Whispers in the Crimson Fog

The mist over Verdantia had changed.

It was no longer the soft, fragrant veil that wrapped around the city like a mother's lullaby. No—it had thickened, turned red, and pulsed like a living thing. It crawled through alleyways and palace halls, staining glass and silver, whispering ancient truths that should have stayed buried.

But only a few could hear them.

And among those few... was Priyanshu Yadav.

He stood atop the black spire of the old cathedral—the tallest building in the capital, untouched by the new ruler's influence. The wind kissed his long coat as his silver eyes glowed faintly, tracking the movements below. He wasn't watching people.

He was watching threads.

Invisible to others, these threads wove through the city like veins—corruption, desire, fear, loyalty, betrayal—all tugged by unseen hands.

"Verdantia is ripe," he murmured, lips barely moving. "All it needs... is a little push."

And the push was already in motion.

Down in the merchant quarter, Lady Nyra—once a noble, now a puppet—walked barefoot through the streets. Her eyes were glassy, pupils wide. She muttered to herself, hands twitching as if conducting a silent symphony.

"The flowers… the red flowers… they bloom from the bones…"

She had touched the fog.

And it had touched her back.

People avoided her. But Priyanshu watched her fondly, like an artist admiring the first stroke of chaos on a clean canvas.

He didn't need to lift a sword. The fog was his army. The whispers were his soldiers.

And Verdantia... was his battlefield.

Inside the palace, Crown Prince Laeron slammed his fist on the crystal table.

"What's happening out there?" he growled, golden eyes wild. "My people are seeing hallucinations! Noble children are speaking in tongues! And that cursed fog—why hasn't it lifted?"

Beside him, the Royal Archbishop trembled. "It's… unnatural, Your Highness. We tried purification rituals. We offered sacred blood. Nothing works. The fog resists divinity."

Laeron turned slowly. "Then find me something darker."

The archbishop paled. "You don't mean—"

"I said darker, didn't I?"

Outside the palace window, the red mist curled into a mocking smile.

In the slums, a boy with no name whispered prayers to a coin.

"Let them fall. Let the palace burn. Let the fog take what it must."

He didn't know who had given him the coin—a stranger with a calm voice and silver eyes. But the moment he accepted it, his dreams turned real.

He saw futures.

He saw gods kneel.

He saw Priyanshu.

Back atop the cathedral, Priyanshu chuckled as he felt the city tremble beneath his feet.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

The Loyal Dog Organization had already planted seeds among the merchants. The Church was split from within. The Academy of Seers had gone silent after their head vanished—his soul now trapped in a painting Priyanshu kept in his secret gallery.

And the greatest player of all?

Verdantia itself.

The land was responding to his will. The fog was a byproduct of the ancient roots buried deep—roots he had whispered to, seduced with promises of awakening. Verdantia wasn't just a city.

It was a sleeping god.

And he had kissed it awake.

That night, a strange procession moved through the noble district.

Women with blindfolds. Men with bleeding feet. Children holding wilted roses.

They followed the fog like sheep to slaughter, humming a tune only they could hear.

"La la la… crimson rain… take our pain…"

And when the morning came, twenty-seven noble families had vanished.

No bodies. No screams. Just empty mansions and roses blooming in blood-red petals across their gates.

The city panicked.

The empire blamed the rebels.

But Priyanshu smiled in his silent tower.

This was not chaos.

This was art.

Inside the throne room, Emperor Varen—sick and half-blind—woke from a fever dream, coughing blood. He pointed to the shadows.

"I saw him. The one who pulls strings. The one with the silver gaze. He is not a man. He is the fog."

And then he died.

A single rose blooming from his chest.

Priyanshu stepped down from the cathedral that evening, no longer needing to hide.

He walked through the crimson mist, the city bowing without knowing why.

Every soul felt it. Some trembled. Some cried. Some knelt.

A shift had occurred.

A new power had bloomed.

Verdantia was no longer a city ruled by kings and churches. It was now a stage… and the Hidden Villain had taken center.