CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Blades in the Mist

The guard post came into view as I crested a low rise, Meris tugging at my thoughts. But as I neared, something felt off. The post was crowded, at least a dozen figures shuffled around the ward's edge, more than I'd ever seen here. I squinted, trying to pick out familiar faces among the guards, but none stood out. The usual crew—gruff voices I knew, hands I'd shaken—wasn't there. These weren't the people I'd left behind.

So many bodies clustered near the ward drew attention from beyond it. Beasts skulked in the fog, their shapes flickering at the edges of my vision—low, hunched, waiting. Goblins, I could tell from their size and the faint green glint of their skin.

They weren't charging yet, just lurking, ready to pounce if anyone strayed too close or took their bait. They didn't know what I did, that eating humans would taint them, twist them with corruption. Maybe that's why only weak ones lingered here, too dumb to know what was safe to eat. But numbers made them dangerous, and these weren't the usual guards trained to spot their tricks.

I paused, catching my breath, scanning the crowd again. Chainrunners stood out among them—leather gear, sharp eyes, but they weren't geared for a run. No packs, no haste in their stance. Normally, they'd head out at dawn, cutting through the fog before the sun climbed too high. Now, it blazed overhead, near midday, the light piercing the fog in thin, bright shafts. What were they doing here? I wondered, frowning. They didn't look ready to move, just waiting, tense.

Meris crowded my mind again, urgent, pulling me forward. I didn't have time to stand here guessing. Mist seeped from me as I moved, thicker than the fog, coiling around me like a second skin. I could feel it—dense, alive with my will, a sense I couldn't name. Not sight, not smell, but something tangled between them, sharp and instinctive. Hazeveil stirred too, its shadows shifting, not mine to command but answering anyway. I stepped into the mist fully, a cloud wrapping me, hiding me. My vision stayed clear, cutting through it like it wasn't there—a trick I still didn't understand.

The goblins were closer now, thirty at least, small and scrawny. I'd tasted their meat once—bitter, stringy, barely worth the effort. They darted near the ward's edge, some chucking rocks that clattered against the barrier. Shouts rose from the post, guards flinching, Chainrunners gripping weapons. The noise grated, high and shrill, probably terrifying to them. To me, it was just annoying.

"Time for some target practice," I muttered, focusing. I willed the air around me, mana sparking in my chest. Three ice blades formed—thin, sharp, hovering near my shoulder. Not spears like I'd tried before, but something finer, trickier. I'd seen the Frostshrike wield these with deadly aim, and I knew now how much skill that took. This was my chance to figure it out.

I picked three goblins tossing stones, aiming for their heads. The blades shot forward, slicing the air and missed, all three, thudding into the dirt. I cursed under my breath. Distance—I'd forgotten to adjust for it. My eyes weren't the blades; they were offset, a step away. The noise of their impact turned heads—goblins snarling, people at the post peering into the fog, voices rising. They couldn't see me, just shapes in the haze.

More crowded the ward now, a dozen at least, Chainrunners and guards mixed together, weapons drawn. Were they waiting for me? I wondered, a knot tightening in my gut. Lirien would be furious if she knew I'd slipped out without her permission. The guards who'd let me pass, they'd catch hell for it, and I hoped it wouldn't be too bad. But I couldn't dwell on that now.

The goblins weren't a real threat to me—ebony-core pests, weak alone, dangerous only in swarms. I'd faced them plenty in the fog, studied them up close. They bred fast, newborns joining the pack in weeks, replacing the heaps that died on every hunt. I'd seen their camps—hundreds strong, crude but organized, yet evolved ones were rare. These were typical, perfect for practice, and my mist hid me as I moved.

I shifted position, circling left, and summoned a single blade this time. I aimed at one goblin's head, steadying my will. It shot forward and clipped its ear, a shallow cut. The beast yelped, still alive. I sighed, relocating again, mist trailing behind me. Next try, I aimed for the chest. The blade launched, pierced deep, not the heart, but close enough. The goblin crumpled, blood pooling under it.

The others froze, heads whipping around, searching. My mist blended with the fog to them—denser, sure, but not distinct. I'd thought the same when I fought the Frostshrike, but my sight cut through it sharper than theirs ever could. The blade didn't freeze anything, though, no icy spread like I'd hoped. How did that work? I pushed the question aside, aim first, tricks later.

