Mist, Machinery, and an Unfinished Puzzle (3)

Navigating Luthadel's mist-drenched streets was an art in itself. The deeper they moved into the city's lower districts, the thicker the fog became, curling around their legs like unseen tendrils. The golden glow of noble warding sigils was long behind them, leaving only the dim, flickering alchemical lamps to light the way. The mist here was heavier, denser—pressing in like a living thing. It wasn't just dampening sound; it was swallowing it.

Mikhailis moved easily through the streets, his steps casual yet deliberate. He was good at this—blending in, keeping just enough presence to not look suspicious, yet not enough to draw attention. Lira walked beside him, her long black ponytail swaying with each poised step, as unshaken as ever. Cerys and Vyrelda flanked their rear, the latter keeping a hand close to her weapon, ever watchful.