CHAPTER FOUR: ANOTHER MISSING CHILD

The sun didst not rise the following morn, for it seemeth that the very sky had forgotten its charge. Windermere was swallowed by mist so thick that the village was naught but shadow and silence. The villagers awoke to find their world further shrunken, as though the fog had drawn the horizon nearer, had erased the boundaries between the known and the unknown.Rosé stood at the window of her room in The King’s Heart, her breath fogging the glass. The mist pressed against the pane, a living thing, undeterred by the coming of day. She could see naught but the shifting, ghostly tendrils of fog, and in her mind, she replayed the image of Emily White’s pale form, her hollow eyes staring through the mist, her voice haunting the night with that single phrase: "No one can save thee."

She had seen much in her life—battlefields littered with the fallen, cities crumbling under the weight of war—but this mist, this silent force, chilled her in a way that no enemy’s blade ever had. It was not merely a thing of nature; it was alive, aware, hungry.

As she turned away from the window, a knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Enter,” she called, her voice steady despite the tension in her chest.

The innkeeper stepped inside, his face drawn with exhaustion. His eyes, once bright with the vigor of his trade, were now sunken, shadowed with the weight of fear and sleepless nights.

“Mistress Rosé,” he began, his voice low, as though even the walls might listen. “There is grave news.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

“The baker’s boy—young Harold—he hath gone missing. His parents woke this morn to find his bed cold and empty. The mist hath taken him, as it did the others.”

Rosé’s expression darkened, though her voice remained calm. “And how did it happen? Was there aught amiss in the night? Any sign of struggle?”

The innkeeper shook his head, wringing his hands in his apron. “Nay, milady. The boy slept sound, or so his parents thought. When the dawn came, they found naught but his empty bed. The door was still bolted from within, the window shut fast. ’Tis as if he vanished into thin air, much like the others.”

Rosé’s jaw clenched, her mind racing. Another child lost to the mist. Another soul swallowed by this unseen force. And yet, something felt different this time, a subtle shift in the pattern. The mist was growing bolder, more aggressive. It no longer waited for the children to wander; it came for them.

“Where are the boy’s parents now?” Rosé asked, her voice firm.

“They wait at the square,” the innkeeper replied. “As do the rest of the villagers. They beg for answers, for deliverance.”

Rosé turned toward the door, her long coat sweeping the floor as she moved with purpose. “Then let us not keep them waiting.”

---

In the village square, a small crowd had gathered, their faces pale with worry, their voices hushed with fear. The mist curled about their feet, snaking through the cobblestones like a serpent, as if reminding them of its presence. Harold’s mother stood at the center, clutching her apron, her eyes red and swollen from tears. His father, a sturdy man who once seemed unshakable, now looked broken, his shoulders hunched, his face hollow.

Rosé approached with the innkeeper at her side, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. There was a heaviness in the air, a sense of dread that clung to the villagers like the mist itself. They looked to her not with hope, but with desperation, as if she were their last and only chance to hold back the tide.

“Mistress Rosé,” Harold’s father began, stepping forward. His voice was rough, choked with emotion. “Please, I beg thee. Find my boy. We cannot lose him to the mist as we have lost the others.”Rosé regarded him with steady eyes, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. “I shall do all within my power,” she replied, her voice resolute. “But I must know: didst thou or thy wife see aught strange before the boy vanished? Any sound, any sign of something amiss?”

Harold’s mother shook her head, her hands trembling. “Nay, milady. All was still. The mist was thick, as it hath been these many nights, but we heard naught. It was only when the sun should have risen that we found his bed empty. Our boy—he was just… gone.”

Rosé nodded, though her thoughts were far from calm. The mist’s power was growing. It no longer needed to lure the children with its whispers; it could take them from the safety of their homes, from their very beds.

She turned to the crowd, her voice rising above the murmurs. “The mist is no mere fog of nature. It is a force that feeds upon thy fear, upon thy despair. It hath taken the children, aye, but it is not invincible. There must be a way to undo its hold, a way to bring them back.”

“But how?” a voice called from the crowd, tremulous with fear. “How dost thou fight something thou canst not see? Something that comes in the night and leaves no trace?”

Rosé’s gaze swept the faces of the villagers, her mind turning over the possibilities. There was something in the song, something in the whispers that Gregory had heard. The mist was more than a force; it had a will, a purpose. And that meant it could be fought, even if the way forward was not yet clear.

“There is a way,” she said, her voice cutting through the uncertainty like a blade. “The mist hath a voice, a presence. It sings to the children, calls them to it. But it must have a source. Something—or someone—is behind this. And I shall find it.”

The villagers looked at her, their eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. They wanted to believe her, wanted to trust that there was still a chance to save their children. But the mist had taken so much from them already, and its grip only tightened with each passing day.

Rosé turned to the innkeeper. “I must speak with Gregory again. He hath heard the song, and he alone may hold the key to unlocking this mystery.”

The innkeeper nodded, his face grim. “Aye, milady. But I fear for the boy. He hath not spoken much since last night. The mist weighs heavy upon him.”

“I shall handle him with care,” Rosé said, her tone softening. “But he must speak, for time grows short.”

---

Back at the inn, Rosé found Gregory sitting by the fire, his small form huddled in a chair far too large for him. His eyes, once bright with curiosity, were dull, haunted by what he had seen and heard. The weight of the mist was upon him, pressing down on his fragile spirit.

Rosé knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm. “Gregory.”

The boy looked up, his gaze unfocused, as if he were still lost in the fog.

“Thou art safe here,” she said, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “But I need thee to tell me of the song. The one thou heardst in the night.”

Gregory’s lips trembled, his voice barely a whisper. “It… it sings to me still. Even now, I can hear it.”

Rosé’s brow furrowed. “What doth it say?”

The boy swallowed hard, his eyes filling with tears. “It calls me. It tells me to come… to join them. The children… they’re in the mist, waiting. They want me to follow.”

Rosé’s heart clenched at the boy’s words, but she kept her expression calm. “And dost thou wish to follow?”

Gregory shook his head, his tears falling freely now. “No… but it’s so hard. The mist… it pulls at me. It’s like a hand reaching for me, and I don’t know how much longer I can fight it.”

Rosé squeezed his shoulder gently, her voice low and soothing. “Thou art stronger than thou knowest, Gregory. The mist hath no power over thee that thou canst not resist. But I need thee to be brave a little longer. Tell me—when the song comes, doth it come from the mist alone, or is there something more? A face, a form, anything thou hast seen?”

Gregory hesitated, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the details. “There’s a shadow,” he whispered finally. “A shape in the mist. I see it sometimes, just out of the corner of my eye. It’s tall… and cold. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it watching me.”

Rosé’s eyes narrowed. A shape in the mist. This was no mere weather, no natural phenomenon. There was something—someone—behind this, something that moved within the fog, pulling the strings from the shadows.

She stood, her resolve hardening like steel. “Then I shall seek out this shadow. And when I find it, I shall put an end to its reign.”

Gregory looked up at her, his eyes filled with both fear and hope. “Do you think you can save us?”

Rosé’s gaze softened for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. “I shall do more than think it, child. I shall see it done.”