The industrial city's fog grew thicker. Narrow streets echoed with the clatter of old machines, gas lamps flickered dimly, and long shadows danced upon brick walls. Frey walked trembling, the pen still clinging to his fingers. Hunter followed behind, silent, his eyes dripping black ink that crawled across the ground.
The whisper echoed in his ears.
"You are not the only one who hears. There are others. There is the cult."
Frey swallowed hard. "The cult?"
The pen pulsed, forcing his hand to write upon the blank sheet that appeared in his grasp:
"I see figures in the mist."
At once, human shapes emerged from the fog. They wore long gray robes, their faces veiled, their eyes gleaming with ink. Whispers spilled from their mouths—not human language, but the sound of dripping ink.
Frey stepped back, trembling. "Who are you?"
One figure advanced, its voice trembling, woven with whispers.
"We are the Cult of Mist. We hear the whisper. We seek the pen."
Frey gripped the pen tighter. "No… it's mine…"
Hunter remained silent, staring at the cult with hollow eyes. He did not move, yet his presence pressed upon the air, thickening the fog.
The whisper grew louder.
"Write them. Write your cult."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"The Cult of Mist approaches."
At once, the figures stepped forward, their whispers rising. The fog swallowed the streets, the gas lamps, everything.
From within the mist, a woman appeared. Her hair was long and white, her eyes silver, her cloak woven of fog. She stepped forward, her gaze piercing Frey.
"Selene Arkwright…" Frey whispered, though he did not know where the name came from.
The woman smiled faintly, a cracked smile. Her voice trembled, filled with whispers.
"You are the writer. The pen is yours. But the pen is also ours."
Frey staggered back. "No… I cannot give it…"
Selene drew closer, her steps light, as though floating upon the mist. She extended her hand, her fingers dripping ink.
"The pen is the key. The key to the veil. You cannot write alone."
Frey shut his eyes, tears streaming. He knew every word demanded a price. He knew this cult was not mere shadow, but humans who heard the same whisper as he did.
Hunter stepped forward, staring at Selene. He did not speak, but his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: you must choose.
The whisper grew louder.
"Write your choice. Write your cult."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"Selene does not attack me."
At once, the woman halted. She gazed at Frey, her silver eyes gleaming, her smile cracked.
"You have written me. You have bound me. But you cannot bind the cult."
The other figures advanced, their whispers rising. The fog swallowed the streets, the gas lamps, everything.
Frey collapsed, trembling. He knew he could not fight them. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew that if he stopped, Hunter would move.
Selene drew closer, her voice trembling.
"Join us. Or vanish."
Frey shut his eyes, tears flowing. He knew he had to choose. He knew this cult was part of a Chronicle that should not exist.
Slowly, he wrote:
"I refuse the Cult of Mist."
The fog quivered. The figures halted, their whispers rising louder. Selene gazed at him, her silver eyes gleaming, her smile cracked.
"You have chosen. Then you shall be hunted."
Hunter stood behind Frey, silent, staring at the cult. He did not move, yet his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: the hunt has begun.
The whisper grew louder, echoing across the city.
"Welcome to your Cult of Mist, Frey Vaelborn."