CHAPTER 70: THE FOG RETURNS

As they pushed deeper into the wilderness toward Caelgor the Hollow, the air grew heavy with unease. Lucy felt it tighten around the group like an invisible noose. No one said anything, but their movements grew stiffer, and glances became more frequent. Even the silence had teeth.

The terrain had changed.

Gone was the rough stone road that led east—solid, predictable, familiar. In its place, a strange forest had swallowed the world.

Towering bone-white trees loomed above, their trunks as smooth as polished ivory. Their translucent leaves shimmered faintly, catching what little light pierced through the mist in glints of violet and silver. The ground was carpeted with soft, silken grass the color of moonlight, and each step felt like walking across a dream—or a graveyard.

Then came the sounds—not the rustle of animals or wind, but distant, warped echoes—like laughter heard underwater or breathing just out of sight.

But it wasn’t the forest that set their nerves alight. It was the fog.

It had returned.

Thick and unnatural, it crept along the forest floor, coiling between their legs, rising in tendrils to obscure the trees. It wasn’t poisonous. No spectral soldiers emerged from its folds. And yet, it dragged a cold tension across their skin, as if the forest was watching.

Llarm walked directly behind Lucy, his shoulders hunched, steps light and cautious. His golden hair seemed duller in the pale mist. Fenric, of course, strolled with his fingers laced behind his head, whistling some tuneless melody, while Carlos trotted smugly beside him, tail high, paws skipping with too much confidence for a pup who’d been terrified out of his mind days prior.

Gindu walked quietly with Eri. She was better now—still pale, still haunted—but speaking again, even if only in clipped, emotionless phrases. Her eyes barely lifted from the path.

Bruma took up the rear. She always did when visibility was low. The ogre’s sheer size turned her into a walking wall, and no one wanted to walk blind behind one of her shoulders.

The silence stretched thin, and Lucy finally broke it.

"Now that the fog’s back," he said, scanning the trees, "I think it’s safe to say Caelgor knows we’re coming."

Llarm let out a strangled sound between a groan and a nervous laugh. "Great. Just what I needed to hear today."

Lucy didn’t slow. His eyes stayed ahead, alert. "Bruma. What should we know about him?"

He didn’t turn to face her. He didn’t dare.

Bruma’s voice rumbled from behind. "From what I’ve gathered... Caelgor’s not just a magical beast. He’s nearly mythical. Close enough to make no damn difference. Lucky for us, he’s not fully there."

Lucy frowned. "What’s the difference?"

Llarm let out a sharp gasp behind him. "Mythical? As in—mythical beast?! You expect us to fight something like that?!"

Before Bruma could answer, Gindu beat her to it. His voice was flat but forceful. "How do you not know that, wyrmling? Mythical beasts are the pinnacle of monsterkind. Creatures so powerful, they can challenge gods. Their blood could boil oceans. Their roars can collapse cities."

Lucy chuckled softly. For a second, he caught a flicker of the old Gindu—the deadpan sarcasm, the blunt certainty. It was comforting. Gindu had barely spoken since Eri’s breakdown at the statue.

"I see," Lucy said with a crooked grin. "Well, we’re pretty tough wyrmlings ourselves, right? Ain’t that right, Big Wyrm?"

Gindu snorted. "I’m not Big Wyrm," he muttered under his breath.

Then, unexpectedly, Eri spoke.

"He’s just messing with you."

Her tone was still flat, her voice barely above a whisper—but it was something—a sign she was clawing her way back.

Lucy didn’t push it. Not yet.

He glanced around at the fog, at the silver grass bending under their feet. A thought itched at the back of his mind.

’If Seraph’s Hollow was under Nyxaris’ control at one point... then maybe Caelgor was her creation.’

He activated the Soul Thread, quietly weaving it toward Eri as he spoke aloud.

"I’ve been wondering... if Nyxaris ever controlled Seraph’s Hollow, I’d bet anything Caelgor was one of her pets."

Eri stiffened. Her breath caught. Through the link, Lucy felt it—panic. Fear. Recognition.

’Yeah. I was right,’ he thought. ’The statue—whatever it showed her—was tied to Nyxaris.’

Bruma’s voice cut in, low and thoughtful. "I’ve been thinking the same thing."

Lucy gave a sly grin. "Of course you have. It’s a brilliant conclusion. Only someone of exceptional intelligence—like me—could’ve made it."

