Steps Into the Shivering Mist

The mist pulsed, thick and alive, swallowing the house as the speaker's rusted shell—or its echo—crumbled under my hands, its whispers fading into a hollow sigh. Raisa's form flickered beside me, her green-hazel eyes glinting, her presence a thread trembling between shadow and flesh. The necklace lay in the dust, its heart pendant glinting faintly, a vow I couldn't drop. "Enough," I said, my voice sharp, cutting the silence. "We're leaving—this house, this flood—I'll carry you out."

Her laughter rippled, soft and jagged, slicing through the haze. "Out?" she murmured, her voice a whisper on the wind. "You bent it, Lukas—brave, yes—but the flood follows." I gripped her hand—or the air—her touch slipping, and turned, the door gaping like a wound in the mist. "Follows?" I said, stepping forward, my boots thudding on warped wood. "Let it—I'm done drowning."

The village loomed beyond, its sagging roofs tilting in the gray light, shadows drifting—or lunging—between the houses. The air buzzed, sharp and cold, the speaker's hum—or the river's—thrumming beneath my feet. Raisa's form wavered, her scar catching the dim glow, and she whispered, "Done? You're trembling—still afraid." I smirked, shaky but fierce, "Afraid? For you—not me."

A crack split the silence—wood snapping, or stone—the house groaning as I crossed the threshold, the mist surging—or retreating—around us. "Lukas!" she cried, her voice spiking, her hand yanking me back—or fading—as the floor buckled, a tide of water seeping up, dark and swift. My heart slammed, the necklace swinging in my grip. "No!" I roared, pulling her—or nothing—toward the door, the village trembling as the flood clawed at us, its rust-stained tongue licking the air.

The shadows shrieked—or sang—Mara's eyes, Toren's growl, Lira's laugh—swirling in the mist, and Raisa's voice broke, "It's them—it's me—it won't let go!" I stumbled onto the stone path, her form flickering, solid, then shadow, the water surging behind—or beneath—its roar a chorus of the drowned. "Then I'll make it," I said, my voice a blade, "I'll carry you—all of you—watch me!"

The mist twisted, the village warping—or sharpening—and a shape loomed ahead, not a house, but a gate, rusted and bent, its bars glinting with 13. My breath caught, the flood's hum rising—or dying—as Raisa's eyes met mine, alive—or empty—her whisper echoing, "Make it? You'll break first," and the water crashed, the gate groaned, leaving me teetering on the edge of what I'd begun.