A chill, damp air clung to Kaelen, even within the confines of his small bunk. The other conscripted miners, those assigned to the deeper, more dangerous shafts, never returned. Their absence left a cavernous silence in the lodge, granting him a space he hadn't known since the Haze first claimed Aethelgard. He stretched, a deep, silent release of tension from knotted muscles. Fatigue was a distant memory. His body, usually a vessel of weary endurance, now hummed with a strange, nascent energy. This wasn't merely rest; it was a deeper resonance with the mist that permeated every atom of this world. The Perpetual Haze, usually a burden, now seemed to feed him, a silent, symbiotic exchange that left him not just refreshed, but acutely aware. Outside, the Veilhold Bastion lay muted. The sun, a pale, anemic orb behind layers of Haze, cast a weak, diffused light that struggled to pierce the grey. Kaelen moved with a quiet purpose, his boots dampening on stone slick with condensed mist. He needed to understand this place, to peel back the layers of deception and despair that clung to it like moss to ruin. The Bastion was a scar etched into the very heart of the Haze, a collection of squat, fortified structures huddled against the encroaching fog. It lacked grace, built for survival, not solace. Caravans, brave or desperate enough to navigate the treacherous Haze-trails, occasionally found their way here, trading meager supplies and news from the dwindling settlements beyond. Miners formed the brutal core of its economy, and a small, struggling market served their barest needs. Stories of the Haze-Crystal mines were plentiful, whispered tales of suffocating tunnels and the monstrous forms that sometimes coalesced from the deeper mist. But Kaelen trusted only his own eyes, his own senses. The slums of his past had taught him that much. Verified truth was a rare and precious commodity. A few figures, hunched and grey, moved through the market’s sparse lanes. The early hour, combined with the fact that most miners remained entombed within the shafts for days, sometimes weeks, kept the place desolate. They burrowed deep, following the veins of Haze-Crystal, their lives a perpetual descent into the earth’s cold, misty embrace. It was a wretched existence, one Kaelen was grimly determined to avoid. His abilities, his unique connection to the Haze, were a double-edged blade. They were his salvation, but also a secret that could condemn him if revealed. He needed to hone them, to control them with absolute precision, before the Bastion swallowed him whole. A hollow ache resonated in his gut. He hadn't eaten since the previous midday. His immediate need was sustenance. He moved toward a faint, savory scent that battled valiantly against the ever-present dampness of the Haze. At the market’s rear, a makeshift stall offered skewers of grilling meat. A wizened old man tended the coals, his face a roadmap of deep creases, a single cracked lens perched on his nose. His beard, the color of aged mist, seemed to absorb the dim light. Kaelen sat on a splintered stool. “What manner of meat is this?” “Best not to ask,” the old man rasped, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest. Kaelen nodded. He remembered a time, long ago, before the Sundering, when actual livestock roamed. Now, even in the surviving bastions, such luxuries were a forgotten dream. He took a skewer, the meat surprisingly tender despite its unknown origin, and bit into it. The old man peered at Kaelen through his broken glasses. “New face. Arrived with the last Haze-transport, didn’t you?” “Just yesterday.” Kaelen chewed slowly. “This tastes… good.” “Ah. The survivor then. From the Mist-lapse event.” The old man’s words were laced with a peculiar knowing. Kaelen’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “News travels fast here.” “Secrets rarely survive the Haze, boy. By tomorrow, your entire history will be the Bastion’s gossip.” A dry cough. “Beware. Many will see you as easy prey.” “Prey? I came to work. To earn coin.” Kaelen’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection. “Earn coin, you say?” The old man’s gaze sharpened. “Yet you bear no pickaxe, no gear for the Haze-maw. This is not the stance of one ready to dig.” Kaelen’s brow furrowed. The old man’s words were too accurate, too cutting. “You’ve been here a long time,” Kaelen observed, shifting the subject. “Since the first Haze-Crystal was unearthed,” the old man confirmed. “An old root in this rotten soil.” He gestured vaguely toward the cluttered shelves behind him, piled high with unidentifiable debris. “The remnants of those who came before you,” the old man continued, his voice softer, yet sharper. “They fought the maw, just as you intend to. They resisted the tunnels. When their coin ran dry, they sold their belongings, piece by piece. The useful things left for the capital. The worthless, they left here. And when nothing remained, they descended into the Haze-mines. That is the way of it.” A shiver, colder than the mist, traced Kaelen’s spine. The old man’s laugh, a dry, rustling sound, seemed to mock him, a grim prophecy. His appetite vanished, leaving only a metallic tang in his mouth. He swallowed the last of the meat, the taste now bitter, and stood. “What madness is this?” Kaelen’s voice was low, dangerous. “Ten sols for a single skewer of… this?” Sols were the common currency, each a fraction of a true Haze-Crystal. Ten sols for a skewer was an insult, a blatant theft. In the dwindling outposts of Aethelgard, a Haze-Crystal of any size fetched a respectable sum. The old man remained impassive. “Everything here is precious. Food. Warmth. Tools. Everything has a price.” “And if I refuse?” Kaelen’s hand instinctively tightened, his knuckles whitening. The old man’s cracked lips curved into a smile. “A helpless old man like myself, you think? I’ve seen countless seasons here, boy. There are reasons for that.” Nearby stall keepers, previously obscured by the shifting Haze, now turned, their eyes like chips of flint. A silent, collective threat hung in the air. Kaelen felt the subtle pressure, the interconnected web of power this old man commanded. *An old root indeed.