Prologue | The Screams in the Mist

Mist hung low between black trees. Varian squinted against the gloom, one hand on his sword hilt.

A woman’s scream shattered the stillness.

He turned to Garrick. His friend had gone pale.

“That a woman?” Garrick’s whisper barely carried.

Varian nodded, unsheathing his blade. The scrape of steel on leather sounded too loud in the oppressive quiet.

“Help! Please, someone!”

Varian moved before he could think better of it. Each footfall crushed damp leaves. A shadow flitted between trunks—there and gone.

Garrick grabbed his arm. “Wait. You see that?”

Another flicker, this time to their left. Varian weighed the risks.

“Could be a trap,” he muttered.

“We should go back. It’s not our—”

“Help me!” Ragged. Desperate.

Varian wrenched free. “I can’t leave her.”

He plunged deeper into the mist. Branches clawed at his face. Behind him, Garrick cursed and followed.

The screams grew louder. Varian sprinted harder, lungs burning. He burst through a tangle of bushes into a clearing.

Nothing.

Empty. Quiet. Only mist and the weight of unseen eyes.

“I don’t—” Garrick began.

The ground gave way.

Varian’s stomach lurched. The world spun. His sword slipped from his grasp, vanishing into darkness below.

He didn’t hit ground. Instead—a jarring collision with rough mesh that cinched tight around him. Net fibers bit into skin as he thrashed.

“Garrick?”

A groan. The rustle of rope. “Here. Damn it all, I’m here.”

His eyes adjusted slowly. They lay tangled together on the forest floor, the net’s edges lashed to nearby trees. Varian strained against the ropes. They held fast, digging deeper with each movement.

“Told you,” Garrick grunted. “Trap.”

Varian twisted, trying to reach the knife at his belt. His arms were pinned.

“Save your strength. We’re not getting out of this easily.”

A chuckle drifted down from above.

“My, my.” A woman’s voice—nothing like the desperate cries that had lured them here. “What foolish little mice we’ve caught.”

Varian opened his mouth to answer. The world tilted sideways. His tongue felt thick and useless.

“Don’t fight it, boys.” The voice was patient. Amused. “The poison on those ropes works quickly. Sleep now. We’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted when you wake.”

Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to think.

The last thing he saw was the silhouette of an orcish woman against the stars. Her tusks glinted. She watched them without blinking.

End of Prologue 7 — continues in Prologue 8: March of Despair