Chapter 1

The fog’s thicker than usual today.

Not just thick — strange. It breathes heavy, staring back at me through the crooked branches.

I often catch myself thinking it hides something. Not just the land. Something else. Could be fatigue, I guess. Your mind plays tricks after years walking the same damn paths, carrying letters you’re not supposed to read. But the feeling never fades.

Old tales say the fog is protection. That it saved us in the war. That without it, we’d be long dead — or worse.

Elves love that kind of poetry. It’s comfortable. Mythical. Like some heavy old blanket that makes you feel safe while you rot underneath.

Today I look at it and think: What if it’s just waiting for us to grow weak?

The city’s close. I’ve walked this road maybe a thousand times. And yet something’s off. Maybe it’s the silence — stretched too long, pulling at the mind like threads. Annoying in how quiet it is.

There’s a letter in my satchel. Routine work: one important elf sending words to another. A seal. A ribbon. The smell of parchment, ink, and wax. Strict orders — do not open. But I did. Carefully. Respectfully. With a sort of ritual. Zander’s knife, heat from the stone, a single precise motion — like it never happened.

But I can’t read the old tongue. Only guess. Once, everyone spoke it. Now? Maybe the Principal. A few high priests. Maybe some ancient bastards who’ve outlived their usefulness. Not that I’ve met any.

We’ve learned to stay wary. Too much left untended. Wolves come closer to the roads. Goblins — rarer, but still around. Even saw a flesh-eater once. No joke — half-dead things that crawled from the swamp not long ago. Good thing I wasn’t alone that time.

Bernessa, who sometimes takes my route when I’m out, told me she saw a ghost. Her stories are usually a bit... stretched. But this time, she spoke quietly. Took a long pause after. That unsettled me more than the tale itself.

I know enough to fight. Wouldn’t call myself a master, but I handle a blade fine. Bow too. Always been enough. But if ghosts are real — they laugh at steel. And maybe they’re right to.

The fog held its ground. So did I.

***

It was already dark, but through the pale web of mist and the occasional drifting leaf, I could make out the entrance to the city — a scar in the mountain’s flesh. Hidden in the rock, nearly invisible to the untrained eye, it was guarded not from the curious... but from those who came with purpose.

One of the wardens was Madelina. She had never seen even her own shadow — but she could sense unwanted guests long before they crossed the horizon.

“By order of the Hideout Guard, stop and identify yourself.”

Oh, here we go...

She clearly hadn’t forgotten my past idiocies.

“Of course. Not another step, as you can see. Name’s Kai. Messenger of the Principal.”

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Damn it. Why did I do that again? Why do I always feel the need to crack a joke with her, of all elves?

Too late now. Play it through.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” she asked flatly.

“I carry a letter for the Principal, from High Priest Odvel of the Temple of Ére. Urgent delivery.” I held out the envelope as if Madelina could see it. Idiot. “Here — sealed and signed URGENT. Can you see it clearly?”

She’s definitely going to break something this time.

Last time, I barely avoided fractured ribs trying to sneak past her — and that was her being gentle.

“Empty your pockets. Check for anything forbidden or dangerous.” Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “You do look suspicious for a simple courier.”

Damn. That hit a bit too hard.

“Ha. Courier — that’s a new one. I’ve been a scammer, a sneak, a lackey... but courier, Madelina? That’s a low blow.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood tonight, sneak. But you’re one sentence away from losing that privilege and getting your ass handed to you.”

Yeah, time to stop.

I teased the other guards out of boredom. Her? I teased because I still wanted to feel close — in any way that was left. We grew up together. Studied. Were close, in our own strange way. Not siblings. Not lovers. More like... the annoying one who never stopped poking, and the quiet one who sometimes let it slide.

But after she took her oath, we drifted. Far. Sometimes I wish I could get it back — even just with a word. But I’m terrible at it.

“Thank you for your mercy, my lady warden. I shall go about my business while you bravely watch with both your...”

“May all the Gods forgive me — I swear I’ll cut you to pieces, you insufferable bastard!”

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean! Shit!”

I barely ducked in time — the blade sang through the air just above my head. Didn’t wait for a second swing. Bolted into the tunnel at full speed.

She shouted something after me, but I couldn’t make it out — the wind in my ears drowned everything.

I ran. And laughed. And maybe regretted it a little.

***

The mountain ridge under which Hideout was built had always looked to me like the spine of some sleeping beast — vast, cold, eternal. The cliffs wrapped around our land like claws, and beyond them stretched the endless Northern Sea.

A cradle. A fortress. A trap. Depends who you ask.

Since I was a child, I climbed the sharpest ridges, where the stone cut your palms and the mist wasn’t as thick. Where the haze ended — the view began. Back then I thought I was looking for adventure. Maybe I just wanted to disappear on purpose.

And now I was home. From the stairs that led down from the tunnel, the whole city revealed itself. Evening pressed on it with shadows, but what we called the night sky wasn’t real — it was magic. An illusion crafted by the priests at the Principal’s command: a perfect copy of stars, clouds, and moonlight, so the citizens wouldn’t lose track of time. And maybe — so they’d have something to look at besides stalactites tearing at their eyes.

Beneath that artificial sky lay Hideout — an underground stronghold with the bones of stone and the heart of elven stubbornness. The supporting columns descended from nowhere, silent and massive, like frozen black ice. The air was just as I remembered it: damp earth, cold rock, and the faintest scent of smoke from chimney vents.

The city glowed faintly. The stone was local — black, gleaming in places, streaked with marble and onyx. The buildings rose in spires, as if trying to pierce the ceiling and escape into the real sky. Windows were narrow, like predator’s eyes. Some homes had none at all. Elves here trusted their ears. Even those who’d never served in the Guard remembered: hearing something first could mean staying alive.

The streets were narrow, straight, paved with stone. Each one — familiar. I used to run barefoot here, fall, fight with other kids... Now I walked, listening to the echo of my own footsteps against the stone. The streetlights looked like crossed blades. They burned dimly, as if reluctant to give up flame. Still — enough. There were more than enough shadows here already.

The central square dropped down in wide, shallow steps. In the center stood the same fountain I always stared at from afar. Not water — lightning. Alive. Slow. I used to sit for hours, trying to decode the engravings on the bowls: ancestors, battles, loss, prayers.

Above the square rose the Hall of the Principal. Towering. Silent. Covered in spires that clawed at the sky. By the entrance crouched the panther statues. Stone. Icy-eyed.

As a child, I feared them. Now? I’d almost gotten used to it.

Almost.

That’s where I was heading. The city moved at its own slow pace. Lone figures drifted through the streets like shadows.

No one shouted. No one ran. Elves here didn’t rush. Voices only if necessary. Silence was natural. Silence was a weapon.

And still...

Despite the stone, the cold, the constant tension — elves lived here. They ate, danced, swore, loved. This was home. And even in the deepest darkness, there was still something beautiful to be seen here.

Especially when that beauty carried a sword. And could find you in a crowd from a single breath you let slip.