Nothing dies clean in the fog — it only forgets its name.
—Whispers Of The West
Night lay heavy upon the road, settling over the riders like a weight they no longer had the strength to shrug off.
The fog clung to them long after they left the woods behind — trailing their horses, whispering against their cloaks, refusing to loosen its grip upon the men who had escaped it. No one spoke. No one dared. The night around War's End felt different now, as though the thing they fled had followed in silence, testing how close fear could ride to the fortress without crossing its walls.
The Commander's Hall, War's End Fortress
The gates of War's End opened to their torches with a groan that echoed into the mist, and the men rode in silence — no words, no laughter, only the weary rhythm of hooves and the dull weight of what they carried.
When they dismounted, the body was laid across a cart, shrouded in the same cloak that had failed to keep its owner warm. The fog followed them even into the yard, as though unwilling to be left behind.
The hall of command was lit by iron sconces that burned low, their flames thin and uncertain. The stone walls bore marks of old wars — cracks that had never been mended, banners faded to the color of old blood. Outside, the wind scraped against the shutters like claws.
Erwin stood before the long table, his cloak still damp from the mist. Behind him, two men carried the shrouded body they had brought from the woods. The cloth was stiff with frost, edges gleaming faintly where ice had gathered.
The Lord Commander watched in silence. He was a tall man, grey as the walls, his voice rarely raised above a murmur. When he finally spoke, it was without looking away from the bundle on the floor.
"Unwrap it."
Ren and Erik obeyed. The cloth peeled back with a sound like tearing paper. The corpse beneath looked neither wounded nor whole — skin pale as milk, eyes open but clouded white, lips blue and cracked. A thin frost clung to the lashes, though no snow had fallen in days.
No blood. No burns. No signs of struggle.
The Lord Commander stepped closer, his boots echoing faintly. "When did you find him?"
"Near the outer ridge," Erwin said. "About half a league past the mistline. No other bodies, only this one. His horse was still wandering nearby."
The Commander crouched, studying the corpse. "Frozen?"
"Not by weather," Erwin answered. "The ground was damp. No frost anywhere else."
A pause. The torches hissed.
"You're certain?"
"I've seen men frozen by the sea winds," Erwin said. "This is not that. Whatever did this took the life from him before the cold did."
The Lord Commander's gaze flicked toward Ren and Erik. "And the others? Witnesses?"
Ren shook his head. "The fog moved like it was alive, my lord. We heard nothing but the wind."
Erik swallowed. "There was something else out there," he said softly. "Something we couldn't see."
Silence followed, long and heavy. The Commander straightened at last. "Seal the body in the crypt," he ordered. "No fire. No rites. Until we know what killed him, none will touch the corpse again."
He turned to Erwin. "Double the watch on the western wall. No one rides beyond the ridge without my word."
"Yes, Commander."
As Erwin saluted, the Lord Commander's eyes lingered on the pale corpse one last time. The frost around its mouth seemed to glisten in the torchlight, as though it were whispering to itself.
"Whatever walks in that fog," the Commander said quietly, "it means to test our walls."
Erwin didn't reply. The air in the hall had grown colder. Even the torches seemed to burn slower.
Nightfall at War's End
Sleep would not come to Erik.
The wind had changed.
It hissed through the cracks of the barracks like something searching — slow, measured, almost breathing. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fog again, curling and whispering, and the man's frozen face staring up from the mud.
He turned on his cot, pulling the blanket tighter, but the cold still crept in, thin as smoke. Around him, the others slept — Ren among them, still and calm, as though born to silence. A candle guttered near the door, its flame shivering without air.
Erik sat up. The wind outside was stronger now, moaning through the narrow windows. It came in waves — three slow pulses, then a pause. The same rhythm he'd heard in the marsh. The same rhythm that had moved through the fog like breath.
He rose quietly, boots whispering against the floorboards, and stepped outside.
The courtyard lay drowned in half-light, snow beginning to fall in thin, ghostly strands. The watchfires burned low, their embers red as dying eyes. Somewhere in the stables, a horse snorted and stamped once — then silence again.
Erik looked toward the western gate. Beyond it stretched the black expanse of the hills, and somewhere beyond that, the sea. The air carried the faint tang of salt.
He told himself the cold was only wind, the whispers only memory. But when he listened closer, he could swear the wind shaped his name — soft, curious, almost kind.
"Erik…"
His breath caught. He gripped the railing of the wall walk until his knuckles whitened.
From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement beyond the walls — pale shapes adrift between the trees, gone the instant he looked full upon them.
He whispered to the empty air, "You can't have me."
Only the wind answered — the same rhythm, the same breath.
Three long sighs, then stillness.
The snow fell heavier. Somewhere far off, a horn sounded once, low and mournful.
War's End slept on.
But the night was listening.