A pale dawn pressed its chill fingers against Skyhaven's palisades as Sif swung into the saddle of his gray mare. He felt the reassuring weight of Ronar's sword at his hip—its leather-wrapped hilt warm beneath his gauntlet—and the small pack of provisions from Lady Vivian settled snugly against his back. No turning back, he reminded himself, nudging the mare forward into the half-lit world beyond the whitewashed walls.
Hour after silent hour passed, the mare's hooves ringing on frost-hardened earth. The low sun glimmered through skeletal oaks draped in hoarfrost until, at last, weathered boundary stones appeared like tired sentinels on the moor. A sharpened sense of unease pricked at Sif's spine. This place isn't forgiving, he thought, as the air seemed to tighten around him.
Then the fog arrived.
It spilled across the land in a breath of silver, swallowing hill and hollow. The mare balked, eyes wide, as the path winked out beneath swirling mist. With a startled neigh, she reared—flinging Sif onto the frozen ground. He scrambled upright, sword drawn, but found neither path nor horse—only the oppressive hush of vapor pressing in.
From the gray emerged a man of average height, clad in travel-worn leathers and a cloak the color of moss. One hand rested on a polished cane; damp curls clung to his collar, and his eyes held an uncanny light.
"Lost your way?" the stranger asked, voice calm amid the creeping gloom. "Name's Elandar Mire. I guide travelers through these parts—though few dare the Foglands twice."
Guide, Sif mused, or trickster. He studied the man warily. "No guide could have reached me in time—unless you walk faster than the sun."
Elandar offered a wry smile. "Or wait longer than the night." He tapped his cane on the frozen earth. "You carry a fine sword—and heavier burdens, I'd wager. What brings you to my mist-enshrouded realm?"
Before Sif could answer, a distant laugh rippled through the fog:
"Fox of Blackreach… welcome home."
Elandar's eyes darkened. "Names can lie," he murmured, nodding at a mossy cairn etched with faded runes. "Perhaps this will speak more clearly."
Sif crouched, brushing frost from the standing stone. In the Old Tongue, three lines gleamed beneath his finger:
"What walks without feet yet carries all stones?
What weeps yet never bleeds?
What binds the living, yet powers the dead?"
Riddles, he thought, this place reeks of them. He met Elandar's steady gaze. "Water," he said softly. "It moves every stone, fills every tear, and carries life beyond the grave."
In an instant, the stranger's genial mask shattered. Pale gleams flickered in his eyes. "Well answered, Fox. Few discern truth in these mists." He bowed his head in respect, then added—almost to himself—"But I am no mere man... I am the Man of Glass."
His form blurred; the cane clattered to the ground; and the mist swallowed all again, leaving Sif alone, heart pounding. Glass, he repeated under his breath. What cruel mirror awaits next?
A damp hush settled as Sif pressed on, sword heavy in his hand. Each breath tasted of cold water, each step sank into silent frost. So dense was the fog that Skyhaven's walls, which he'd left only hours ago, had vanished entirely. I'm already lost, he admitted, inhaling the damp air.
He paused, listening. A lone crow cawed overhead, but the sound dissolved as quickly as it came. Resting the flat of his blade on his shoulder, he closed his eyes. This fog is patient. It waits.
Another step. He stumbled over something hard and tumbled—cold claws digging through his cloak—before springing upright. Heart hammering, he knelt to brush the frost from another cairn. Moonlit runes pulsed faintly. Before he could read them, a muffled curse drifted on the wind.
"Blast," he muttered, "even the stones play tricks."
Suddenly, a flash of red danced through the silver gloom. He lowered his sword, frowning. Mirage? Madness? He followed the color to a young woman perched on a fallen branch, brushing snow from her red hair.
"Oh—sorry. I nearly flattened you," she said, startled.
Sif blinked. "Flatten me? I'd say your branch did a better job." He extended a gloved hand. "Sif."
She took it gingerly. "Jane. I'm from Orvalia—here to… well, I was following a guide."
He helped her up and caught her arm as she wobbled. "He called himself Elandar Mire?"
Her eyes widened. "How did you—?"
"Saw him first," Sif replied dryly. "Trust a man named 'Fog-Walker'? Let me guess—he offered directions, then vanished."
She pressed a hand to her brow. "Something like that. But I'm a healer—my patients need me. When I learned there are no healers north of Frostmoor, I came."
An eyebrow rose. "You read travel brochures in the heart of a fog-shrouded nightmare?"
She shrugged, rosy-cheeked from the cold. "Pamphlets find a way." She managed a small laugh. "You know the legends: the Man of Glass toys with travelers—win his game, he grants a wish. Lose… you disappear."
Typical wizard's bargain, Sif thought, rubbing his jaw. He offered a wry smile. "Cheap inn rent."
Her smile faded. "This isn't a joke," she said, voice hushed. "I—could use a friend."
He returned the smile, begrudgingly relieved. "You're stuck with me, then. Now, how do we escape this silver soup? Bright ideas?"
Jane tapped her chin. "Either he shows us the way—or we beat him at his own game."
Sif chuckled. "A riddle contest in the mist. What could go wrong?"
She grinned, relief flickering. "Often, everything. But I know my myths—and you look like you're due for a laugh."
He sheathed his sword. "Lead on, Miss Orvalian—before the fog decides we're its next punchline."
Together, blade and healer strode into the gray, each swallowed footprint a promise: they would face the Man of Glass… or become another lost legend