The Fog Line Clash

The morning arrived without light. Only fog.

It rolled low and heavy over the basin below the ridge, thick as wool and colder than the wind. A blanket that muted sound and swallowed breath. Darin stood in the line, shield ready, stomach twisting. He couldn't see farther than five paces.

No drums. No horns. The officers had forbidden them.

Sir Rhoran's order had been clear: Form by tens. March slow. Hold the rise. If you hear the call, advance. If you don't, stay still. You do not break formation. You do not chase.

That was an hour ago.

Now, they waited.

Darin's boots were soaked again. His fingers cramped on the shield strap. Harl stood to his right, his mouth a hard line. The other men around them shuffled, whispered, or prayed into their sleeves.

And then—

A scream. Short. Muffled.

Then a second.

Raive's voice barked: "Form! Right flank forward!"

The fog swallowed the order.

They moved anyway.

The line surged, slow and clumsy. Darin's feet slipped in the muck. Ahead, shapes flickered. Motion—uncertain, fast, too low.

Then impact.

A shape crashed into the shield line from the mist—small, fast, screaming.

Darin raised his shield in time. The blade hit it, glanced. He stepped forward and rammed with his shoulder.

The attacker stumbled—too small. A boy. Or near to it. Face covered in cloth, eyes wide with panic.

Darin hesitated.

A spear pierced the attacker's side from Darin's left. Another footman—older, heavier, didn't hesitate.

Blood hit the fog like a black smear.

Then more shapes. Shouts. Blades. Darin swung his cleaver. Missed. Stepped back. Felt the crunch of someone's boot under his heel.

The shield wall shattered.

What followed wasn't battle. It was panic with edges.

Fog blurred friend from foe. Screams echoed wrong. Some men attacked shadows. Others screamed names, got no answer.

Darin ducked a blade. Brought his cleaver up and slammed it into someone's ribs. A man, bearded, wearing no colors. The man gasped once. Fell.

A rush. Someone barreled into Darin from the side. He fell. Rolled. Came up with blood in his mouth and no weapon in hand.

Then—

The cloth bundle. Still bound under his cloak.

The old blade.

He drew it. No shine. No hiss. Just cold metal.

The next attacker—a tall woman with a hatchet—didn't see it until it was in her gut.

The blade went in clean. Came out slower.

Darin stood, breath heaving.

All around, the battle thinned. The raiders—whoever they were—retreated into the mist. Maybe fifty of them. Less now.

Raive shouted for reformation. Half the men responded. The rest… lay quiet.

When it ended, Darin's hands were slick. His cloak torn. The cloth wrap around the old blade half-loosened.

He rewrapped it. Tightly. Secretly.

No one had seen.

Except one.

Raive's eyes passed over him as he took count. Paused. Looked at the blade.

Then moved on.

Later, Darin found Harl seated on a broken log, blood on his sleeve and teeth gritted.

"You good?" Darin asked.

"Was," Harl muttered. "Until Arven caught one in the neck right next to me. Couldn't stop it."

Darin sat beside him. Said nothing.

The fog didn't lift that day.

But something else did.

A memory. A marker.

He had killed. Efficiently. Calmly. And someone had noticed.