I kept at it, methodical. Three blades again, two struck true, heads pierced, bodies dropping; one grazed an arm, leaving the goblin shrieking. Their numbers thinned fast, my shots landing more often, two kills each time, sometimes three. The survivors scrambled, lost in the mist, sniffing for me, darting out as fast as they stumbled in, gasping, unable to breathe in its grip. I didn't stay put—slipping between patches, firing, moving again.

Then it hit me: I didn't need to be near the blades. I focused, reaching into the mist trail I'd left, a dozen meters back. An ice blade formed there, hovering, trembling. It took effort, mana drained faster, triple what it cost up close, and my will strained to hold it. Aiming was harder too, like throwing blind. Five goblins remained, and I decided to finish them this way, testing my limits.

I stood still, hidden, summoning blades from the trail. One shot out, missed wide. Another grazed a shoulder. The mist started fading, weakening my grip, so I paced a slow circle, thickening it again. Each blade got better—sharper, straighter. Dozens flew before the last five fell, but the final one drove clean through a goblin's skull, dropping it silent. I exhaled, feeling the shift, my control tightening, my will clearer, all in minutes.

The ebony cores of goblins were weak, barely a flicker of mana, and the meat was trash. Still, with the district's food in mind, I scooped the bodies into my storage ring, better than leaving them. The post loomed ahead, voices buzzing louder now, shapes shifting behind the ward. They'd seen something—blurs falling, goblins vanishing, but not me. I straightened, ready to step in.

It was sad to think the closest thing I'd found to civilization out here in the fog was those goblin camps. They weren't smart, not by any stretch, but they still worked together, somehow. I figured it might be the evolved ones, the ones I hadn't faced yet, keeping them in line, exerting some kind of control. I couldn't say for sure, though, not without facing one myself.

The guard post loomed ahead, its edges sharp against the thinning fog as I approached. My fight outside still echoed in the air—goblins dropping one by one, their shapes blurring in the mist I'd spun. The people guarding the entrance looked rattled, their heads turning, eyes wide as they peered out, trying to make sense of it. They'd seen something fall, but not what did it. I stepped forward, pulling my hood back, letting Hazeveil settle around my shoulders. No point hiding it.

"Omen Blackthorn, apprentice Chainrunner, requesting permission to enter," I said, voice clear and steady. Rushing in would only spook them more, and I'd already lost time practicing those ice blades. Meris was waiting, every second out here gnawed at me, but I couldn't barge past them.

A figure moved toward the ward's edge, staying just inside its safety. He wore a Chainrunner's cloak, weathered and patched, his face lined under a scruff of graying beard. "Omen Blackthorn," he said, quick and clipped, "I'm Gustav, also a Chainrunner. Enter—fast." His tone carried an edge, like he expected me to bolt through.

I crossed the threshold, feeling the ward's faint hum against my skin. "Thank you," I said, nodding. The mist I'd conjured faded as I let the magic drop, leaving only the rune on my cheek—new, faintly glowing blue, lines trailing down like cracks in glass. Hazeveil hid most of my body, but my face was bare, the glow impossible to miss.

Gustav's eyes flicked over me, narrowing. "Nobody taught you to rush inside when you hit a ward?" he asked, worry and irritation mixing in his voice. "Standing out there with beasts swarming—too damn dangerous."

I'd heard of him—Gustav, a veteran. People talked about him in low tones, a survivor of more runs than most could count. But he was broken, they said, hollowed out by the fog. I saw it now, standing close, the spark most carried, that fire of purpose, was gone from his eyes. They were dull, flat, like he'd stared too long at things that didn't let go. Yet here he was, still a Chainrunner, not a guard lounging safe behind the ward. That took grit, more than most had. I respected it, even if his scolding rubbed me wrong, I was in a hurry, not in the mood for lessons.

"Why fear it?" I said, keeping my tone even. "I just killed those beasts. They're not dangerous, at least not when compared to what's deeper in the fog." The fight must've shaken them, I realized, watching their tense faces.

Gustav's jaw tightened, and a few others, guards and Chainrunners, shifted closer, staring. Their eyes weren't on me, though. They were fixed on the rune, its blue glow pulsing faintly against my skin. I couldn't dim it; it would fade on its own, but for now, it marked me, bright and strange.

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"I've seen friends die to those things," Gustav said, his voice low, sharp. "Colleagues… people I knew. They're not the worst out there, sure, but you don't dismiss them. Hasn't anyone taught you anything?" He sounded stunned, still angry, like I'd slapped him.

