Shlok's body still trembled. His lungs burned as though he had run for miles, though he had barely taken ten steps since the fight. Every part of him screamed for rest, for escape, for the safety of his bed, his world.
But there was no bed. No train station. No escape. Only the mist.
The scarred woman studied him in silence, lantern light painting her face in ghostly hues. She carried herself like someone who had stood in this nightmare a thousand times and had long since stopped being surprised.
Finally, she spoke.
"Name."
Shlok blinked at her. "W-what?"
"Your name. If you want me to keep you alive, I'll need to call you something."
"…Shlok."
She nodded once. "Veyra."
The name hung in the mist, clipped and sharp. She turned, the lantern's glow stretching ahead into the fog. "Come. We can't linger. The Shroud feeds on stillness."
He stumbled after her, legs heavy as stone. His mind churned with questions, but only one managed to break free.
"What is this place?"
"The Shroud," she said simply. "A veil between your world and the Dominion Beyond. Born from fear, death, hatred. Every human feeds it. Most just don't realize it."
Shlok swallowed hard. "And those things? The— the Whisper, the Phantom—"
"Manifestations," Veyra said. "Fear given flesh. The more people fear something, the stronger it becomes. Whispers are scraps. Phantoms are the echoes of collective trauma. And above them…" She paused. Her voice dropped lower. "…are the things even I would rather not name."
They walked in silence for a moment, the fog curling tighter, the silence pressing down.
Shlok's voice cracked. "Why me? Why did that… shard appear in my hand? Why did I—" He broke off, staring at his palm, half-expecting the jagged blade to sprout again.
Veyra glanced back at him, eyes narrowing. "Because you Awakened."
He frowned. "Awakened into what?"
Her lantern flared, shadows scattering at the edges of its glow. "Into what we are. The Awakened. People who can see the Shroud, touch it, shape it. You manifested your fear into a weapon. That makes you one of us."
Shlok shook his head. "I didn't choose this."
"No one does." Veyra's tone was flat, but not unkind. "The Shroud chooses. Most never survive their first encounter. The fact that you did means you have a chance."
"A chance at what?"
She stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The lantern flame caught her scar, making it look deeper, crueler.
"A chance to decide if your fear makes you strong… or if it eats you alive."
Shlok opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Veyra crouched and picked something off the ground. She held it up — another obsidian shard, faintly pulsing like the one in his pocket.
"Fragments," she said. "The essence of what you kill. They resonate with us. Collect enough, and you can forge them into tools, armor, power. Or…" Her gaze sharpened. "…you let them forge you. That's how most Awakened die. Or worse."
The shard shimmered faintly, and Shlok felt it tug at the one he carried. The hunger in his pocket stirred, answering the call.
Veyra crushed the shard in her fist. It dissolved into smoke that vanished into her skin. For a heartbeat, the lantern flame flared brighter.
"You'll learn soon enough," she said, straightening. "For now, know this: there are three rules that keep you alive in the Shroud."
Her eyes locked onto his, pale and unyielding.
"First: Never let your fear run wild. If you can't control it, the Shroud will control you."
"Second: Never linger where the mist thickens. The stronger ones hunt there."
"Third…" She raised her lantern, its pale fire burning steady. "…never trust a voice in the fog. Not even your own."
The silence deepened. Somewhere in the mist, something laughed.
Veyra turned sharply, lantern flaring. "We move. Now."
Shlok followed, every instinct screaming at him to stop asking questions. But the weight of her words burrowed into his chest, heavier than the shard in his pocket.
He had Awakened.
And the Shroud had no intention of letting him go.