Darkmist.
That was the na Ian had given it.
Not because it had told him, but because nas gave shape to the formless. Because the thing he saw when he first entered the Prophet of Death state needed to be called sothing—anything—other than himself.
Because he wasn't sure if it was a vision, a fragnt of his own soul, or sothing else wearing his face when it didn't wear darkness.
It hadn't spoken often.
In fact, it rarely acknowledged him.
But when it did recently, it repeated only one phrase:
When you enter the Reach, there will be one who will know you, who will watch you, and who will show you the worst of truths.
No more. No less.
Ian had tried to summon it since.
In the quiet between battles, in ditation, even through corruption increase. But Darkmist only appeared when it wanted.
A figure of shadows and depthless gray eyes, like mirrors filled with ash.
Sotis standing just beyond the veil of dreams. Sotis in reflections that lasted too long.
But almost always when Ian managed to enter his soulrealm.
It never ca to warn. Never ca to teach.
Only to remind.
"They are not demon, and they are not human," it had said once, in a voice like wind scraping bone.
"You may see glimpses of them — in cracks, in silence, in still water.
But to truly stand before them, you must go in the ti just before the imitation of light.
Beyond the Reach.
Just before its dawn.
If it thinks you're ready… it will show itself."
Those words had left themselves deep into Ian's thoughts.
What disturbed him most wasn't the warning.
It was the feeling behind the words.
That this... entity, this watcher in the dark… was not waiting in opposition.
But in recognition.
As if it had been waiting for him, specifically. For a soul frayed by death, sharpened by loss. One who walked the edge of mortal and monstrous and had stopped pretending there was still a line.
And so Ian had co to the Reach.
By fate, not by accident.
And perhaps by invitation.
Even now, as the shadows pressed in and silence threatened to suffocate the mind, Ian could feel it.
A presence not among the group.
Not hunting them, like the other horrors of this place.
But watching.
Waiting.
As if weighing his soul, asuring his choices.
As if deciding whether he was worthy — not of salvation or damnation, but of truth.
The kind of truth that shattered what was left of belief.
The kind that left you stripped of na, of mory, of rcy.
Ian did not fear death.
But he feared recognition.
And sothing in the Reach… already knew his na.
In ways no one else did.
‐‐‐
The Reach had no stars.
No sky.
No constellations to chart ti or space. But Ian could feel the hour grow long — the way a man senses the seconds stretch before dawn.
They had left the hollow hours ago.
Not speaking. Not daring.
The light had not yet returned.
Ian did not wait for it too.
"It will co et you at the hour between darkness and light" Darkmist had said.
So Ian decided for them to leave then.
He would take any chance he got to et whatever it was he was promised.
Plus, the last hour of darkness was the least dangerous, the true evil had subsided then—leaving only "watchers", and perhaps what Ian seeek was such a thing.
They moved by the faintest glow — a pale orb summoned by Selene, shrouded in a sphere of null-light to keep it from glowing too brightly.
It gave off just enough to see the stone path ahead, to avoid tripping over ancient bones, or slipping into one of the many cracks that looked to vanish into infinity.
But it also cast shadows.
And in the Reach… shadows were not just absence of light.
They were things.
The silence was unbearable.
Far from the calm kind, but the sort that crushed the ears. Even breathing felt loud. Footsteps echoed too long, like the cave didn't want to let go of them.
Loras stumbled once.
Everyone froze.
The orb dimd, just slightly.
Then they heard it.
Wet. Squelching. Barely audible.
A dragging sound.
Not behind them. Not ahead.
Above.
Ian didn't look up.
Neither did the others.
There was no sky in the Reach's darkness.
Not truly. Only layers upon layers of fog and shadow — and things that clung to the upper dark, waiting for those foolish enough to lift their heads.
Loras whispered, "Is it still—"
"Don't speak," Ian said.
His voice wasn't harsh. It was low, steady. "Don't look up. Don't acknowledge it."
The sound vanished.
But they all heard the soft exhale, like hot breath brushing against the backs of their necks. And then the clicking.
Sothing tapping a rhythm into the stone.
Like teeth. Or claws.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Then, as suddenly as it ca, it stopped.
And they walked again.
---
The path narrowed into a thin ledge along a cliff face.
It should have been impossible — no wind, no weather, no erosion should have worn it like this.
But the Reach wasn't shaped by ti or logic. It was shaped by mory. Trauma.
Selene went first.
Her orb barely lit the drop, but Ian could see it — a yawning pit that swallowed light, color, even sound.
He tried tossing a stone into it earlier. It never landed. Not even an echo.
"Why is it warm here?" Dain muttered.
They all felt it.
A heat rising from below. Not fire. Not life. Rot.
The warmth of things that had died long ago and had not finished dying.
Then they saw the hand.
It gripped the ledge ahead, pale and thin, with nails like thorns. Fingers twitching. Bone beneath translucent flesh.
It wasn't attached to anything.
Just a severed limb, hanging from the edge, gently flexing.
Selene gagged.
Loras nearly lost his footing.
Dain reached forward, sword halfway unsheathed — and Ian stopped him.
"Don't touch it."
"It's just a—"
"It's not severed," Ian said coldly. "It's hunting."
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