He was right, though. I'd brushed off the goblins like they were nothing, forgetting what they might mean to him—lives lost, blood spilled to the same weak pests I'd skewered for practice. If I'd watched them tear through people I cared about, I'd be mad too. A pang of regret hit me, small but real, cutting through the beast I'd let slip out there. The human part of me stirred, piecing itself back together. "I'm really sorry," I said, quieter now, meaning it.

"No need," he replied, but his tone stayed hard, edged with that same anger. He didn't let it go, not fully.

I frowned, confused, waiting for him to explain.

He caught my look and sighed, softening just a bit. "Those who dwell on the danger too long, they don't come back. People say the fog breaks us if we go out there, but the truth? The ones who survive were already cracked before they went. You're a madman… But that's good."

Cracked. The word stuck with me, heavier than I'd expected. I'd never seen myself that way, not like him, not like the others the fog chewed up. But he wasn't wrong entirely. I was fragmented, patched together, different from them but not whole.

My mind drifted, pulling up a memory I hadn't touched in years. A clay cup, small and rough, one I'd carried when I was still living in the streets. I'd set it by a doorstep once, resting there, half-dead from hunger. Another boy—older, meaner—kicked it hard, shattering it into jagged pieces across the dirt. I'd gathered them, hands shaking, and Meris had helped me glue it back together. We tried, piece by piece, but it wouldn't hold water after that. The cracks stayed, tiny gaps leaked no matter how it looked whole on the outside, broken inside.

I blinked, the memory fading, Meris sharp in my head again. I needed to see her, had to move. I turned to go, but a handful of guards and Chainrunners stepped into my path. Wulric and Gorin were there, faces tight, apologetic. "What's this about?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

Gustav spoke up, clear and firm, like an order. "Your mother requests your presence."

"Can't it wait?" I said, hopeful, glancing at him. "Just an hour."

He shook his head, pointing to the group around us—worn-out faces, Chainrunners and guards not used to camping by the fog. "Her orders were immediate. We've been here two days, waiting for you." Some looked like they hadn't slept, eyes red, shoulders slumped.

I nodded, reluctant but resigned. As an apprentice Chainrunner, I still answered to her, title or not. Meris would have to wait, and that stung more than I wanted to admit.

One of the Chainrunners broke off from the group, sprinting ahead, his boots kicking up dust as he vanished around a corner. The rest of us walked—slow, too slow, each step dragging like they meant to stretch it out. I figured it was deliberate, giving someone time to warn Lirien I'd crossed back into the ward. Gustav stayed close, his tired eyes flicking to me now and then, but he didn't say much. The guards and Chainrunners around me shuffled along, their gear clinking softly, no one rushing despite the tension still hanging from that mess at the post.

The headquarters loomed ahead, its squat stone walls familiar but heavier today. We filed in, the air inside cooler, tinged with the faint smell of sweat and leather. Lirien's office was up a long flight of stairs, and when I stepped through the door, the room hit me with a crowd of faces I knew—Dain leaning against a wall, Mareth, Kael, and Roran standing stiff near the desk, and Lirien herself, seated, her gaze already locked on me. Then there was Norman Highrow, captain of the guard, broad and stern beside her. Two captains in one room—rare, and it thickened the air with something sharp I couldn't place.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Lirien's eyes narrowed, a silent command that stopped me cold. "A night stroll," she said, her voice low, letting the words sit there, heavy. She tilted her head toward the guards—Mareth, Kael, Roran—standing rigid, their faces pale. "That's what they told me."

Norman shifted, arms crossed, his stare cutting between them and me. Lirien didn't let up. "Norman," she said, her tone slicing clean, "is there a new rule I missed? One that allows night strolls now?"

I frowned, glancing at the guards. They must've run straight here after I'd come in—faster than I'd walked, anyway, or maybe they'd already been close, waiting. I didn't get the fuss. I was back, alive, no harm done. What was there to worry about? But standing there, shoulder to shoulder with Mareth, Kael, and Roran, I could feel it, we were all in the crosshairs. Their eyes kept drifting to my face, the rune etched there, its blue glow faded but still stark against my skin. No one mentioned it, though—not yet.

Norman cleared his throat, his voice hard. "This was a clear breach of protocol," he said, glaring at the guards, not me. "It won't happen again."

Lirien nodded, slow and deliberate. "It won't," she agreed, then turned her focus back to me. "It seems my son, a Blackthorn, doesn't care much for protocol either. If we don't follow it, who will?" Her words had bite, but no real anger, just a steady, unyielding edge.

