The fog rolled in from the Whispering Groves like a living thing, thick and cloying, swallowing the morning sun until the world existed only in shades of gray. Moisture hung heavy in the air, beading on leaves and cloaks alike, turning every breath into a cool, damp inhale that carried the sharp pungency of wild herbs and decaying undergrowth. The ground was soft, spongy with moss that squelched faintly underfoot, releasing earthy scents that mingled with the distant rot of fallen trunks.
Riven moved through it all with deliberate silence, his cloak blending seamlessly into the mist. The voidstone mask felt heavier today, the faint pulse of its crimson veins a steady reminder against his skin. Nyxara walked beside him—close enough that her incense aura cut through the fog's chill, myrrh and midnight blooms wrapping around him like invisible threads.
She had approached him at dawn in the guild hall, parchment in hand: a joint quest for rare shadowbloom petals, deep in the groves. Alchemists paid well for them; enchanters prized their essence for binding rituals. He had accepted without a word, sliding the notice across the counter. She had followed, her steps light but insistent, gown rustling over the uneven path.
Now, hours in, the groves lived up to their name. Whispers seemed to ride the wind—faint rustles of leaves, distant bird calls that echoed strangely, the occasional snap of a twig under unseen weight. Visibility was low; shapes loomed and vanished in the swirling vapor.
Nyxara consulted her map frequently, a weathered scroll unfurled in pale hands. Her obsidian hair clung damply to her neck and shoulders, strands framing her porcelain face where amethyst eyes narrowed in concentration. The velvet gown, impractical for terrain like this, hugged her curves relentlessly—the deep plunge of its neckline shifting with each step, revealing glimpses of creamy cleavage that rose and fell with her breaths.
"These blooms favor the mist's heart," she said, voice soft and poetic, carrying over the fog's muffling embrace. "Where shadows pool deepest. We should veer north—past the old oak sentinel."
Riven glanced at the map over her shoulder. His presence loomed; she shifted slightly, breath catching as his cloak brushed her arm. "East," he corrected quietly. "The ridge curves. North loops back."
She paused, tilting the scroll. A faint flush colored her cheeks—barely visible in the gray light. "Ah... yes. The ink has run a touch. My error."
They pressed on. The fog thickened, clammy against exposed skin, beading on his mask and trickling down in cold trails. Nyxara's breaths grew more noticeable—short, erratic puffs that warmed the air between them when she leaned close to point out markers: a twisted root here, a cluster of pale fungi there.
The blooms eluded them at first. They searched in widening circles, parting ferns that released sharp, green scents, fingers brushing damp soil. Nyxara knelt often, gown pooling around her plush thighs, fishnet stockings snagging on thorns. She plucked samples carefully, murmuring incantations under her breath—arcane words that hummed faintly in the mist.
At one point, she paused dramatically, vial in hand. "A ritual for fortune," she declared, eyes gleaming. "To draw the shadows' favor."
From her pouch, she drew a length of black silk ribbon, embroidered with faint runes. She stepped close—too close—her scent overwhelming now, spiced elixirs on her breath. Her fingers trembled as she looped the ribbon around his wrist, tying it with deliberate slowness. The fabric was cool, smooth, gliding over his skin before knotting tight. Her touch lingered, digits quaking against his pulse.
"Binds luck to the seeker," she whispered, voice laced with something deeper. Her amethyst gaze lifted to his mask, searching the hollow sockets.
Riven held still. The ribbon's pressure was light but insistent—a subtle restraint. Heat stirred unbidden, but he pushed it down. "Effective?" he asked.
She smiled, sly and vulnerable. "We shall see."
They continued. The mist played tricks—shapes shifting at the edges of vision, sounds distorting. Nyxara rambled softly about the blooms' properties: how their petals could anchor spells, weave illusions, or heighten senses in potions. Her words flowed like verses, poetic and enigmatic, filling the quiet spaces.
Then came the misstep.
She consulted the map once more, brow furrowed. "This way—through the hollow."
Riven eyed the terrain—a dip hidden in fog, deceptive in its depth. "Careful."
She stepped forward confidently—and the ground gave way.
A startled gasp escaped her as she sank, mud sucking greedily at her legs with wet, obscene sounds. The gown clung instantly, sodden velvet molding to her voluptuous form like a second skin. She flailed, map fluttering away, and plunged waist-deep into the sludge pit—a hidden bog fed by underground springs.
The mud was thick, cold, smelling of stagnant water and rich decay. It bubbled faintly around her, pulling with insistent greed.
Nyxara's eyes widened, porcelain face flushing deep crimson. "Shadows devour—it's deeper than—"
Riven was there in an instant. He extended a gloved hand, planting his boots firmly on solid edge. "Grab hold."
She reached, fingers slipping once in the muck before clasping his. Her grip was desperate, nails digging through leather. He pulled—steady, unyielding—muscles coiling under his vest as he hauled her free inch by inch.
The extraction was messy. Mud slurped and released with loud, embarrassing pops. She emerged gasping, gown utterly drenched and translucent in patches, clinging obscenely to her curves. The plunging neckline sagged heavier, revealing the full swell of her E-cup breasts, pale skin smeared with dark streaks. Water and sludge traced rivulets down her cinched waist, over wide hips, snaking along plush thighs where fishnet stockings tore in places.
She stumbled against him, body pressed close for balance—soft, chilled, trembling. Her breaths came ragged, warm against his cloak, tasting faintly of spiced panic when she stammered apologies.
"I—I misread the contours. The fog obscured... forgive my clumsiness. I am no ranger."
Riven steadied her with one arm, the ribbon on his wrist brushing her skin. Her weight was substantial yet yielding, curves molding briefly to his frame before she pulled back, flustered. Mud dripped from her hair, plopping softly to the ground.
He released her once she stood steady. "Path clear now."
She wrung out her gown futilely, fabric squelching, cheeks burning hotter. The mist hid little; every movement accentuated her form—the jiggle of breasts straining wet velvet, the sway of hips as she shifted weight.
They found the blooms shortly after, clustered in a shadowed hollow where the fog pooled deepest. Petals like black velvet, edged in faint crimson glow. Nyxara harvested them carefully, fingers still shaking, murmuring thanks to unseen forces.
As they retraced steps toward the town's edge, Riven's mind wandered inward.
Whispers in the guild hall that morning—overheard fragments about a rising party from the east. Vespera's group. Still climbing ranks, taking high-reward quests with unnatural ease. Riding the momentum of tactics he'd forged, strategies he'd perfected. Her name on lips again, twisted with praise she hadn't earned.
Hatred simmered, cold and focused.
Direct vengeance tempted—track them now, end it swiftly. His hands around her throat, watching the light fade as she realized her mistake.
But no.
That was too merciful. Too quick.
They profited from his brilliance still. Let them climb higher on stolen wings. He would surpass them—ascend ranks deliberately, become untouchable, the pinnacle adventurer whose name eclipsed theirs utterly. Then, when they reached for greater glory, he would strip it away. Make them beg. Make them suffer isolation, failure, the slow erosion of everything they'd taken.
Only then would he end her.
The decision settled like iron in his chest. Resolve sharpened.
Nyxara glanced at him sidelong, amethyst eyes curious. "You are quiet, even for shadows."
He met her gaze through the mask. "Planning."
She nodded, accepting. The ribbon on his wrist tightened faintly in the breeze—a subtle bind.
The fog began to lift as they neared the groves' edge, sunlight piercing in golden shafts. But deeper murmurs lingered, echoing in the mist behind them.
And in Riven's veins.