Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Artifacts and Expectations

Our trek to the Blackthorn family estate drew plenty of curious, disbelieving stares. In District 98, we did not rely on engine-powered carts, even for high-ranking officers—unlike District 99, where people sometimes used those slow, smoke-belching carts. Here, walking was our only choice, woven into the daily rhythm of our lives. The dusty road crackled under my bare feet with every step. I doubted the Captain of the Chainrunners—Lirien, my adoptive mother—minded the attention. She strode with steady purpose, as though she welcomed the weight of so many eyes.

I glanced over at her, raising my voice to be heard above the low murmur of passersby. "Why couldn't we discuss my mission at the Chainrunners' headquarters?"

She answered in a brisk tone, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. "The walls have eyes and ears. I want this private."

Her words stuck with me, strange and baffling. I scrunched up my face, trying to picture it. Walls with eyes and ears? Did that mean the Chainrunners' headquarters was built with magic stones that could peek and listen? I thought back to those big, gray walls—smooth and quiet, not a single eye blinking or ear flapping anywhere. Maybe they were hidden, I wondered, like some old artifact the Captain knew about and I didn't. She'd been in charge forever, after all. She'd probably seen a wall wink at her once or twice. I shrugged, letting the mystery bounce around in my head like a lost marble

For her, privacy seemed essential before we said anything too critical or dangerous. Dain walked alongside us, silent and watchful, a steady presence completing our trio. Then Lirien gave a short, crisp command: "Don't speak of it until I say so."

I nodded, swallowing the questions that burned in my mind. Instead, we used the time to cover safer topics—snippets of District 98's day-to-day life since I left for the fog. Her voice softened, but not entirely. She recounted the recent Chainrunner run that went badly. "There were losses," she said, her jaw tight. "We had to abandon our cargo—batteries."

I could tell it weighed on her. Batteries were vital to maintaining Araksiun's facilities, and since District 95 fell, their price had surged. Only one district still produced them, and everyone else had to ration every unit. Losing a shipment meant more than wasted credits; it meant months of weaker lighting, fewer resources, and above all, lost lives. Their blood had once again soaked into the fog's merciless domain.

I recalled the Dawnbreak Bow, the only truly powerful artifact they possessed. Its arrows could slay countless monsters, yet even it hadn't been enough on that doomed run. The thought left a heavy chill in my chest.

Lirien's voice cut through my brooding. Her gaze flicked to me as we walked. "We need to get you in proper clothing soon. And probably lose that ominous cloak of yours."

At her words, Hazeveil stirred on my shoulders. A subtle ripple traced its tattered edges, almost like a protest brushing against my skin. This cloak was my companion, my constant shadow. I lifted my chin, returning her stare. "I don't mind wearing more clothes, but this is my companion. I won't get rid of it."

The statement dropped into the conversation with an undeniable weight. Lirien's brow shot up, and Dain's broad shoulders tensed beside her. "Companion?" she repeated, sounding both skeptical and intrigued. "What do you mean?"

I stood my ground. "I said it's my companion. I won't leave it behind. His name is Hazeveil, and he doesn't appreciate what you said." There was a quiet defiance in my voice, fueled by the hooded cloak that had shielded me in the fog.

Lirien's lips twitched, a hint of amusement crossing her stern features. "He? Hazeveil? Not Kara?"

I stiffened at that name, my breath catching. "What? You know about Kara?" My surprise slipped out, raw and unguarded.

"Of course I do," she replied, as though it were obvious. "She's your imaginary friend, right? The butler and some of your trainers mentioned you speaking to her."

A flicker of irritation pricked me. Those early days in the Blackthorn estate came rushing back—the butler trailing my steps, trainers drilling me. Sometimes I had spoken to Kara out loud. It felt natural, her voice too real to keep inside my head. Once, the butler overheard me mid-conversation. "Kara," I'd said, offering no more. Clearly, they had all reported back to Lirien.

"She's not imaginary," I snapped, louder than I intended, my words echoing off cracked stone walls. "Kara is real. She can hear you right now."

Lirien's usually stern face wavered with a flicker of doubt. Dain's gaze shifted from her to me, uncertainty etched in his silence. Then Lirien broke the tension, her tone dry. "So your new friend is… this cloak?"

She didn't believe me. But in my mind, Hazeveil was every bit as real as the ground under my feet. "Yes," I said, more calmly this time, unyielding in my stance. "And I won't throw it away."

A faint trail of mana curled into the air with my words, hinting at some deeper power I couldn't fully explain. Lirien's eyes widened, and Dain tilted his head, both of them visibly affected. They nodded, almost simultaneously, as though compelled.

