CHAPTER ONE: A STRANGER IN THE FOG

In the stillness of the early morning, Rosé arrived upon horseback, her silhouette a phantom amidst the swirling fog. The mist clung to her like a shroud, curling around the village of Windermere as if to keep its secrets tightly bound. It was a scene crafted in silence, a place where the wind barely whispered, as though even the breeze dared not disturb the uneasy peace.

"The wind doth blow most eerily 'pon this land," she murmured, her voice soft yet purposeful, carrying the weight of unspoken truths. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, took in the village with a quiet intensity. The morning light was pale and fleeting, as though hesitant to touch the ground beneath her feet. It was the sort of place where one’s breath felt heavy, the air thick with something more than mist. An intangible dread.

Clad in a long, weathered coat of deep brown, her auburn hair tightly bound beneath a dark hood, Rosé moved with the practiced grace of one accustomed to danger. She stepped down from her horse, her boots landing softly upon the cobblestone, the sound nearly swallowed by the enveloping fog.

The streets were deserted, but she felt the weight of eyes upon her. Behind closed curtains, behind cracked shutters—silent figures lurked. Only fleeting glimpses of them reached her: a flash of a child's eye, the faint rustle of fabric as someone moved away from the window, as if too afraid to be caught staring.

Fear, she thought, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger hidden beneath her coat. It doth cling to these folk as the mist clings to the land.

The scent of rain hung heavy in the air, promising a storm. She breathed it in, letting the chill of the morning permeate her thoughts, sharpen her instincts.

Ahead, a dim light flickered, casting a warm, if trembling, glow from the windows of the inn. "The King's Heart"—a name that felt ironic in a village where courage seemed all but forgotten. She tied her horse to the post outside and stepped toward the wooden door, her gloved hand pushing it open with a slow, deliberate motion.

The inn's interior was as she expected: simple, utilitarian, but clean. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, offering little warmth. Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, a stout man whose hands trembled ever so slightly as he polished a wooden mug. His balding head gleamed in the dim light, and his eyes—shifting and unsure—met hers for only a brief moment before darting away.

"Welcome, miss," he said, his voice rough but polite. There was something brittle in his tone, as if any louder and it might break. "The village hath been in great turmoil these past few months."

"I have heard as much," Rosé replied, her voice smooth but not without weight. She approached the counter slowly, her gaze never wavering. Her presence, though quiet, commanded attention, and the innkeeper's trembling hands seemed to still for just a moment as he stood there, awaiting her next words.

"The children," Rosé continued, her tone dropping, cold now, "when didst they begin to vanish?"

The man’s face blanched. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing awkwardly. The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavier, as if her question alone had summoned the dread he had been so desperate to avoid. He wiped his hands nervously on his apron, glancing toward the door as if expecting the mist itself to seep in and claim him next.

"Twas but five months past," he said at last, his voice quieter now, laden with fear. "One child, then another, vanishing’ without a trace. No footprints, no signs o' struggle. As if they simply... dissolved into the mist itself."

Rosé’s eyes narrowed, her sharp mind working quickly to piece together the puzzle. The mist, the silence of the villagers, the children disappearing one by one—it all pointed to something deliberate, something insidious. There was an intelligence behind these disappearances, she was certain. But was it human, or something darker?

"The mist hides many secrets," she mused aloud, her gaze cutting through the innkeeper as if he were transparent, "yet ne'er does it swallow whole the truth. Hast thou any leads, any suspicions?"

The man shook his head vehemently, his fear palpable. "None who remain dare speak of it. Fear hath gripped their tongues, milady." His words came in a rush, almost as if by speaking them he might rid himself of the terrible weight they carried.

Rosé remained silent for a moment, considering his words. Fear. It was a powerful weapon, more so than any blade. Whoever—or whatever—was responsible for these disappearances had wielded it with precision, driving the villagers into submission, into silence.

"Then it falleth upon me," she said, her voice steady and resolute, "to uncover what lies 'neath this veil of fear." Her words hung in the air, a promise, a challenge, and something more—a threat to the darkness that had taken root in Windermere.

She paid the innkeeper and turned toward the stairs that led to the rooms above, her steps deliberate and measured. Yet as she passed the dimly lit hallway leading toward the kitchen, something caught her eye—a shadow, a presence, watching her.

A young boy stood at the window, his small face pale and gaunt, his eyes wide and hollow, like windows to a soul that had seen too much. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but there was something in the way he looked at her—a silent plea, or perhaps a warning.

Rosé paused, her gaze fixed on the boy for a moment longer than necessary, her instincts prickling. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"The boy," she said, her voice soft but firm, "who is he?"

The innkeeper, who had been in the process of retreating to the back room, stopped abruptly. His face darkened, and he cast a furtive glance toward the boy. "That be my son, Gregory," he said, his voice tight. "He was the last to see one of the missin' children. He hath not spoken a word since."

Rosé’s gaze lingered on Gregory, her mind racing. The last to see one of the missing children. And now, he speaks not.

"Why?" she asked, her voice low, but her eyes were sharp, piercing. "What hath he seen to silence him so?"

The innkeeper hesitated; his discomfort palpable. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his apron, and his eyes flicked nervously between Rosé and the boy, as if caught between two terrible forces. "I... I don’t know, milady. He was always a quiet lad, but since that day... he’s been... changed. Won't speak to me, nor to his mother."

Rosé nodded slowly, her thoughts turning over in her mind like the rolling mist outside. The boy was a key—perhaps the only key—to unlocking the truth of the disappearances. But whatever he had seen, whatever had stolen his voice, it was something that even now held him captive.

"I will speak with him," she said, more to herself than to the innkeeper. She would get to the bottom of this, of that there was no doubt. The village of Windermere was like a puzzle, its pieces scattered and obscured by fear, but Rosé had a gift for solving puzzles—no matter how dark the picture they revealed.

With a final glance at Gregory, she ascended the stairs to her room, her mind already racing ahead, planning her next move. The air inside the inn felt thick with tension, but Rosé was unbothered. She had faced worse. Much worse.

As she reached the door to her room and stepped inside, she allowed herself a single thought of caution: whatever darkness had taken hold of this village, it was not something to be underestimated. The fog that clung to Windermere was not merely a trick of the weather—it was something far more sinister.

And now, it had set its sights on her.

But Rosé had faced the shadows before. And she had always prevailed.