Traverse The Fog

"What do you mean?" Cyrus asked, offering a wide berth from the pit.

Latriaen's gaze scanned over the pond as if it were a treasure. It was not as strong as when Cyrus offered the orichalcum vein, but it was apparent nonetheless.

"Recall my lessons on domains, boy." Cyrus nodded. "As you know, creating the birth of a font requires mana and domain affinity. But there's more. If an affinity is powerful enough, it would do more than just change the earth."

A breath skips between them before Cyrus' gaze widens. "You mean... You mean, they could also change living beings?"

Latriaen turned his attention toward the inky black. "Not 'could' but 'will.' Beasts are often born with mutations and abilities of the font." He glanced pointedly toward Cyrus. "For this reason, some mothers live or give birth near or within a font to pass on these domains." With a flick of his wrist, he pointed at the pond. "Something like this might irreversibly change you into a dark monstrosity."

...Just like what happened to The Weeper.

"Is there a way to avoid this?!"

Latriaen nodded. "It comes naturally as long as you strengthen your affinity to your domains. The easiest is to enrich your life affinity as it works like your body's cells. The second is to have an affinity diametrically opposed to the font's."

Cyrus shifted his attention to the pond. Given his flash had no effect on it, it proved that the darkness affinity contained within was no joke.

"So, are there ways to avoid accidentally walking into a domain preemptively?"

Latriaen snorted. "How did your village survive? I'd hazard a guess that this was your old home. Was it?"

"No! No!" Cyrus said, using his embarrassment for ignorance to fuel his lie. "My home was safe and remote. Like a—yes, like a gilded cage."

" I see. Then I'll just have to teach you common sense. There are magitek devices that are sensitive to such changes. But those who are outside often find out that such devices are limited." Latriaen stood up and revealed a life rune on his palm. "That is where the life domain comes in. Just like how your skin protects your organs from disease, so does your life domain against others. So you best well absorb every green runic crystal you find."

"Understood." Cyrus sighed. "The more I learn, the more I realize how dangerous everything is."

Latriaen snorted as he crossed his arms, his tattoos appearing alive with movement. "But this is what you must learn to survive as a Wayfarer."

A beat then passed between them. Cyrus took the time to stare deep into the well before him. He imagined touching such a thing. How the darkness would burrow into his skin and change him on a fundamental level.

He quickly shifted his gaze. "Teacher, I'll take a look around."

Latriaen nodded, his gaze returning to the pond. "Good luck on the hunt. And If you hear any explosions, they're from me. Just running some tests."

Explosions?! Cyrus opened his mouth to speak but gave up on the notion. Instead, he separated from the Ork and entered the first cruck house. Soon, his steps stilled. Only now had he realized that Bird had remained quietly perched on his shoulder this entire time.

Cyrus tenderly moved the canary into his palms. "Are you okay?"

Bird only responded by trembling and nestling deeper in his cupped hands. Its beady eyes remained fixed on his, which proved that there wasn't anything actively using mana in their general vicinity.

With a glance, Cyrus spotted Latriaen, who was too focused on the pond. But he understood a long while ago that the Ork rarely wasn't in tune with his surroundings, if ever.

Maybe Bird is just nervous. Cyrus returned his attention to his avian companion and opened his inner pocket. "Do you want to jump inside? It's warm and safe."

Chirp!

That was more than enough to entice Bird. Its beady gaze brightened, and it quickly hopped into the warm, enclosed space. The sight made Cyrus smile. He softly patted his pocket before returning his attention to his surroundings.

And nothing had changed. The decaying room was barely holding it together. Cyrus ignored the sight and searched the bedroom for what he had come for. His gaze then stilled at the sight of it on the bed, on the very same spot he had dropped it all those months ago, untouched by time.

The headless doll in black armor.

Cyrus stepped closer. His gaze then fell on the hole in the bed. What happened to the black sludge that escaped the confines of the doll's neck? Who knows? It appeared to have evaporated, rendering both safe to touch.

Click

Not that he would trust his eyes on such matters.

But there was nothing on the camera. No black marks on either object, which reassured him somewhat.

So, Cyrus took the chance. Slowly, tentatively, he picked up and examined it. On its chest was the symbol of the golden ring within a bright, white circle. And after all this time, Cyrus had no clue what it meant.

He had hoped that ignorance would be bliss... but ever since the incident...

"A symbol of a faction?" he murmured, glancing around for the missing head.

And there was none to be found. Had it melted?

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

In any case, Cyrus moved the doll into his spatial pouch and used insight into the house to search for runes. Maybe Latriaen held insights into where this came from. Once he found nothing, he moved on to the next.

"There were more dolls... and that puppet," he muttered, shivering from remembering the creepy smile on its face.

Then came the second house. Cyrus leaned on the entrance and scanned the area. His gaze immediately fell on that bucket. Dried, black residue lined the insides, a reminder of when he threw it on The Weeper's face in a bid to escape.

Now that Latriaen explained the effects of high affinity, what had happened made much more sense. Shaking his head, Cyrus moved his attention along the fog-wreathed floor.

A thought appeared: Wasn't there something in the bucket? Another doll? Is it still here?

Click

Nothing of note. So, the contamination was long gone. With that in mind, Cyrus began sweeping the floor with his foot, searching for that item.

