Chapter 10: Shadows at the Edge of the Mist (Part 2)

Hanae closed the door to her cabin with a soft thud and leaned against the sturdy wood behind her. The small cabin, built from aging pine logs dulled by time, had a moss-covered roof and a ceramic leaf-shaped lantern swaying gently near the window—its glow the only source of warmth that night. Inside, the wooden table was cluttered with potion bottles, scrolls of incantations, and tiny charms she had just finished assembling. In another corner, thick cushions were stacked on the floor, forming a simple bed she always kept ready for unexpected guests.

Her body felt impossibly heavy. Physical exhaustion was only half the burden—spiritual fatigue ran far deeper. The night before, she had drained nearly all her reserves in the ritual to mend Merek's leyline. And the confrontation with the vampire in Westvale had taken more from her spirit than she could have imagined. Her fingers trembled as she set her small satchel down on the table, eyes flickering toward the soul ring on her hand—its glow now faint and wavering.

Dragging her feet, Hanae shuffled toward the cushions and lay down, letting the thick blanket envelop her. Sleep took her quickly, her mind dimming into silence as the wind whispered through the cracks of the wooden windowpanes.

Several hours later, she awoke to golden sunlight seeping through the gaps in the curtains. Blinking away the haze, she sat at the edge of the bed. A mild headache pulsed at her temples, but her resolve had returned—the weight of tonight's task was already pressing on her thoughts.

Then, soft footsteps echoed outside the cabin—someone approaching. 

Knock... knock... 

The sound of wood against wood broke the morning calm. Hanae exhaled, stood, and opened the door.

Standing there was a tall figure draped in a gray hooded cloak. A pair of subtly pointed ears peeked out from beneath the hood—clear signs of foxblood ancestry. His features were sharp, his nose aquiline, and the tips of his auburn hair caught the light like smoldering ash. He looked about five years older than Rhett, yet the calm in his gaze betrayed a deeper wisdom.

"I'm Yaren Seirun," he said kindly. "Commander of the Voice Division—The Circle's spiritual branch. I've come on Master Aren's request."

Hanae gave a tired smile and nodded. "Please, come in, Master Seirun. I… could really use your help."

They sat at a small table covered with handwoven tribal cloth. Hanae's eyes held a glint of purpose. "As Master Aren ordered, we'll be sending the Pions—disguised agents trained by The Circle—into Westvale. Their job is to mark extra-markers before our full team moves in." She unrolled a small map across the table. "But each Pion needs tracking charms and a special potion. I've prepared the recipe, but I'm missing a few ingredients."

Yaren nodded, resting a hand under his chin thoughtfully. "What do you need, Sentinel Moreou? I'll have one of my runners deliver them right away."

Hanae unrolled a scroll listing sangge, howling root, moon moss, and small soul crystals. "I need four pieces of silvershade root and powdered moon-fern—these strengthen spirit resonance. Also, a handful of night mist dew, to stabilize the energy channel."

Yaren took note with practiced care. "I'll send them to you immediately. Meanwhile, coordinate with Mistcaller and Heartlisten—the two shamans who usually work in Vaelhara. Make sure they know how to use the detection charms the Pions will carry."

Hanae straightened her spine slightly, a breath of relief in her voice. "Understood. I'll meet with them tonight."

Yaren stood and gave her a respectful bow. "I'll ensure the supplies arrive before sundown. Good luck, Sentinel."

Hanae helped him lift a small wooden crate of early preparations and walked him to the door. "Thank you, Master Yaren. Let's move fast—before the night fog settles."

Back at her table, Hanae prepared ceramic bowls, a grinding stone, and a few glass tubes. She carefully organized each herb and crystal, setting them out in order. The leaves outside rustled faintly as the afternoon light began to fade, casting calm shadows across the room before the storm of nightwork would begin.

Not long after, hurried footsteps returned—a young Khurai carrying a leather pouch of supplies. "The ingredients, Sentinel," he announced, laying out roots, moss, and soul crystals on the table.

Hanae nodded in thanks and immediately began her work—grinding silvershade root into fine powder, blending it with moon-fern and night mist dew. A fragrant vapor rose as she added the liquid base, murmuring soft stabilization chants beneath her breath.

As dusk neared, Yaren Seirun returned—this time with three members of the Voice Division. All wore gray robes and carried staffs topped with polished spirit crystals. On the table, a handful of tracking charms and half-finished vials lay ready.

Hanae stood and gestured to the items. "These are the tracking charms. To activate: press the crystal tip into the earth at a suspected point—it will glow if a spirit fracture is nearby." She demonstrated—soft violet light pulsed faintly from the charm as it touched the floor. "The potion: three drops on the wrists, then inhale deeply three times. It sharpens spirit perception."

Yaren and his team tested the items, nodding in understanding. "Simple and effective," he said. "We'll move out tonight."

Hanae packed the kits into a satchel, her expression focused. "Remember—your mission is to mark extra-markers. If you find sealing symbols, mark and withdraw. The full team will follow."

Yaren gave her a solemn look and turned toward the door. "May our hunt be swift."

Elsewhere, in a shadowed part of Vaelhara, Rhett stood alongside five handpicked warriors from the Fang Division—The Circle's hunters. Under the silver gaze of the first moon, they readied weapons, drank elixirs to heighten their senses, and memorized a deck of cards marked with fracture coordinates. With a single nod, they set out along a narrow trail toward Westvale—following the fading traces left in the mist.

Back in her cabin, Hanae looked out at the dimming sky. Then she reached for a small item resting on her desk—a spirit horn, carved with swirling wind motifs. Made from earth-swan bone and silverfrost, the horn wasn't meant to summon spirits directly, but to send out a spiritual signal—a traditional call recognized by the seasoned shamans of Nimaara. When blown, its low tone traveled through the spirit veins, stirring the air in subtle resonance—a call only those attuned would hear.

Moments after the sound faded, a soft wind brushed her window—a silent reply known only to the practiced.

The ones Hanae had called—Mistcaller and Heartlisten—were no ordinary shamans. Mistcaller, a fog-weaver who could read the shifting of fractured paths through moisture in the air; and Heartlisten, an elder adept at sensing life's fading pulse within weakened spirits. Both guarded the edges of Nimaara and both were now making their way toward her cabin—knowing that such a call never came without reason.

Outside, the fog began to descend.

The hunt was far from over.

And tonight, the first Pions had already moved.