"I don't see a problem," Lirien said finally, her tone easing into acceptance. "As long as you wear something underneath it. And some boots."

I glanced down at my bare feet, the dirt-stained soles a stark contrast to the polished boots of those around me. It hadn't even crossed my mind. In the fog, my boots had been the first to shred, torn apart by jagged stone and relentless damp. Barefoot, I'd learned to feel the earth—each shift, each tremble—my awareness stretching further without the dulling barrier of leather. Here, though, appearances mattered. I understood that, even if I didn't like it. I gave a small nod, conceding silently.

But her earlier words gnawed at me, a quiet irritation flaring in my chest. Imaginary friends. As if I were still a small child, clinging to dreams instead of facing reality. I wasn't that boy anymore—I'd walked the fog, survived its jaws. Yet even I couldn't deny the strangeness of my own habits. I remembered the times I'd tried speaking to the dead, or murmured to an ancient tree. Perhaps it wasn't so strange that Lirien would question my mental state. Yet I knew the truth: Kara and Hazeveil were real to me, whether she believed it or not.

…

The Blackthorn estate came into view, its jagged outline rising through the dim haze of District 98. As we approached, the butler—a man who had shadowed me from the day Lirien first claimed me as her son until the moment I disappeared into the fog—stopped in his tracks. The lines on his face, etched by years of silent service, tightened with recognition.

"Young master Omen," he managed, his voice trembling as if I were a ghost risen from the mist. The servants bustling around the grand hall mirrored his shock, their whispers rippling through the space. Our reunion, however, was swift. Lirien motioned us inside with a sharp gesture, her boots clicking on the polished stone floor as she led us to what she called a soundproof room.

"No ears or eyes in these walls," she said in a low, firm voice, as if daring the stones themselves to prove her wrong.

Her words only deepened the riddle gnawing at me. I'd puzzled over her earlier warning about the Chainrunners' headquarters, but now this? Were all the walls of District 98 alive with unseen watchers, lurking like beasts bred from the fog? My skin prickled, my senses flaring instinctively, honed by years of dodging shadows in the fog. I half-expected the painted plaster to lunge at me, teeth bared and claws gleaming. Lirien offered no explanation, her silence suggesting this was common knowledge—something I, the fog-touched outsider, should've grasped. I kept my guard up, my breath shallow, ready to wrestle a wall if it dared move.

She sent a servant off with a curt order: "Fetch Tarin and the others." Then we waited, tension filling the silence. No one spoke. My gaze drifted over the room's portraits—stern Blackthorn ancestors staring out, their oil-painted eyes heavy with disapproval. One stood out: Lirien, her jaw set as firmly in paint as in real life, beside a man I assumed was her husband. My father, I supposed, though the word felt awkward, like an ill-fitting cloak.

I tried to accept it—Lirien as my mother, him as my father—but the idea slipped away, as elusive as fog through my fingers. She was just Lirien to me, a bond of family but tinged with duty, not warmth. As for him, I knew only that he had died in the fog on some artifact hunt, the same sort of pursuit that drove me now. Whatever relic he had carried was lost with him, swallowed by the fog. It had become an old scar for the Blackthorns, and Lirien was already leading the family and the Chainrunners when it happened.

The door creaked open, revealing just three uncles—gruff older men in worn Chainrunner cloaks—and Tarin, my brother. He hesitated as he stepped in, nearly tripping over the threshold, his eyes locking onto me. For a second, he stood still, like he'd seen something impossible. "Is that who I think it is?" he asked, his voice shaky, uncertain.

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Lirien gave a short nod, confirming it without fuss. Tarin moved toward me fast, arms half-raised like he might hug me, but he caught Lirien's steady gaze nearby and stopped. Instead, he stuck out his hand. I took it, feeling the roughness of his palm. "It's been a long time," he said, his words heavy. "I thought you were dead. Meris kept saying you couldn't die, but I didn't believe her… Guess I was wrong. It's good to see you again."

I said, "It's good to be back," trying to keep my voice calm. "I'm sorry for worrying everyone." The apology tasted bitter, heavy with the guilt of leaving them behind all those years. Still, it felt good to know Meris had never lost faith in me

With everyone gathered, Lirien decided to speak. "You've been gone a long time," she said, her voice measured. "I want you to hear what's been happening since you left to search for artifacts."

"You must understand by now that most people see us, the Chainrunners, as mere couriers," Lirien said, her voice steady as she leaned forward, hands braced on the table. "Running supplies between districts, fighting fog beasts to keep the wards linked." It was a lesson I'd learned well in Elina's advanced class.