Soon, his foot knocked on something. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pouch to avoid... touching it. And well, it was as he expected. The doll had long melted more into a stick of black wax.

With no discernible features, Cyrus found no use for it. So he left it behind and left the shambled building. He stepped outside and paused.

Slowly, Cyrus opened his inner pocket and found Bird peacefully nestled in the corner.

"Are you okay, little guy?" he asked softly.

It answered him by keeping its gaze on him and shivering. And when Cyrus attempted to coax it out, the canary refused.

"Maybe we should leave?" Cyrus muttered.

If Bird found something wrong with the place, should he ignore it? Cyrus bit his lip at the thought. Was it wise to give up the chance to find clues?

No, he should stay.

Sighing, Cyrus adjusted his coat and moved on. Again, nothing was found until he rediscovered the red and green dolls from long ago, waiting for him on the bed.

Slowly reaching, he picked up the red doll, tracing the fiery symbol on its chest. The sight of it brought old, forgotten memories. On that day, he walked Avalorn's streets with her. There was something she mentioned...

"Lásgrias... the Church of Fire?" he whispered. Is this doll depicting the goddess? How is she related to all of this?

There was no doubt that this hamlet was staged. And there was only one organization—one being who would take credit for orchestrating this scenario: the god who could see into the future, had foresight, and acted.

Cyrus felt heaviness in his chest. Shakily, his fingers clutched the doll tightly, nearly breaking it. It took several minutes of deep breathing for Cyrus to calm his mind and store the dolls in his pouch.

Another round of insight, and he left for the next building, glancing toward the pond to ensure the Ork hadn't suddenly disappeared. The lack of explosions made fear grip his heart, but it so calmed when he spotted Latriaen in deep contemplation. If the Ork had suddenly disappeared, Cyrus would have lost his mind.

Shaking his head, he pressed on, right before stilling at the shattered door of the last house. Slowly, tentatively, Cyrus peered inside, using his lightvision to sweep away the darkness that had settled long ago.

His gaze traced the new... footprints left deep into the cracked and rotted floorboards. A gift left behind by The Weeper during the chase. But it was gone now, liquefied by that orange sigil long ago. There was no need to be afraid... Right?

Just—just go. Breathing deeply, Cyrus took a step forward inside. Then another. Slowly, surely, he moved past the dilapidated kitchen and headed to that very room where it all began.

Click

But not without checking it was safe first.

Even when his camera revealed nothing, Cyrus lingered by the rotten, poor excuse of wood planks that made for a door. His mana channeled with light and fire, ready to attack anything hidden within.

Then, he moved. The door swung open, and Cyrus readied his spear and magic hand for anything. Instead, he was greeted only by smashed furniture and shredded paper.

But where was the puppet? Frowning, Cyrus began his search, even flipping the hay pile that was the mattress. Only, it was gone, just like that.

Now, Cyrus was left in a predicament. His gaze swept around the room as he recalled everything back then. Mind churning, the sight of the shredded and ruined paper reminded him that there was a map he had discovered.

It led toward a city in the opposite direction of Avalorn. Should he...

"Don't fall into its trap," Cyrus whispered to himself. "It wants you to go there."

Shaking his head at these negative thoughts, Cyrus made another unsuccessful attempt to find the puppet. Nothing. There were no clues as to where it went. Maybe The Weeper took it? Placed it somewhere else? Should he search for it? Would it be a waste of time to?

With nothing left to bind him, Cyrus returned to the kitchen and searched there, his thoughts weighing him down. Returning had provided some clues. But are they real clues? Or are they all traps? Such thoughts spiraled into feelings of hopelessness and despair. If this was a setup back then, what's to stop it from happening again in the future? How could he trust anything?

However, a glimmer of insight radiated among the muck of despair—A kernel of knowledge.

It is connected to the fog.

Cyrus stepped outside, his gaze sweeping upwards to gaze upon the haze above.

This place was a set piece for it. With this in mind, the idea of actors having a special pass to create wraiths solidified. It was one thing to hear that deranged individuals calling themselves actors used strange means to create wraiths. But now, Cyrus could connect this phenomenon to a god's, if it was one, antics.

However, that brought even more questions. Like, why haven't the other gods stopped it? Was it more powerful than the others? And what about the actors? What do they get out of shaping man into a monster? And are they immune to the fog's effects?

But one question rose above the others: Does the being they worship control time? Is that how it predicts the future?

"The fog and the god of actors," Cyrus murmured, goosebumps rising on his skin. "...Which came first?"

"You're back, did you find anything of worth?" Latriaen asked, keeping his eyes on the shadowed pool.

Cyrus blinked. When had he returned to Latriaen?

"Oh, uh..." Cyrus began, gathering himself. "Not much—just found some dolls but no clues of how I woke up here."

Latriaen nodded, his gaze finally meeting Cyrus. He appeared on the verge of reaching out and patting Cyrus, but hesitated.

"It was a long shot anyway. Still, it's better to have closure," he said, returning to the pond. "In any case, it's time for another lesson. Have you done your search of this rotten place?"

"Yes. But why does that matter?"

For the first time ever, a savage grin crossed the Ork's face. "Because soon, the only thing left of this place will be charcoal."

At that moment, the air above his head churned into something fiery red.