Fog blanketed the battlefield like a burial shroud.
Thick and damp, it rolled across the plain in slow tendrils, seeping into every crack and crevice of the Threian fortifications. It dulled the sharp edges of dawn, cloaked the movement of men and monsters alike, and drowned out even the clamor of iron with its choking silence. To the defenders along the western flank, it was as though the world had vanished beyond five feet.
Captain Braedon stared out into the fog with a clenched jaw and white-knuckled grip on his sword.
"This is worse than the dark," he muttered. "At least the stars don't move."
Lieutenant Deramis, helmet tucked under one arm, stepped beside him with a cocky smirk. "They're not coming this way. Not yet. They always test the eastern trench when the sun rises."
Braedon didn't answer. His eyes never left the mist.