* Refusing payment here would isolate him, bar him from any further transaction within the Bastion. He was a stranger; they were a network. “Damn it,” Kaelen muttered, a low growl. He had walked into a spider’s snare. “Your wits still serve you,” the old man observed. “Many lose them here.” “I have no coin on me,” Kaelen stated, though he knew it was a hollow claim. “No coin, perhaps. But a Haze-Crystal?” The old man’s eyes glinted, reflecting the pale light of the Haze. “Hand it over. I’ll give you a fair price.” Kaelen tensed. He had guarded the shard of Haze-Crystal like his very life. To surrender it for a mere skewer of dubious meat… his entire journey felt like a mockery. “Boy,” the old man’s voice was a low hiss, “the whisper that you carry a Haze-Crystal will spread through this Bastion before the next hour is out. Do you truly believe you can protect it then?” The implication was clear: the whisper would originate from him. Kaelen glared, his eyes like chips of ice. He had faced beasts birthed from the Haze, survived the grinding apathy of a dying world. Yet, this frail, ancient man, steeped in the Bastion’s harsh truths, wielded a different kind of power. Compared to him, Kaelen was just a raw youth, a green shoot in a forest of ancient, gnarled trees. Once the rumor started, he had no true recourse. With a ragged sigh, Kaelen reached into his ragged clothes, pulling out a small, roughly cut shard of raw Haze-Crystal, no larger than his thumb. Its internal light pulsed faintly, a cold, ethereal glow. The old man’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something ancient and hungry in their depths. “Ah. That size… perhaps a hundred sols.” “A hundred?” Kaelen’s voice was sharp. “In the capital, it would fetch three hundred, easily.” “This is not the capital.” The old man’s tone was flat, final. “You jest.” Kaelen felt a surge of cold fury, battling with the bitter taste of defeat. “A treasure without the strength to protect it is merely a burden, boy.” The old man chuckled again, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. Kaelen yearned to strike the old man, to silence that mocking laughter. But the consequences would be catastrophic. This man, who had survived here for so long, surely had connections to the Bastion’s shadowy figures, the Mist-Wielders who enforced its brutal order. His impassive demeanor, his utter lack of concern, spoke volumes. He was untouchable, rooted deeply in the Bastion’s decay. Kaelen felt his own will shrink before the old man’s quiet authority. His struggle to reach this place, his desperate hope, now felt hollow. He handed over the crystal. “Heh. Do not despair, boy. I am not without mercy.” The old man weighed the crystal in his palm. “I’ll give you ninety sols. Keep it safe. The Bastion holds many shadows that hunger.” He handed Kaelen a small pouch of dull, metallic coins. “A cat pretending to care for a mouse,” Kaelen grumbled, tucking the pouch away. “As a gesture of our first exchange,” the old man announced, gesturing toward the clutter behind him, “choose one item from the pile. A gift.” “That junk?” Kaelen scoffed. He knew there would be nothing of value. Anything remotely useful would have long since been scavenged or sold. Yet, he felt compelled to take something, a small defiance against the indignity of being fleeced. He moved toward the pile, his fingers sifting through the grime-encrusted debris. The old man watched, a faint smile on his lips. Most who came here withered, their spirit broken. But Kaelen, despite his grimness, still radiated a raw, untamed energy. Then, Kaelen’s fingers closed around something small, smooth, and unexpectedly whole. He pulled it free from the tangle of rusted metal and broken pottery. It was a small hourglass, its glass perfectly intact, a fine, silvery sand resting in its lower bulb. “What madness is this?” Kaelen muttered, staring at the old man. “Why is this here?” “No one else saw its worth,” the old man said with a shrug. “It remained.” He’d acquired it long ago, a trinket from a distant caravan, deemed useless in a world where time itself felt fractured and meaningless. Only the truly powerful, hidden away in the untouched remnants of Aethelgard, would bother with such a decoration. “Perhaps choose something else?” the old man suggested. “No,” Kaelen decided, a strange conviction settling over him. “I doubt I’ll find anything else as whole.” He clutched the hourglass, its weight surprisingly comforting, and turned to leave. “Come again, boy.” The old man’s voice followed him, dry and mocking. “An unfortunate thought,” Kaelen muttered, his annoyance clear. He strode out into the persistent grey of the Haze, the small hourglass a cool weight in his palm. Then, Kaelen stopped, turning back. “I’ll call you Corvus, then, old man. Let’s pray our paths don’t cross again.” Without waiting for a reply, he vanished into the drifting mist, leaving Corvus chuckling softly behind his counter.

Echoes in the Veilhold