She straightened, her gaze distant for a moment. "But our true purpose—the one people keep forgetting—is to fight the fog, to explore it, to find a way to break free. We can't let them forget that, no matter the risks. It proves we haven't surrendered." A trace of sorrow crept into her words, though her tone stayed firm. "Believe it or not, there was a time when joining the Chainrunners was an honor. We have records—ranks filled with willing souls, not just those forced into it."

She paused, then pressed on. "But each failed attempt, each incursion, costs us more artifacts. So every few decades, we send out exploratory runs—hunting for information or artifacts, like the one I sent you on. Even if it means death with little hope of finding anything."

The idea hit me hard, almost absurd. Sending people into the fog to die, with no real expectation of success—just stumbling across an artifact by sheer luck? It felt wrong, wasteful, but I held my tongue. Lirien's face tightened, her jaw set. This wasn't something she enjoyed; it was a grim necessity, etched into her role as Captain.

"I see you disapprove," she said, catching the flicker in my expression. "I did too, once. But it's through our fight that people find hope. Even if we come back empty-handed, showing we're still out there matters. And since you wanted to go into the fog again, I turned it into a formal mission. It let me push off another incursion." A faint smile tugged at her lips, barely there but real. "The effects, though, went far beyond what I expected…"

I recalled how I had asked to head into the fog years ago, and she had turned it into a mission to bolster the Blackthorn name—proving we risked our own. It was supposed to be small, maybe just a short trip. She understood that the beasts wouldn't hunt me the way they hunted them.

But I hadn't returned that day, nor the next. They assumed the fog had claimed me. Word spread, and it painted the family in a heroic light at first. Some new volunteers joined the Chainrunners, motivated by the story of a child confronting the fog. Not many, but enough to matter.

Later, the Chainrunners from District 99 arrived with news of an apprentice named Omen—me. The story rippled through District 98 again. For a while, it raised morale. Some extra funding trickled in, and the Blackthorns gained a small advantage in council affairs. But since I never came back in person, skepticism crept in. News from District 100 gave more weight to my survival, yet with no proof, after a few failed runs that cost lives, the excitement faded. The family's influence waned.

Lirien spelled out each step: the missions, the politics, the slow gains followed by losses. Tarin followed it effortlessly, nodding along. I felt a bit lost, unsure how any of it connected. The details of district politics slipped by me, and I didn't want to reveal my confusion by asking questions.

My mind wandered, back to the fog, the faint hum of Hazeveil around my shoulders. I didn't notice I'd drifted until Lirien's voice pulled me back. "What do you think, Omen?" she asked, sharp enough to cut through my haze.

"Think about what?" I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet. I'd missed whatever she'd said, too lost in my own head to catch it.

Lirien's mouth tightened, a flash of annoyance crossing her face, but she didn't call me out. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her tone even. "You've found not just one, but multiple artifacts. Your return alone is big news, but these new artifacts need testing. What if we make it public?"

"Make it public?" I echoed, the words feeling clumsy as I tried to piece her meaning together.

"Yes," she said, her eyes steady on mine. "You talked about their power. Don't you think it's a good move?"

A good move? I didn't know. Was this about politics, family influence, something else? My mind spun, grasping for an answer. "Kara, do you think it's beneficial to make this testing a public affair?" The question slipped out loud before I could stop it, my voice ringing in the room.

Heads turned, confusion flickering across faces. I clenched my jaw, kicking myself inwardly. Out in the fog, talking to Kara had kept me sane—here, it just made me look strange. I caught Dain leaning toward an uncle, his whisper sharp with my heightened hearing: "Imaginary friend." The words stung, but I couldn't argue. I had to stop doing that.

[Kara]

[To simplify the thought process, more influence for your family means more funding—better equipment, rations with protein for stronger warriors, more volunteers signing up for the Chainrunners, and control over missions to avoid suicidal runs.]

I nodded to myself, keeping it silent this time. "I get that," I thought, "but why public? They'll test the artifacts to check if I'm telling the truth, maybe to consider me for Artifact Holder. What do we gain by showing everyone?" The question stayed in my head, where it belonged.

The room was dead quiet, every eye locked on me, waiting. Their stares pressed against me like a weight, but I kept my face blank, wrestling with Kara's logic.

[Kara]

[Making the testing public shows strength—power here depends on each house's might. It proves you're alive and that an exploratory mission into the fog worked. That could lift the Blackthorns' influence, and the Chainrunners of District 98 with it.]

