The sky tore open.
The rift—no longer sealed—pulsed like a heartbeat from another world. Its core spun in jagged spirals, churning with lightless energy, and from its center crawled the Fog.
It spilled down slow, like smoke made of hunger. Every tendril of it dragged behind something. Something alive.
The Fogwalkers were not creatures in the traditional sense.
They were wrong.
Their silhouettes twitched in and out of shape. Some with too many legs. Some with none. Some walked upright on spindly frames with heads that looked like twisted deer skulls, others slithered like serpents with gaping mouths stitched shut.
But their eyes—
All of them had eyes.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Bright and pale. Cold as winter stars.
They stepped onto the battlefield in silence.
No roar. No scream.
Only the distant hum of air warping under their presence.
The sky twisted.