Bruma grunted. "Modest, too."

Lucy pressed on. "But since we agree, let’s assume a few things. First, this fog? It’s Caelgorr’s ability. And I doubt its only functions are soldiers and poison. I’d bet my left arm it can do more—illusions, invulnerability, maybe worse. He hasn’t shown us everything yet. So keep your guard up.".

Then Carlos’s barking cut through the fog like a blade, sharp and urgent.

The mist moved.

Not drifted and not stirred. It twisted, rippled, and pulled together in front of them like a collapsing storm.

The silver fog condensed into a monstrous shape. Limbs stretched unnaturally from the haze, coalescing into long sinewy legs, claws of shadowed mist, and a hulking torso made from smoke and nightmares. Two glowing eyes flared open—icy blue, ancient and aware.

A massive shadow wolf, easily three times the size of the one Lucy had fought, loomed before them.

Its body shimmered between states—one second solid, the next a vapor cloud. The air thickened with cold pressure as it lowered its head and bared smoke-forged fangs. Its growl sounded like stone grinding in water.

Carlos stopped barking. He backed up, tail low, ears flat.

"That’s... not normal," Llarm whispered.

"No time for that. Scatter!" Lucy shouted, voice cutting through the haze.

The beast lunged, faster than its size should allow.

Bruma moved first, charging head-on, with her massive axe. She swung, the weapon cutting clean through the wolf’s head—but it dispersed into mist, reforming behind her before she finished her swing.

"Damn!" she cursed, spinning to defend.

Gindu roared, his scales sharpening into gleaming blue armor as he slid in beside her. He slashed with his claws, targeting the legs—only for them to vanish and reform behind him. The wolf’s tail lashed out and caught him in the chest, sending him flying into a tree with a crash.

"Lucy, it’s phasing!" Llarm shouted.

"No shit!" Lucy snapped back, hands igniting as he formed a fire cylinder, flames swirling in a spiraling vortex around his right arm. He launched it at the wolf’s core—this time, it struck before the body could fade, exploding into searing light. The creature howled, part of its chest dissipating into fog.

Eri darted in from the side, eyes cold, short sword gleaming. She slashed at its haunch and—by sheer timing—managed to draw a shallow cut across something real. A misty, black ichor hissed into the air.

"She’s hitting it! Time your strikes!" Lucy yelled.

Llarm lifted both hands, swirling wind gathering around his fingers. With a yell, he fired a concentrated blade of air that sheared through the wolf’s left leg. It flickered again—some parts dispersed, others held.

Then Fenric laughed—sharp, wild.

The scent of Gindu’s and the shadow wolf’s blood had triggered it. His pupils narrowed, claws out. "Oh yeah. It’s time," he snarled.

He sprinted forward, zigzagging as the wolf turned to meet him. It swiped—Fenric ducked under, leapt onto the creature’s back, and began tearing into its smoky body with frenzied strikes. Some passed through. Others hit something beneath the fog—something solid.

The wolf bucked, snarled, turned its head to bite, but Carlos raced in and snapped at its legs, yipping and darting with blazing speed, forcing it to stay off-balance.

The wolf began to back off, its shape flickering erratically, then suddenly dispersed completely, gone into the fog.

Silence again.

"What the hell was that?" Llarm muttered, panting.

Lucy scanned the mist. "An echo. A warning. Or maybe just a warm-up."

Bruma snorted. "Then we’re in deeper shit than I thought."

A low growl echoed from all around them.

It hadn’t fled.

It was watching.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Lucy saw movement.

Fenric.

His eyes had gone wide, slitted pupils razor-thin, glowing faintly. His posture was twisted and feral. Bloodlust radiated off him like heat from a forge. He wasn’t looking at the wolf.

He was stalking Gindu.

The dragonkin was beginning to stand, blood trailing down his armor in thick rivulets.

"Shit—"

Lucy moved.

In a blink, he was between them. Fenric lunged, claws raised for the kill—but Lucy’s hand shot up and struck the side of his neck with brutal precision. Fenric’s body stiffened, then crumpled, collapsing into Lucy’s arms.

Bruma blinked, confused. "What the hell was—?"

"He’s a blood junkie," Lucy said, lowering Fenric to the ground. "That scent triggered it. Can you hold him till he wakes up?"