“Arriving at Magyo shortly, prepare to depart. Arriving at Magyo shortly, prepare to depart,” an announcement echoed loudly above.

  Finn, who had been sound asleep with his head resting on the tray in front of him, suddenly sat up. Still drowsy from his peaceful nap, he glanced around in confusion.

  “Huh?” he grumbled, seemingly lost.

  Looking around once more and coming to his senses, he quickly snapped his head and gazed out of the large window to his right.

  “Oh!” he gasped, his eyes widening in surprise. Finn didn’t know what he expected to see upon his awakening, but what he saw shocked him all the same.

  What had been his lowly hometown in the middle of the countryside, now has transformed into a magnificent metropolis. Everywhere around him were spiralling skyscrapers shooting toward the sky, their chrome shells reflecting the now midday sunshine. Holographic images and advertisements flashed along the buildings above, and hover cars and magical powered vehicles whizzed through the air leaving long streaks of colourful mana and dazzling runes.

  This is the capital… Finn thought to himself, his face glued to the window. This is… insane!

  It was everything he had expected, and yet so much more—even from behind a thick, layered glass window the sight was simply breathtaking.

  The hovertrain continued to meander at rapid speeds through the heart of the capital, leaving the monolithic skyscrapers behind as simple grey blurs.

  The automated announcement rang above once more, announcing to everyone on board that they should collect their belongings and prepare to leave at any second.

  Finn followed its advice—still stealing glances out of the window as he collected his belongings. He pulled his brown suitcase out of the overhead compartment and parked it by his side, then he waited patiently—if patiently meant fidgeting in his seat restlessly and sweating profusely that is.

  The sleek hovercraft flashed through the narrow streets over its designated path, nearing closer with every second that passed to the famed Magyo train terminal. As it finally came into view, the train began to slow. The mana-powered brakes hissed, and the train suddenly slowed to a complete halt.

  Finn peered out the window, his eyes wide with wonder as his heart pounded in his chest. The terminal sprawled before him, a colossal hub of movement and excitement. Back home, the station had just two meagre platforms, but here, more than ten stretched out in every direction. Crowds surged through the platform where his train had just arrived—a mere fragment of the bustling sea of travellers flowing through the labyrinthine terminal.

  Finn watched out the window in awe as the automated announcer spoke again and the doors slid open.

  “Welcome to Magyo, the Magic Capital. Please depart with all of your belongings immediately.”

  Finn finally looked away with a large grin, grabbed hold of his suitcase and then headed to the nearest exit. He followed the tide of travellers departing, then stepped out of the train and into the terminal. With each step he took his heart thumped with excitement. Each step he took he was closer to his dream.

  Finn looked up at the ceiling that seemed to stretch toward the sky with wide eyes. He scanned around, the towering walls were lined with giant, prehistoric analogue clocks, with major time zones labelled underneath; Nordiff, the frozen empire of warriors to the north, Strikeon, the Capital of Trade to the west, and many, many more.

  Finn continued through the open and large concourse, following the crowds and following signs that pointed toward the exit. After a stressful couple of minutes of shoulder-to-shoulder walking, he came to the exit. The door's glassy material glistened in the outside sunlight, calling for him.

  He took a deep breath, swung the door open, and then stepped out.

  This was only the beginning, and Finn knew it. This was the city where dreams became miracles, and unbeknownst to Finn, the city where everything began.

  ***

  Meanwhile, away from the chrome spires and magical phenomena, the crimson fog thickened, swallowing the camp inch by inch. The bell’s relentless clang shattered the fragile quiet of the night, its urgent call reverberating through the tattered tents and makeshift shelters. It cut through the fog, a grim beacon of reminder for the survivors.

  The beasts were coming.

  The group screamed and stumbled, their faces pale with terror. Some clutched precious belongings—family heirlooms, hastily scribbled maps, fragments of letters from loved ones long lost. Others scrambled for weapons, hands trembling as they fumbled with buckles and straps.

  Lark stood at the centre of the chaos, his lean frame unyielding against the growing tide of panic. By his side, Rudd surveyed the scene, his sharp eyes cutting through the mist with an unnerving calm.

  “Move quickly!” Rudd bellowed, his voice slicing through the din. “Grab spare tents, food, water! Take only what you can carry!”

  The veterans of the camp moved with grim efficiency, strapping on battered armour and muttering prayers under their breath. The less experienced stumbled, nerves fraying under the weight of the looming threat. A few raced to the central supply tent, emerging moments later with crates of provisions, while others stood frozen, paralyzed by indecision.

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  Despite the chaos, a strange rhythm emerged. The clang of the bell merged with the hurried footsteps and the sharp snaps of tent poles being dismantled. The low hum of the mist pressed in around them, a reminder of the creeping danger. They moved as one—disorderly, but practised. They had done this before.

  Lark turned and strode toward his tent. Inside, he moved with purpose, gathering the essentials: rations, water, and a worn map of the Greyroar Mountain Range. The map was fragile, its edges frayed from use, but without it, they’d be as good as dead. The eastern mountains possibly offered salvation, with a bit of luck, but only if they could navigate its harsh, unforgiving terrain.

  His hand paused over a small wooden box, its surface etched with faint carvings, the metal latch tarnished with age. He frowned, his eyes darkening. The box was a memory he wanted to forget, there was no space for it now.

  I should leave it. It’s not necessary, he told himself over and over. But the thought lingered, hollow.

