Page 118 of Starside

He’s right. Up ahead is just a firm wall of gray. The mists. The Bone Woods. The fog is unmoving even under the downpour, sitting like an ominous cloud.

I run toward it, hoping its proximity will give them pause. And every inch closer I get, I feel it. An otherworldly coldness gripping my bones. Sliding through my veins. Freezing my blood, little by little. Clawing at my soul.

One of the warriors behind me curses, slows down, but the others don’t.

And when I reach the mist, I turn sharply to run along its edge.

This close, I hear it like a whisper, like a beckoning. I feel its chill against my cheek, like a stroking skeletal finger. I feel its cut, like skirting a sword’s blade.

“You can’t outrun us,” one of the warriors says, his armor clamoring as he sprints. His voice is too close. Right behind me. Almost at my ear. I look back and see him reaching for my sword. His hand is almost at the hilt.

His other hand is holding his weapon. It’s nearly at my neck. I veer to the other side—only to gasp. The other warrior is there, sword outstretched.

The one from before is now in front.

They have me surrounded. Boxed in.

I turn toward the village, but there’s no one coming to help. Raker didn’t hear my cries, or he did and he didn’t care. I’m alone.

“Look at that. Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. Nowhere to run,” one of the warriors says, before swinging his blade back. I know that position well. I held it for hours. I know it’s setting up for a brutal, killing stroke. He wants to be the one to claim my sword.

But he’s wrong. There is somewhere to run.

Rain melts down my face as I turn—and throw myself through the wall of mist.

21

Cold spears my bones and settles in my marrow. More unnerving than that is the soul-withering silence.

The rain falls soundlessly against the ground.

My skin prickles with panic. I can’t hear anything—even the warriors beyond the tree line. I can’t see them either.

I unsheathe my sword as quickly as I did with Raker, ready for the possibility that they will run in after me. That perhaps the tales of the mist were exaggerated.

But there isn’t a single movement. Even those immortal knights, armored, deadly, and likely centuries old, fear this place. My sweaty hands tighten around the hilt, in case I’m wrong. I keep my blade lifted high even through the lingering effects of the sleeping elixir, a testament to my recent practice. I’ve stayed in this same position for hours. I can stay in it for minutes.

I do. I count the seconds until ten minutes have passed, the quiet of the mist so unsettling, the thought of facing the warriors again seems almost like a preferable option. Hopefully, they’re back in town. Or Raker’s close enough that I can catch up to him. I take a steadying breath, then bolt back in the direction I came—

But I don’t see the warriors. I don’t see the village.

All I see is endless mist, as though I have fallen into an ever-changing labyrinth.

Fuck.

Dread trips down my spine as the immortal’s words cycle through my head. Entire armies sent inside, never to be seen again. Ancient creatures that would grind my bones to dust with their teeth.

No. I can’t stay here. Raker will be looking for me. Or, more likely, he will be leaving me behind. How long will he wait? Minutes? Did he even hear my cries in the streets?

Would he care if he did?

I run, right toward the village. It has to be there. There must be an end to this fog. I’ve barely taken a few steps. I am not lost.

I repeat the words even as the mist thickens. Even as the ground changes. Even as it becomes clear that this place is as deadly as the immortal said it was.

I open my mouth to scream—but even my voice is muted. It’s hardly a whisper in the wind. I yell and yell, my neck straining, until my throat burns. The sounds I make are swallowed, as if I’m sitting at the bottom of a well.

No. This can’t be happening.