Death in the mist
There’s barely time to wash the scent of the nightly encounter off, don my old clothes—freshly laundered and pressed—and head to the courtyard.
The crowds are cheering behind the steel-plated lines of Unseelie soldiers, their armor sparkling in the rays of the morning sun. Banners with the coat of arms of the crown fly in the warm breeze, and the royal couple is already walking among the contestants. Gale waves at me when our eyes lock. The Odryssian man and the blonde woman at his side watch me like hawks. Betting those two have some sinister plan. The prince is there too, standing tall before his knights in black armor, his face cold and beautiful.
Mage Aernysse Stargaze emerges, her white hair shimmering pink in the rays of the morning sun. Silence sweeps the crowds as she raises her frail arms.
“You are all wondering what the next task will be,” she says with a dramatic smile, revealing rows of sharp, black teeth. “The Elders revealed it to me during my meditation at the River of Fire. You will be escorted to the Bone Coast, where you are charged with finding the Candle of Azalyah.”
A murmur ripples through the courtyard. Not much is known about the Seelie Princess Azalyah, who lived on one of the islands around the Cradle long before the Hex. She loved reading so much that she often spent her nights lost in a book. Someone gifted her a magical blue-flamed candle, which, once lightened with enchanted light, can burn forever. It’s been rumored that its light would probably hold Shadowfeeders at bay, but as it’s been lost for centuries, nobody knew for sure except, obviously, Aernysse Stargaze.
“May the Elders be with you.” Her voice, rasped by the centuries, scares the birds from the roofs nearby.
This voice—
Recognition paralyzes me. This was the voice from the Room of Reflections. So this is what Aeidas meant. The hag has some sinister agenda of her own.
Black, windowless carriages pull over into the courtyard, and we are all herded to different vehicles that will take us to random parts of the Bone Coast.
Finally, I will get to see the sea. Will it sound like the shell Mother owned?
The monotonous sound of the wheels and the hoofs pulls me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
As soon as the carriage comes to a screeching stop, the door swings open, letting in swirls of fog and some odd, putrid smell. There are hot springs close to the Bone Coast if my memories from Friar Ben’s geography classes were right. The water has healing properties and there were many bathhouses and beautiful villas here before. Nobody is mad enough to wander this Elders-forsaken place anymore. The hot spring water spills over the even area of the coast now, creating treacherous swamps that swallow the poor shipwrecked who survived the deceiving waters of the bay.
The carriage disappears into the white shroud, leaving me alone. A lonely howl drags into the night.
I shudder. Welcome to the Bone Coast.
The fog is so thick it feels almost palpable, consuming all sounds. How to search for a magical artifact here when I can barely see my own feet?
After a few uncertain steps, a faint sound reaches me. It reminds me of cinnamon-flavored milk and evenings around the fireplace while Father is reading, and Mother is braiding my hair; it reminds me of a certain magical seashell that made this sound when pressed against the ear.
The sea!
The grass beneath my feet gives way to rocks, and when the moon rises somewhere above the mists, my boots are sinking in fine sand. The sea breeze picks up, clearing the fog around me, and the sound of the surf grows louder.
There it is, powerful and endless, foam framing each wave biting the shore. The moon extends a silvery path over the unruly water, daring me to enter. Shipwrecks stretch their bones out of the indigo waters, a morbid reminder of just how treacherous the bay is. Their skeletal remains stretch into the horizon, the distance between them dotted with dark, swirling holes—the legendary maelstroms of the Bone Coast. Nowadays, ships sail protected by multiple magical beacons against the long nights and captains make sure they avoid the dangerous bay. Yet, the currents are so powerful that sometimes they are sucked in and crushed against the razor-sharp rocks.
Debris are scattered all over the moonlit beach: crates, rotting boats, and even some ships broken and torn as if by some unknown sea leviathan.
Maybe the relic is somewhere here? Searching all these piles would be time-consuming. What’s more disturbing is that there’s no sign of magic around, no light buzzing in the air, no metallic taste in my mouth.
The moisture of the sea air soaks my clothes and hair, and the evening breeze makes me shiver. Nights around here seem to be cold. I’m poking the piles of rubble around, overturning boats, opening rotting crates, and disturbing colonies of crawling, wiggling coastal creatures, but there is nothing. There are many corpses around—skeletons picked clean by the animals, their bones still covered in tattered remains of clothing are scattered around. In the hollowed chest of one of them still sticks a rusty dagger—the last witness of some unknown tragedy. I pull it out, pleased with my find. Its blade is dull but still potentially useful. It’s a small comfort in this hopeless landscape.
My feet are already aching when I near the hot springs, their putrid smell stinging my nose. The fog still lingers here, reaching to the middle of my calves. A distant howl sends chills down my spine. This isn’t an ordinary wolf. The normal wolves have adapted to the long nights and learned that they should remain silent if they want to live. This beast is probably tainted, so if I don’t perish by its fangs, its taint will turn me into one of the Shadowfeeders’ thralls. The hair on my nape and arms lifts.
A low growl reverberates through the mist just behind my back, and cold sweat trickles down my back. From the dark veils of the fog emerges a wolf. Its eyes glow a menacing red, its fur hanging in tattered patches, its teeth bared in a snarl. There’s a shamble in its step, a certain mindless ferocity that confirms what I feared. This is definitely a Tainted One.
The wolf lunges, jaws snapping shut with a sickening crunch where I stood just a heartbeat before. I roll to the side, the cold ground scraping my arms, breath choking in my throat. I’ve landed badly and pain explodes in my shoulder, sharp and unrelenting, threatening to drag me under. Every muscle screams as I scramble to my feet, my vision blurring with the effort. The beast is already recovering, its glowing eyes locking onto me.
Panic has never saved a life.
The monster is much stronger, but I have other advantages. All Tainted creatures are husks driven by mindless ferocity. They’re easy to trick.
I call upon my magic, and the silvery waters inside me weave an illusion around me to blur my form. The wolf hesitates, confused by the sudden distortion.
My limbs trembling, I hurl an illusion of myself charging at the beast. The demonic wolf snarls and leaps at it, passing through the phantom form and landing in a heap of confusion. Taking advantage of its disorientation, I close the distance, the dagger clutched tightly in my hand.
