CHAPTER NINE: LALANA, THE WITCH BEHIND THE MIST

The mist thickened, swirling around the village of Windermere like a shroud of death, creeping ever closer as if driven by an unseen will. The air was heavy with tension, a suffocating pressure that weighed down upon Rosé as she stood beside Helene, who stood still, her hand firmly gripping the hilt of her sword. The fire that flickered in the hearth did little to warm them; it was the coldness in Helene’s eyes that froze the room in place.

Rosé’s heart raced, her breath shallow. Helene’s resolve was like iron, unyielding, and her murderous intent hung in the air, palpable, thick as the fog outside. Rosé had tried to appeal to her, tried to reason, but Helene was deaf to all but her own single-minded purpose.

The room was deathly silent, save for the distant sound of the wind howling through the village. And then, a voice—soft, lilting, almost a whisper—broke the stillness.

"So, the hunter hath come."

The voice seemed to rise from the mist itself, curling through the air like a wisp of smoke. It was a voice that chilled the blood, filled with both amusement and malice.

Helene’s muscles tensed, her grip tightening around her sword. Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the mist pressed against the glass, so thick it seemed like a living thing, breathing, waiting.

"Show thyself, witch," Helene growled, her voice low, dangerous.

A soft, mocking laugh echoed through the room, and the mist outside began to twist, coil, and darken. It gathered in front of the inn’s doorway, swirling into a concentrated mass. Slowly, from that cloud of darkness, a figure emerged—graceful, ethereal, and utterly terrifying.

Lalana, the witch behind the mist, stood before them.

Her form was tall and slender, draped in flowing black robes that seemed to melt into the fog around her. Her hair was long, cascading like an inky river down her back, and her eyes—black as pitch—glowed faintly, reflecting the flickering firelight with an unnatural gleam. She smiled, a wicked, knowing smile, as her gaze settled upon Helene.

"Thou dost seek to destroy what thou dost not understand, as always," Lalana purred, stepping forward, her feet silent upon the floor. "The children, the mist, this village—they are all mine. And yet thou thinkest to challenge me?"

Rosé’s breath caught in her throat. This was Lalana, the force behind everything, the shadow that had been lurking within the mist all along. The power that radiated from her was suffocating, pressing down on Rosé with an unbearable weight.

Helene did not flinch. Her murderous intent blazed brighter than ever, her eyes narrowing into sharp, deadly slits. "Thou art naught but a plague upon this land," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "I shall cut thee down, as I would any other monster."

With a swift motion, Helene unsheathed her sword, its blade gleaming in the dim light. She moved with the precision of a predator, her body coiled, ready to strike.

Lalana tilted her head, amused, as though she were watching a child play with a toy. "Oh, sweet warrior," she whispered, her voice dripping with mockery. "Dost thou truly believe thy steel can touch me?"

Before Helene could answer, Lalana raised her hand. The mist outside surged forward, crashing through the door and windows like a tidal wave, filling the room in an instant. Rosé staggered back, gasping as the cold, damp fog wrapped around her, chilling her to the bone.

Helene lunged, her blade slicing through the air with deadly precision—but it never met its target. Lalana moved with impossible speed, her body dissolving into the mist and reforming behind Helene in the blink of an eye.

"Foolish child," Lalana hissed, her voice now cold, venomous.

Helene swung again, her strikes fueled by rage and frustration, but Lalana was always just out of reach, her form slipping through Helene’s attacks like water through fingers. Rosé watched in horror, her heart pounding, knowing that Helene’s anger was blinding her, that this battle was spiraling out of control.

Then, in a flash of movement too fast to follow, Lalana struck.

The witch’s hand, pale and clawed, lashed out, and before Rosé could scream a warning, Helene’s arm—her sword arm—was severed at the shoulder.

A sickening sound filled the room, the wet thud of flesh and bone hitting the floor. Blood sprayed across the walls, staining the cobblestone beneath them. Helene staggered back, her face contorted in shock and pain. She clutched the stump where her arm had been, her sword clattering to the ground, forgotten.

For the first time, Rosé saw fear in Helene’s eyes.

The mighty warrior, the member of the Elite Four, had been crippled in a single, effortless blow. And Lalana stood before her, smiling that same wicked, amused smile, as though she had merely swatted away an insect.

"Now," Lalana whispered, her voice a cruel caress, "let us see if thou art still so eager to play the hero."

Rosé’s heart raced, her mind reeling. She had to act—had to do something. But what? Helene was bleeding out, and Lalana was unstoppable, untouchable. Fear gripped her, paralyzing her limbs, but she knew she could not stand by and watch Helene die, not like this.

"Wait!" Rosé cried, stepping forward, her voice trembling but loud enough to cut through the suffocating mist. "Please, Lalana—spare her. She is not thy true enemy."

Lalana turned her gaze upon Rosé, her eyes narrowing in mild curiosity. "And who art thou to make such a plea?"

Rosé swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at her to flee, but she forced herself to hold her ground. "I am Rosé," she said, her voice steadying. "I am here to uncover the truth behind the mist and the children. But this—this is not the way. If thou dost kill her, what dost thou gain? More blood upon thy hands? More death for a village already drowning in despair?"

Lalana’s eyes glinted with amusement. "And thou thinkest to sway me with words?" She glanced at Helene, who was on her knees now, struggling to stay upright, blood pooling around her.

Rosé’s voice softened, her heart aching as she saw the pain in Helene’s face, the helplessness that the warrior had never known until now. "This is not what thou wantest," Rosé said quietly, her eyes pleading. "The mist, the children—they are thine. I know there is more to this than just blood and death. Please, give me time. Let me find a way to end this without more loss."

For a long, agonizing moment, the room was silent. Lalana regarded Rosé with those dark, piercing eyes, as though weighing her words, testing her resolve. The mist swirled around them, thick and suffocating, waiting for Lalana’s command.

Then, slowly, Lalana lowered her hand. The mist receded, curling back like a living thing retreating into the shadows.

"Very well," Lalana said, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "I shall grant thee time, little Rosé. But know this—if thou dost fail, I shall return. And next time, there shall be no mercy."

Rosé let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her heart pounding in her chest. Helene slumped to the floor, her body trembling, blood still pouring from her wound.

Lalana’s form dissolved into the mist once more, and in an instant, she was gone, leaving only the thick fog and the stench of blood in her wake.

Rosé fell to her knees beside Helene, her hands shaking as she tried to stem the flow of blood. "Helene," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Stay with me. Please."

Helene’s eyes flickered open, filled with pain and anger, but also something else—something softer. Defeat.

"She… took my arm," Helene rasped, her voice weak.

Rosé nodded, tears filling her eyes. "But not thy life. Not yet."

The end had not come, not yet. But Rosé knew it was only a matter of time before Lalana returned, and next time, there would be no chance for mercy.