Threads in the Fog

The air inside the safehouse was thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint traces of herbs, likely lingering from whatever questionable potions had been brewed in this underground hideout. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, making the small space feel even more suffocating.

Mikhailis leaned back against the wall, wincing slightly as he pressed a hand to his ribs. The encounter with the masked adversaries had left more than just unanswered questions—his body ached, and the wound from Eldris's spectral blade still throbbed with an odd, lingering sensation. Not quite pain, but something just beneath the surface of his skin, like the aftermath of an electric shock.

Lira, ever the diligent maid, moved to his side without a word, her black ponytail swaying behind her as she examined him with a critical eye. She knelt gracefully, her hands brushing aside the edges of his coat before peeling back the fabric over his injured side.