"I thought we agreed I'd hunt in the fog," I said, keeping my tone flat. It wasn't the full story, I'd partially filled my storage ring out there, maybe a few hundred kilograms of beast meat, could be closer to a ton, I hadn't weighed it, but it was true enough.

Norman's eyes bored into me, fierce and unblinking. "Boy," he started, like I was some kid who'd wandered off, "as hard as it is for you to grasp, you're an Artifact Holder now. Multiple artifacts, that strange knack for not getting hunted out there, you're a resource, inside the district and out. We need to use you smart, not waste you on night strolls. Disappearing for days, no one knowing if you're dead or alive, that's not strategy."

He went on, his lecture stretching out, piling up reasons I should've known better. It grated—his voice loud, his words treating me like a tool he could point wherever he wanted. Lirien at least masked it, kept her edges smoother. Norman didn't bother, talking about "using me strategically" like I wasn't standing right there. I clenched my jaw, letting it wash over me, but inside, I seethed. Three years in the fog, and they still acted like I couldn't handle myself.

"And these three," Norman said finally, jabbing a finger at the guards, "they'll be punished."

Lirien's gaze hadn't left me, watching, measuring how I'd take it all. Anger mixed with annoyance in my chest, I'd survived out there longer than any of them could've, but I kept my face still. She leaned forward then, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. "I've got an idea for a punishment," she said, glancing at Norman. "If they're so keen on following Omen's lead, why not make them his escort?"

Norman's eyes lit up, a rare spark in his stern face. "Splendid," he said, turning to the guards. "For the next week, you'll escort Omen. Don't leave his side. Make sure he doesn't slip out to the fog" He paused, catching himself, remembering I was meant to hunt. "Without permission," he finished, firm.

"Great," Lirien said, waving a hand. "You're all dismissed." We filed out, leaving her and Norman behind, the door thudding shut as their voices faded.

Outside, the three guards turned to me, hesitant. Kael spoke first, scratching his neck. "Sorry, Omen," he said, quiet. "When you didn't show up that morning, people started asking. We had to tell them."

I shook my head, guilt settling in. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry. This is my fault, putting you in this spot. Something came up out there, and I couldn't get back." My hand brushed my neck, the rune cool under my fingers.

Roran stepped closer, squinting at it. "That why you've got this mark now? On your face, your neck—it's no wound. Weird shape, though. You hurt?"

"Not really," I said, shrugging. "It's… hard to explain. I'm fine, though." Mareth moved in, her hand soft as she touched my cheek, tracing the lines.

"Looks like you were born with it," she said, curious, not pressing.

"Yeah," I muttered, unsure what to say. "A change, I guess." They caught my unease and let it drop, no more questions. I sighed as we started walking, heading out of the headquarters. "I can't figure out how to keep them happy. I bring back beasts, artifacts, and everyone's still mad."

Mareth glanced at me, a small smile tugging her lips. "You don't get it, do you?"

"No," I said, blunt.

Roran took a breath, thinking it over. "It's not anger," he said, slow. "You just don't follow orders. You're a Blackthorn, an Artifact Holder—sure, but if you ignore protocol, who's gonna stick to it?"

Kael nodded, chiming in. "He's right. They value you, but you're a wild card, hard to control, unpredictable."

I stopped walking for a second, letting that sink in. They weren't wrong. I hadn't seen it that way, me as a loose piece they couldn't fit. It still felt messy, though—how a quick trip out could spiral into this. "Maybe," I said, starting again, boots scuffing the dirt.

"Thing is," Kael added, keeping pace, "you could just not listen. They wouldn't turn you away, not with what you can do. Everyone knows you stood in the fog so long you stopped fearing it."

They all nodded, agreeing, their faces serious. I could walk my own path, ignore the rules, the orders. But would that make me any different from a beast out there? Free, sure, but cut off from what held this place together. I thought about Lirien, Norman, the council, how hard they'd fought to keep the district from crumbling.

Old stories said it wasn't beasts that broke most wards back then, it was people, despair tearing them apart from the inside. Even District 1 fell that way, or so the tales went.

"Where are we going?" Kael asked, pulling me back. They were still with me, trailing close, my escorts now.

"To see Meris," I said, turning toward the residential zone. The streets narrowed as we walked, buildings crowding in, the bustle of the headquarters fading behind us.

We got closer to her place and something shifted. A feeling—strange, sharp—prickled at the edge of my senses. I slowed, frowning, trying to place it. A will, strong and fierce, pulsed from ahead. Mana, too—focused, bright, unmistakable, pouring from Meris's home. My stomach tightened, steps faltering as I stared at the door.

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