-Hearth was gone. As if it had never been. The Evermist had closed in, its currents churning, the water pool vanished, the open air filled once more with shifting vapor. Without a trace of regret, Drakk rose, turning his back on the now-empty space. Rhys followed, a new strength in his limbs, a sharpened clarity in his Mist-sense, and a cold, protective wrap against his skin, ready for the Endless Evermist once more.