  The bell rang again, a sharp reminder of time slipping away. Lark exhaled through clenched teeth and grabbed the box, tucking it into his pack. He felt that he’d regret it later, but there wouldn’t be a later if they didn’t move.

  He pushed through the tent flap and into the camp. The crimson mist was thicker now, curling around his boots and blurring the figures rushing past. It clung to his skin, suffocating and heavy, as if it were alive.

  Lark’s gut twisted. Something gnawed at the edge of his mind, a forgotten whisper. He scanned the camp, his instincts screaming.

  There’s something I’m missing. But what?

  The air grew colder as Lark made his way to the east barricade, where the survivors were gathering. He neared closer, the eerie light emitted from small lanterns and torches carried by the group barely visible through the fog.

  Rudd met him near the edge of the group by the barricade. “We’re ready to move,” he said, his voice steady. “But we’re cutting it close. Fast. We need to move fast.”

  Lark nodded, but his mind wasn’t fully there. His eyes drifted past Rudd to the hazy silhouettes of the remaining tents. A strange silence hung there, different from the chaos of the rest of the camp.

  “Someone’s missing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rudd.

  Rudd frowned. “Everyone is accounted for. I made sure-“

  “No.” Lark’s voice was firmer now, cutting through the clamour of the mist. His chest tightened, a cold pulse spreading from his heart to the tips of his fingers. It wasn’t just a warning—it was a visceral pull, like an invisible hand dragging him toward danger. The visceral sense within him thrummed in rhythm with the hum of the mist, each pulse sharper than the last. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, and each time, it had meant life or death.

  He turned to Rudd and gripped his shoulder. “You go ahead,” he said, pulling the worn map from his pocket and pressing it into Rudd’s hands. “Take the others. I’m going back.”

  “No!” Rudd’s calm calculated demeanour shattered, his voice rising in disbelief. “That’s suicide!”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.” Lark’s tone left no room for argument. He didn’t wait for Rudd’s reply, disappearing into the crimson haze.

  The mist thickened, wrapping around him like a living thing. Each step became heavier, the oppressive silence broken only by the distant echo of his boots on the muddy ground. The bell had stopped, leaving only the low hum of the mist, like a predator waiting to strike.

  Minutes passed and now at the camp’s centre, Lark paused. That’s when he heard it—a faint cry, almost swallowed by the mist. A child.

  His heart clenched, and he broke into a sprint, the sound guiding him to a collapsed tent. He yanked the tattered fabric aside, tearing the thin lining to pieces.

  Beneath the debris, a young boy huddled, clutching a worn jacket far too large for him. The child’s dirt-streaked face was wet with tears, his small frame trembling. Lark’s eyes fell on the jacket—it bore the insignia of a fallen soldier, perhaps one that Lark had known.

  His father, perhaps?

  “Hey,” Lark said gently, his voice soft despite the urgency. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

  The boy looked up, his wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto Lark’s. Without hesitation, Lark scooped him up, wrapping the child tightly in his thick cloak.

  As he turned back toward the barricade, the mist surged, its crimson tendrils reaching like claws. The faint glow of the small lanterns at the camp’s edge dimmed, then vanished entirely.

  The mist grew heavier, clinging to Lark like waterlogged cloth. His limbs felt leaden, each movement slower, more laboured than the last.

  A sudden premonition jolted through him like ice down his spine. Goosebumps prickled his skin, and his muscles locked and strained.

  Instinctively, he lunged to the side, hugging the boy tightly within his cloak. Something flashed by him, millimetres from his face—a second late and he was as good as meat. The air around him seemed to ripple, and a low, guttural rumble emerged from the mist, vibrating through his bones. He didn’t need to see it to know what was hunting him.

  The beast’s breath was a damp, rancid heat, its presence pulsing at the edge of his mind like a heartbeat out of sync.

  I can't fight it here, he thought to himself with urgency. We need to catch the group! Fast!

  He looked down at the boy who was clutching his chest. “Hold on tight,” he whispered.

  Lark shifted his stance, his muscles coiling like a spring. Then, with a burst of raw strength, he launched forward.

  He zigzagged at an inhuman pace through the remnants of the camp, his every step was precise, his mind mapping the terrain in real time. The boy clung to him, silent but wide-eyed, trusting in Lark’s sure movements.

  The mist thinned as Lark rapidly neared the eastern barricade. A faint light began to seep through, revealing the jagged outline of the mountain path ahead. His vision cleared, but he didn’t slow.

  He continued up the jagged path for several minutes, until finally, the first of the group came into view—a cluster of silhouettes moving cautiously up the trail. They snapped around at the sound of Lark’s rapid approach, Rudd at the forefront. Relief visibly flickered across his face, but it was quickly replaced by urgency.

  “Lark,” he began as Lark neared closer. “You’re insane, you know that?”

  Lark nodded, his breath coming in laboured bursts.

  “I couldn’t leave him,” he said blankly, between breaths.

  Rudd placed his head in his hands. “I know, I know,” he said, a small smile flashing across his face. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  Lark’s chest heaved, each breath a struggle, and his legs felt like they were made of lead. As he passed the boy to one of the survivors, he couldn’t stop the tremor in his hands. “Not yet,” he muttered to Rudd, the weight of his narrow escape still clinging to him. He turned and looked toward where the camp had been.

  “One of those hounds caught my scent.”

  Rudd’s face scrunched up and he frowned. He stared at Lark blankly for a few moments, before shaking his head and taking a deep breath. “Prepare to pick up the pace!” he shouted toward the large group. “We must create more distance between us and the beasts before sunrise!”