The man in the fog
The fog came earlier than usual.
Not rolling in like weather. Not drifting like morning mist. It seeped — slow and thick, as if the world exhaled something it had hidden for too long.
Caelan Reyes stood beneath a campus lamppost, his breath visible despite the mild temperature. The lights above buzzed faintly. A hollow sound. As if something heavier pressed against the air.
He wasn't supposed to be out this late. But he couldn't stay inside. Not after last night. Not after the dreams.
And certainly not after the pendant had burned.
Now, it pulsed again. Not hot. Not cold. Just present. Like it was waiting.
He rubbed his thumb over the sun-and-moon design and turned toward the sculpture garden. The shortest path back to his dorm.
The fog thickened.
Then stilled.
Then parted.
And in the break stood a man.
---
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply watched.
Wrapped in a long coat, his form almost blending with the fog. A wide-brimmed hat concealed his face. He stood beneath a dead tree, like he'd been there for centuries.
Caelan froze.
The pendant burned cold against his chest.
He wanted to ask, Who are you?
He wanted to run.
But his legs didn't move. His breath didn't rise.
Then — the man lifted his hand.
Palm open. A gesture of recognition, not threat.
And in that moment, Caelan felt something ancient shift behind his eyes. Like a window cracked just enough to let memory slip in.
And the man vanished.
---
Fog filled the space where he had stood. But Caelan knew — something had looked at him. Seen him. Not as a student. Not as an orphan. Not even as a man.
Something deeper. Older.
He backed away slowly. Then turned and ran.
---
Back in his apartment, Caelan locked the door and paced the room. The pendant still pulsed, rhythm steady.
He sat on the edge of his bed, head in hands.
"Am I losing it?"
But when he looked up, the bathroom mirror across the room shimmered.
He stood.
Walked to it slowly.
And for a heartbeat, his reflection wasn't alone.
Behind him, wrapped in mist and silver light, knelt a woman in armor. Her eyes were the same color as moonlight on water. She didn't speak. But her gaze pierced through him like a blade.
And her lips formed words he did not hear, but understood.
> "Caelan Duskwither."
He gasped—and the mirror was just glass again.
His knees hit the floor.
---
Far beyond the veil...
The throne room of Kael Noctaryn — the Citadel of Night — glowed with cold candlelight.
Kael stood alone, facing a mirror of black glass.
"He has seen the Fogman," he said aloud.
Behind him, Countess Viremont approached, red cloak trailing behind her.
"Then the veil weakens."
Kael nodded once. "The blood knows itself. Even if the boy does not."
---
In the forests of the eastern wilds, Raen Wyrmholt sat cross-legged on a stone surrounded by Hollowfang shamans.
One poured ash into the fire. It hissed purple.
"The fog touched him," the shaman said. "The Watcher moved."
Raen grinned. "Good. Let Kael watch. I will act."
He rose to his feet. "Find the gateway. Send a guide."
---
That night, Caelan woke to his phone buzzing.
The screen flickered. A message appeared, from a number with no contact name:
> He cannot yet cross. But you saw him.
The Fog watches only the blooded.
A second message followed, slower this time.
> You are beginning to matter, Caelan Duskwither.
He dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a quiet thud.
"Duskwither…" he whispered.
He didn't know what the name meant.
But it felt like a memory buried in his bones.
Outside, the fog pressed against his windows like a living thing.
Waiting.
---