CHAPTER THREE: NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU

The night had fallen thick upon Windermere, and with it, the mist. It moved like a living thing, curling through the streets, winding around homes and creeping beneath doors. The village slept, or tried to, but sleep had become a fragile thing in these past months—frayed by fear, broken by whispers, always fleeing before the mist claimed it.

And within that darkness, within the heart of the fog, Gregory lay awake. His small bed in the corner of the inn was cold, though the fire downstairs still flickered weakly. The song was in his head again, that lullaby from the night Alice had disappeared. It called to him in a way he could not understand, a haunting melody that promised warmth yet chilled him to his bones.

"No one can save thee now," the voice seemed to whisper, soft and cruel, though none in the village could hear it but him. "No one can find thee in the mist."

Gregory pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders, his breath shallow and quick. The room around him felt strange, as if the walls had shifted in the night. The shadows were longer, darker, reaching for him. He closed his eyes tight, but the mist, that unyielding presence, seeped into his thoughts. Downstairs, Rosé was still awake. She sat at the small wooden table in the corner of her room, staring into the flickering flame of a single candle. The inn was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood as the building seemed to settle in its long-held grief. Rosé’s mind was far from restful, though her body remained still as stone.

The stories of the children, told to her in pieces by the fearful villagers, had begun to form a picture. A dark, twisted picture that spoke not only of simple disappearances, but of something deeper, something older than the village itself. The mist had been here long before the village, long before the children, and it had watched. Always, it had watched.

Yet no one had ever spoken of hearing a song in the mist. No one except Gregory.

The innkeeper had been reluctant to tell her at first, his face pale as he recalled the nights his son had woken, trembling, his voice stolen by some invisible force. “He hears it,” the innkeeper had said quietly, his voice shaking. “A song. He says it sings to him. But no one else hears it, milady. No one.”

Rosé’s eyes had darkened at this. The mist, it seemed, had a voice—a voice that chose its audience carefully.

She rose from the table, her long coat sweeping the floor as she moved toward the window. The glass was fogged, the world outside little more than a blur of grey and black, but her sharp eyes could see beyond it. The mist moved slowly, deliberately, like a predator waiting for its prey to falter.

"No one can save thee now."

Gregory heard the voice again, closer this time, as if it were standing at the foot of his bed. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of it echoing in his ears. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. The song wrapped around him, tight and suffocating, pulling him into its depths.

In his mind’s eye, Gregory saw the faces of the missing children—Emily, Thomas, Lily, Michael, Alice—each of them standing in the mist, their eyes wide and empty, their mouths open but silent. They were reaching for him, their hands pale and cold, beckoning him to join them.

"We wait for thee," they seemed to say, though their lips did not move. "Come. The mist is kind, Gregory. It keeps us warm. It takes away the fear."

Gregory shook his head, his small hands gripping the blanket tighter, but the children’s faces grew closer, clearer. He could see the hollow look in Emily’s eyes, the strange stillness in Michael’s expression. They weren’t the children he had known. They weren’t alive.

He wanted to call for his father, to scream for help, but no sound escaped his throat. The mist pressed down upon him, heavy and relentless, a weight he could not lift. He could feel it creeping into his lungs, into his thoughts.

"No one can save thee now," the voice whispered again, cold and final.

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Downstairs, Rosé felt it. A shift in the air, a change in the energy of the inn. She moved quickly, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her dagger as she ascended the stairs. The wooden steps creaked beneath her boots, but her movements were swift, silent. She knew the fog was watching. She had felt it from the moment she entered the village.

At Gregory’s door, she paused, her breath steady as she pressed her ear to the wood. Silence. Too much silence.

With a sharp motion, she pushed the door open.

The room was dark, but her eyes, trained for the night, quickly found the small form of Gregory in his bed. He lay still, too still. The air in the room was thick, the mist almost palpable, as if it had forced its way inside, clinging to the boy like a second skin.

Rosé moved to his side, her hand gently touching his shoulder. Gregory’s eyes fluttered open, wide with terror. For a moment, he said nothing, his lips trembling as if they were struggling to form words.

Then, in a voice so faint it was barely a whisper, he spoke.

"They’re here."

Rosé’s brow furrowed. "Who is here, child?" Her voice was soft but firm, the authority in her tone enough to pull him back from whatever dark place he had wandered.

"The children," Gregory breathed, his eyes darting to the window. "They’re in the mist."

Rosé turned her head, her gaze falling on the window. The fog pressed against the glass, swirling and shifting as if something moved within it—something with shape, something with intent.

"They call for me," Gregory whispered, his voice breaking. "They say no one can save me."

Rosé’s jaw tightened. "Thou art safe," she said firmly, though her eyes remained fixed on the mist. "No force shall claim thee whilst I stand guard."

But even as she spoke, she could feel the presence outside growing stronger, the mist thickening, alive with purpose. It was as if the village itself had become a trap, and the fog the snare that tightened with every passing moment.

Rosé rose to her full height, her hand gripping the hilt of her dagger as she moved to the window. The mist parted slightly, just enough to reveal the outline of a figure standing in the distance—a figure small and pale, with long blonde curls.

Emily White.

Rosé’s breath caught in her throat, her grip tightening on her weapon. The figure stood motionless, her eyes wide and empty, staring straight at her. And though Rosé knew the child was long gone, the figure’s lips parted, and a voice—soft, ethereal—whispered through the mist.

"No one can save thee."

Behind her, Gregory whimpered, curling deeper into his bed. Rosé’s eyes narrowed. Whatever force had taken these children, it was not something of the natural world. The mist, the song, the visions—this was something darker, older, something that fed on fear and despair.

Rosé stepped back from the window, her mind racing. The mist was more than a veil—it was a prison, a living thing that had claimed the children and now sought to claim Gregory as well.

She would not let it.

"Gregory," she said, her voice low but commanding, "thou must fight it. Do not heed their voices, do not give in to their call."

But Gregory’s eyes were wide with terror, his small body trembling. "I can’t," he whispered. "They’re too close. They want me. They want me to join them."

Rosé knelt beside him, her face inches from his. "Thou art stronger than they know. Fear is their weapon, but it need not be thine. Trust in thyself, Gregory. Trust in me."

The boy’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, something flickered there—hope, perhaps, or at least the faintest spark of resistance.

Outside, the mist swirled faster, thicker, the figure of Emily disappearing into its depths once more. The voice, however, remained, lingering in the air like a curse.

"No one can save thee now."

Rosé’s eyes flashed with defiance. "Nay," she muttered under her breath, standing tall once more. "This battle hath but begun."

She knew the fight ahead would be unlike any she had faced before, but one thing was certain: she would not allow the mist to claim another soul.

Not while she still breathed.

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