CHAPTER EIGHT: FRUSTRATION & DESPAIR

The wind howled through the desolate streets of Windermere, carrying with it the cries of souls long forsaken. The mist, ever thickening, coiled through the cobblestones like a serpent, hiding the village’s secrets within its ethereal folds. The air tasted of damp earth and hopelessness. The walls of the inn groaned under the pressure of the storm that raged outside, but within, it was not the wind that caused the greatest unease.

Rosé sat by the fire, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were pale. Her mind whirled, spinning with thoughts of failure and impending doom. She had exhausted every avenue, followed every lead, but nothing—nothing—had brought her closer to uncovering the truth of the missing children. And now, with Helene's arrival, the weight of her failure bore down upon her like an anvil.

How had it come to this?

The flickering firelight cast long shadows on her face, revealing the furrow of her brow, the tightness around her mouth, and the sheen of frustration in her eyes. Each passing second seemed to press in on her, squeezing out hope, leaving behind only the bitter taste of despair. She had wanted to protect Windermere, to bring the children back, but now it seemed she could not even protect herself from the storm that Helene would unleash.

The door creaked open, and Rosé’s breath caught in her throat. Helene entered, her silver armor catching the light in cold, sharp edges, casting her presence with an ominous gleam. There was no warmth in her eyes, only that same deadly resolve that Rosé had seen upon her arrival. It was the look of a woman who had no patience for mercy, no room for hesitation.

Rosé stood, her body stiff, her mind racing, knowing full well that Helene’s time was drawing near. She was out of options—words, pleas, reason—none of it had swayed the warrior. Her murderous intent was palpable, like a blade just beneath the surface, waiting to strike. The children, the villagers, even Rosé herself—it mattered not to Helene. All that stood between her and the completion of her task was the fog, and she would cut it down without a second thought.

Helene stepped closer, her face expressionless, yet there was something deeper in her eyes—a simmering rage, cold and calculated. It wasn’t the fury of someone out of control, but the cold determination of someone who saw her purpose and was prepared to fulfill it, no matter the cost.

“Thy silence speaks louder than any words thou couldst offer,” Helene’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and unforgiving. “Thou knowest as well as I that time hath run its course.”

Rosé’s chest tightened, her heart pounding against her ribcage. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, the abyss yawning below her, and Helene was the force that would send her plummeting. Her thoughts raced—she needed more time. More time to figure it out. More time to understand what this mist truly was. But there was no more time. Helene was the embodiment of finality.

“Milady, if thou dost act in haste—” Rosé began, her voice strained, trying to stave off the inevitable.

But Helene raised a hand, silencing her with a single motion. “I have heard enough, Rosé,” she said, her voice as cold as the steel she wielded. “Words hath brought us nowhere. We stand still, whilst the children fade further into the shadows. This village rots, and thou wouldst have me wait? Nay. The time for waiting hath passed.”

There was a sudden, deadly quiet between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Rosé could feel Helene’s murderous intent filling the space like a fog of its own, heavier than the mist outside, more suffocating. The warrior’s every movement, every breath, was a calculated step toward violence. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Helene did not simply wish to act—she needed to act. The need to destroy, to cut through the heart of the mystery, was woven into every fiber of her being.

Rosé trembled, not from fear of death but from the crushing weight of failure. She had come to Windermere to save the lost, to be the light that guided the children home. But now, she could not even save herself from Helene’s blade. And if Helene had her way, the village would be razed, the children forgotten, and the fog would claim them all.

“Thou dost not see,” Rosé whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible above the fire’s crackle. “This is not a foe to be slain with steel. The mist, the children—it is all connected, but not as thou thinkest.”

Helene’s eyes flashed, a spark of irritation flickering behind her cold demeanor. “And what wouldst thou have me do?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous. “Wait yet longer while more children vanish into the night? Watch as this village crumbles, all for the hope of some elusive truth?”

Her hand moved to the hilt of her sword, her fingers brushing the blade with a reverence that sent a chill down Rosé’s spine. Helene’s gaze was unwavering, her patience hanging by the thinnest of threads.

“Thou speakest of truth,” Helene continued, stepping closer, her presence overpowering. “But the truth is plain to see. This village is cursed, these people are lost, and the only way forward is to cleanse it with fire and steel.”

Rosé felt her heart sink further, the weight of her helplessness pressing down on her. She had never felt so powerless, so incapable of stopping what was to come. Helene was a force of nature, an avalanche that could not be diverted, only endured. And as Rosé stared into the warrior’s eyes, she realized that Helene’s rage—cold, methodical, and unrelenting—was not born of anger toward the village, or even toward the mist. It was something deeper, more personal. Helene’s murderous intent was a manifestation of her own frustration, her own despair at a world she could not fully control.

“Helene,” Rosé said softly, her voice breaking, “there is another way. I can feel it. The fog, it hides something, but it doth not mean to destroy. It is a warning—a warning we must heed. If thou dost act in haste, we shall be lost forever.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickered in Helene’s eyes, a shadow of hesitation, a crack in the armor she had so carefully constructed. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the icy resolve that had carried her through countless battles.

“Nay, Rosé,” Helene said, her voice final, her expression hardening. “Thou art blinded by thy hope. But hope is a fragile thing, easily broken. And I shall not allow this village to fall further into ruin whilst we chase ghosts.”

She drew her sword, the cold steel gleaming in the firelight, casting long shadows across the room. Her expression remained unreadable, but there was no mistaking the deadly intent in her eyes. This was not a threat—it was a promise.

Rosé took a step back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had known this moment was coming, had felt it building ever since Helene had arrived, but now that it was here, she realized how utterly unprepared she was. She had no more arguments to offer, no more pleas to make. Helene had made up her mind, and there was nothing Rosé could do to stop her.

The weight of it all—the children, the villagers, the fog—crashed down upon her, and for the first time in her life, Rosé felt true despair. She had failed. The end was drawing near, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Helene stepped forward, her sword raised, her eyes locked onto Rosé with a terrifying calm. “Thou canst not save them,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it echoed in the small room, filling every corner with its finality.

Rosé’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. Was this truly the end? Would the mist claim them all, as Helene had predicted? Or was there still a chance—a slim, fleeting chance—to change their fate?

The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing tighter, the air growing colder. The mist outside thickened, creeping in through the cracks, as if to swallow the village whole.

And in that moment, as Rosé stared into the eyes of the warrior who would end it all, she made a decision.

“Nay,” Rosé whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “I shall not let it end like this.”

The fire flickered, and the shadows grew long, as the end drew nearer still.