The moment my hand lifted, the mist surged.
There was no more teasing. No more creeping tendrils or soft warnings. It erupted from beneath my feet like it had been waiting—hungry, furious, and eager to feed.
The first wave hit the front line of soldiers before they could react. Their shouts turned into shrieks as they began to panic. Skin blistered in seconds, bubbling like meat left too long in a pot. One man reached up to claw at his face and tore the flesh clean off with his own fingernails.
Someone retched. Someone else fell to their knees.
But I didn't move.
I didn't need to.
The mist was everywhere now—pouring between legs, coiling up backs, slipping into armor seams. It crawled beneath tunics and down into boots. It forced itself into mouths, into eyes, into lungs.
The scouting party in front of me screamed.
They begged.
They ran.
But no matter what they did, they still ended up dying anyway.
