The dark fog was exactly where the hunters said it would be. Not that Kastiel had known that until he was in the thick of it.

  His time spent in the smokey, acrid belly of the Old Goat tavern had been not for naught. He’d been halfway through nursing his second beer when the two hunters entered the tavern. Kastiel, seated near the central hearth, had watched with detached interest as they downed their first drinks in a few greedy gulps.

  Then they’d started to talk. And Kastiel listened.

  The hunters described their early morning outing, a routine deer stalk near the foothills east of Nightfall. There was a sturdy breed of dark coated deer that populated those areas and were a favorite of the locals.

  Viktor allowed their hunts so long as they were responsible about what they took, and that population was managed properly.

  But what they’d encountered was anything but routine, that as they had walked through the trees of the foothills, day had turned to night all in the span of a foot fall. A dark, choking fog had swallowed the pair without warning. A sudden darkness that blocked out the sun. Moreover, it had whispered to them. Threatened them.

  Kastiel had already been on his feet before the men had even finished their discussion. He’d tossed several coins to the rather large tavern keeper, more than enough to cover his drinks, and set off for the northern half of the Vale. Back to Nightfall. More or less.

  A touch beyond the hour mark into his journey through the sparsely wooded foothills east of Nightfall, just as the sun reached its pinnacle, day turned to night. One moment, the daylight bathed the landscape in golden light; the next, it was swallowed whole. The space around the horse and rider closed in like a thick fog.

  A dark, thick hazy fog.

  Eskilarr snorted softly and gently pawed at the rocky ground when the Val ‘Rhayne asked him to stop.

  “I think we’ve found what we’re looking for,” Kastiel murmured to his mount as he slid from the Nightmares back.

  Kastiel’s sharp, emerald eyes scanned the gloom, his gaze sweeping through the dark haze. Tilting his head back, he squinted toward the sky. The sun hung high in the sky but was greatly muted, barely visible through the haze, like a ghost of itself.

  Just then, a faint whisper rippled through the mist, soft and broken. The words were indistinct, just beyond clarity, but unmistakable as something alive—a voice, not the rustling sigh of wind in the sparse canopy above.

  Kastiel’s lips curved into a faint smirk. Interesting.

  He turned toward the jagged peaks of Nightfall’s mountain, the edges of the ridges blurred and softened by the oppressive haze, and slowly moved deeper into the fog. Behind him, Eskilarr followed, his gait unhurried, his demeanor calm and seemingly unaffected by the strange atmosphere.

  A dozen paces further, the voice returned.

  “Turn away, warrior,” it hissed, the words a brittle chitter that clawed at the edges of his thoughts. “Turn away. Turn away before I make you stay.”

  Eskilarr startled, snorting and tossing his head, as Kastiel spun around, his emerald gaze scanning the mist for any sign of movement. But the fog remained still, hiding whatever—whoever—had spoken.

  “Great,” Kastiel muttered under his breath. Slowly, he reached for his blade. Chaos slid from its sheath with a whisper of steel, the dark edge fading into the fog. “That’s not creepy at all.”

  Tightening his grip on Chaos, Kastiel pressed onward. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but something about the voice unsettled him. It wasn’t the words themselves—those were a dime a dozen in his line of work—but the power that laced them.

  The power was ancient and dark—flowing from a hidden reservoir deep beneath the mountain.

  Long before humans had claimed the Vale as their own, carving roads through its wild heart and felling the Sentinel Trees of the Synder Forest, these foothills had been a breeding ground for darkly magical creatures.

  Like an underground river, the power coursed through the land, its currents unseen but undeniable. Only those born with a Gifted Soul could sense it, let alone draw from it. And like a river, the deeper one went, the darker and more powerful the currents. It was in those shadowed depths that true power dwelled.

  His mother’s voice echoed in his memory, clear as if she stood beside him: “All Gifted Souls can draw from the magic river, but only the strongest have roots deep enough to reach the darker, more powerful currents.”

  Save for places such as the reservoir beneath Nightfall, where the dark power bubbled to the surface, making itself accessible to the magical creatures that thrived on its intoxicating strength.

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  The caves and crags in the foothills surrounding Nightfall thrummed with the energy of the reservoir hidden below the ancient hold.

  Kastiel scanned the gloom, his grip tightening on Chaos as unease coiled in his chest. Had something returned to the Vale after all these years, seeking the caves and the power that resided here?

  Since the Synder Forest had sealed its borders to all of humanity, the worlds of the new and the old rarely overlapped. Rarely—but not never.

  That voice—the strange, cacophonous whisper in the fog—held a strength that made him wary. The deeper he ventured into the haze, the more palpable the magic became. It pressed against his senses, heavy and rhythmic, like the relentless beat of an unseen drum.