It made sense, sort of. Still, it rubbed me wrong. People had just died in a failed run—Chainrunners lost to the fog while carrying supplies between wards and now we'd parade a success? It felt like bragging when we should've been mourning. But if it meant more support for the Chainrunners, better gear, safer missions, I couldn't say no. They'd been founded to explore the fog, to fight it, and I'd come back with something real. Maybe that was worth showing.

"Yes," I said, breaking the silence, my voice firm. "I agree. We should make it public. I didn't lie about the artifacts. And I've got more to show than what I listed."

That got their attention. Heads tilted, eyes sharpened. "What do you mean, more?" Lirien asked, leaning in, her voice edged with curiosity. "More artifacts?"

"Yeah," I said, meeting her gaze. "But you won't believe me—none of you will—unless I show you. I can do it during the testing. It'll need space, though. And it's not just artifacts. I've been in the fog for years—I've learned things about it, the creatures in it, the land. Stuff that could help."

Lirien's face shifted, a rare spark lighting her eyes, like she could already see the possibilities. Tarin straightened in his chair, watching me with something like awe, and even Dain's steady presence seemed to hum with expectation.

I sat there, the weight of what I'd learned pressing on me. Years in the fog had taught me things they couldn't imagine—not just about the land, but the beasts, how they harnessed mana, why they hunted us. It wasn't random. We were prey because they saw us as something twisted, a corruption seeping into their world. But then I thought of the Chainrunners, risking everything beyond the ward for scraps of freedom. Did they deserve to know?

Should I tell them every second outside the ward tainted them? That the beasts tracked them like a spreading rot? Markus had said the ward cleansed that corruption, keeping it from sinking too deep—so long as they didn't linger out there too long. It was why they survived. But even knowing that, the truth could scare them off. Brave as they were, who wouldn't hesitate if they thought they were changing from the inside?

And what about me? If I told them, they'd turn those questions on me. The ward stopped the corruption for them, but not for me—I'd been out there for years, tainted by this corruption. Would they see me as cursed, something to be burned away? Just minutes ago, I'd been ready to spill everything—now, the idea felt like a trap. I couldn't risk it, not yet.

Still, they needed something—details to fight smarter, not fear to freeze them. So I stuck to what was safe, the land I'd crossed, the beasts I'd faced. When Tarin asked how I'd killed them, I kept it simple. "Killing beasts makes you stronger," I said, my voice flat.

It wasn't a lie, just a half-truth I let hang in the air. Like the others, I grew stronger through experience—each fight honed my instincts, steadied my hands, carved lessons into me that no training could teach. But I had something they didn't: the cores. I could consume them, feel their mana surge through me, raw and sharp, adding a strength they'd never touch..I'd figure out more about the cores later, but for now, this was enough. No one in Araksiun had cracked that secret, not even with all their resources. I was their best shot, an experiment twisted by the fog. Maybe living it would show me what they'd missed, beyond just channeling mana through artifacts.

I didn't go deep into the beasts—kept it light, mentioned a few I'd spotted near the Life Tree, the artifact that let District 2 grow so much food. I brought up the bridge and the pit that became District 3, sketching quick lines on a scrap of paper to show the detour I'd taken from District 1 to 2. It wasn't much, but it was a start—a rough map of a world they barely knew.

Then I pulled out my bestiary, handing it to Dain. "Keep this," I said. "It may be of some help." The book was plain, worn from the fog—pages creased, edges frayed, but packed with drawings. Beasts sketched in sharp detail: their claws, their weak spots, everything Kara and I had pieced together. Dain took it carefully, his big hands cradling it like it might crumble. I didn't argue; it was valuable, even if it looked like trash.

Lirien watched all this, her eyes sharp. She hadn't interrupted, but I knew what she wanted. Making the artifact testing public wasn't about bragging—it was politics, pure and simple. The council controlled titles like Artifact Holder, a rank unclaimed in District 98 for many years. A public show would draw eyes, stir talk, force their hand.

If people saw what I'd brought back, saw the Blackthorns risking their own to reclaim the fog's secrets, the pressure might tip the scales. That title wouldn't just honor me—it'd lift the family's influence, bring funding, volunteers, power. She'd said the artifacts needed testing anyway, and I didn't disagree. We couldn't gauge their strength just anywhere.

The options were few. An open training ground near the district's center made sense—shared by Chainrunners and the City Guard, big enough for what I had in mind. But the thought of a crowd twisted my gut. I'd survived the fog's silence—now I'd face their noise, their stares. Still, if this was the play to strengthen us, I wouldn't fight it.