  The fog thickened, swallowing the light above. What little sunlight filtered through appeared faint and colorless, casting the world in perpetual dusk. The darkness was so dense it seemed to absorb sound. This was no natural mist. It was alive, steeped in magic that concealed itself until horse and rider had crossed its borders.

  Kastiel’s sharp instincts prickled. Concealment magic was not uncommon in this world—hiding in plain sight was a valuable skill. But to mask one’s presence so completely, to go unnoticed even by him? That was rare.

  Magic, and its power, may not be his to wield on command, but as son of the Lost Star, it flowed through his veins all the same. And magic calls to magic.

  “Leave,” the voice hissed, its tone a jagged mix of menace and urgency. “Turn from here and do not return. Leave now!”

  This time the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Behind him, however, Eskilarr seemed entirely unfazed. The Nightmare practically pranced, or rather crashed, happily through the forest and its undergrowth.

  The black stallion was no small creature, and the sedentary life had only served to make him larger, though Kastiel would never tell him that, and when he walked with a spring in his step, the earth beneath Kastiel’s feet trembled.

  Rocks and twigs alike crunched beneath the Nightmare's massive iron-shod hooves and the sound reverberated through the woods almost as loudly as the voice in Kastiel’s head.

  “Subtlety clearly isn’t your strong suit,” Kastiel muttered, throwing a dry glance over his shoulder.

  Eskilarr snorted happily in response and tossed his head, his mane rippling like a liquid shadow.

  “Right,” Kastiel sighed. “At this rate, the only way whatever else is out here doesn’t know we’re here is if it’s already dead.”

  This time Eskilarr let out a low, amused whinny—a sound that, Kastiel swore, resembled laughter.

  “It would seem we are having two very different chats in our heads here,” Kastiel continued with a sigh, “Well, isn’t that just bloody wonderful.”

  The hushed, grating voice in his mind didn’t let up. It echoed and twisted, looping back on itself with each step he took, growing sharper and more insistent the deeper they ventured into the fog.

  The ancient warrior took heart in the fact that at least Eskilar seemed unaffected, which meant the anger in the voice was only intended to for him.

  “Go! Leave here now!” the voice now hissed angrily, “Go from here before you can no longer! Only death awaits you here. Get out now, old one!”

  “Hey,” Kastiel flexed his fingers around Chaos’ pommel, “that’s uncalled for. I’ll have you know I’ve been told I look remarkably good for my age.”

  Eskilarr snorted softly. The voice, however, fell silent.

  “Tough crowd,” Kastiel muttered to himself, eyes scanning the dense fog that now cocooned them.

  He knew better than to dismiss the warning as idle bluster. Whatever was speaking to him clearly had power, and threats like this were rarely empty. But Kastiel had learned over the years how to turn anger—and even fear—to his advantage.

  “Leave now,” the voice snarled, its anger rippling through the air like a shockwave. “Leave from here, killer. Be gone. Your hands are covered in blood. Blood that is not welcome here. Leave these lands, killer!”

  “Well, now,” Kastiel said, arching a brow. “No need to get personal. I’m just here to help.”

  “Help we do not need. Leave now!” the voice spat with venom.

  Kastiel raised his hands slightly, his tone softening as he tried to reason with the unseen presence. “I promise, I’ve saved more lives with Chaos than I’ve taken. I swear on my honor as a Val’Rhayne, son of the Lost Star, I mean no harm. I’m only here to help. Though,” he added, glancing at the blade, “I understand how the sword might be misleading.”

  For a moment, silence fell. A long moment. Long enough that Kastiel began to wonder if the creature was considering his words—or preparing to strike.

  Gods be good, he thought. I hope it’s the former.

  The fog was so dense now that he could barely see a foot ahead. Whatever controlled it wasn’t just connected to the dark power here—it was wielding it. That much was clear.

  Carefully, Kastiel continued to pick his way across the uneven terrain, his senses sharp despite the oppressive darkness. He knew these foothills well enough to keep his bearings. They were still heading toward the mountain, where caves dotted the landscape like hidden scars.

  Those caves had once been nesting grounds and nurseries for countless magical creatures. Perhaps one of them had claimed a cave again.

  Suddenly, Eskilarr nickered loudly, a sharp, unexpected sound that froze Kastiel in his tracks.

  The Nightmare wasn’t one to make unnecessary noise—his earlier stomping aside. This sound was different, edged with a tension Kastiel hadn’t heard in years.

  Kastiel shot his companion a glare. “Thank you for absolutely nothing, my friend.”

  Eskilarr refused to meet his gaze, instead rolling his massive eyes and tossing his head in what Kastiel could only interpret as the equine equivalent of a shrug.

  “That voice told you you were handsome, didn’t it?” Kastiel accused, narrowing his eyes at the stallion.

  Eskilarr snorted again, this time with a flick of his ears that spoke volumes.

  “Oh, for the love of—” Kastiel sighed, shaking his head. “I’m glad one of us is having a good time.”